“Come on, talk to me… and while you’re at it, get dressed.”
Sylvain still didn’t move, but took a sip of wine.
“I can’t. Things have changed; you’re my future brother-in law now.”
“Yes, things are different, one thing isn’t though, you’re still my best mate and nothing will change that. Yes, Liona is my sister and I love her dearly, but you’re like a brother to me, even more than Lexandros.
Naturally, I would have to kill you if you ever hurt Liona, but I’d rather help you get your problems solved than let you do something stupid. Out with it! What happened?”
Sylvain took a deep breath.
“I had a dream…”
Octarian jumped up.
“Oh for Gods’ sake! All this is about a stupid dream? I thought you were having a meltdown because Noerelle had shown up with a screaming baby on her arm, escorted by a torch- and pitchfork-wielding band of relatives.”
A servant popped his head in after a discreet knock. Octarian glared at him.
“Yes, yes, everything is fine. We’re having a Royal shouting competition and I’m winning. Now off with you.”
The door shut silently.
“You don’t understand, I think Noerelle is in the city. I can feel it.”
Octarian marched up to him, grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him gently.
“It doesn’t matter; she won’t get the chance to get close to you… not if you don’t want that.
Just tell me two things. Do you love my sister? Do you really want to marry her?”
“Yes, yes, I do! After all that happened in the last years, she’s like a breath of fresh air. She’s so unlike Noerelle… she doesn’t want to manipulate me…
I know what an idiot I’ve been lately. Noerelle was like an obsession.
There is nothing more I want than to forget about her and marry Liona.
Just promise me, you’ll help me if Noerelle shows up.”
“I solemnly swear that I will do my utmost to help you in any way I can.
I solemnly swear that everything will be all right.
But I also solemnly swear that if we miss the Sun Court Ball, I’ll toss you into the untamed shark pools with my own two hands!”
Octarian sighed with relief as Sylvain nodded and started to get dressed.
Fegilovíxit, Areshadia
It was one of those rare occasions when Matriarch Vipra felt the need to talk.
She needed neither advice, nor an opinion. She put the urge down to the nuisance that at the moment there was nothing else she could do about the impending happenings.
‘Time to see mother,’ she thought.
Originally, both North and South Sareans were followers of the Warrior. Their ancestors, the Pyonians and Covaxians of the Realm, felt that their God hadn’t been paid due homage. They welcomed the Split of the World that had made Sarea a separate continent.
How much was true of the legend, nobody knew. One thing was sure; Sarea became His realm; the Land of the Warrior.
Being belligerent by nature, an age of wars amongst the newly formed tribes had erupted. After having decimated each other’s forces, they had agreed to an involuntary peace.
It didn’t last long, as some of the tribes came to a new conclusion; they reckoned that the lives of their dead, sacrificed on the altar of war must surely please a new, unknown deity. They had started to pay homage to the Goddess of the Underworld. They didn’t altogether cast aside the Warrior, but they decided that the New Goddess had to be acknowledged in order to increase the chance for victory.
Thus the tribes had split into two major groups. The Areshadians, the followers of the Goddess of the Underworld went north, while the faithful believers of the Warrior moved south to regain their strength for new battles.
Times of war and peace came and went. Peace was usually a necessity; it was when the Matriarchs of the north and the Warchiefs of the south had realised that they had to refresh their blood-lines. Whenever it had happened, they had exchanged kicking and screaming tribe members for the sake of healthy offspring.
Matriarch Vipra was the only ruler of Areshadia who thought that the limited progress was holding her people back; she was in fact one of the few, who had realised that their continent should be developing. Instead, they had wasted all their energies and resources on fighting pointless wars.
Vipra had become the ruler of her tribe at an unusually young age; her mother, Matriarch Zetrá certainly hadn’t parted with leadership voluntarily.
Vipra believed that the key to power was knowledge; she spoke the Ancient Tongue perfectly, and as soon as she had realised that she possessed shamanistic powers, she started studying the Aptitudes and mind-seeing from tomes that were securely locked away in her library.
Like the other Areshadian Matriarchs, she had made sure that she was the only one who had actively used their abilities. Like most Sarean Apts, Vipra possessed Fire and Water. She had always hoped to produce offspring with Earth and Air. She hated her mother for having wasted travellers from the Distant Lands as human sacrifices at the annual Gatherings at the Bone Temple. Over and over she had tried to convince Zetrá to put them to a better use, but she would never listen; she didn’t want to spoil their bloodline with ‘dirty blood’.
Zetrá was sitting in the shallow pool of her hall, when Vipra entered.
“O darambaz róyan,” she said, when she noticed her daughter entering.
Vipra smiled. Some things never changed; her mother would always call her the foolish daughter.
“I came to tell you a story, Oyón,” Vipra said and sat down at the edge of the pool.
“Why not? I have time,” Zetrá leaned back.
“It happened in 759,” Vipra began.
“What year is it now?”
"It is the year 779 after the Academy of the Realm was founded.”
“Says who?”
“The rest of the World.”
“And now we do what the rest of the World does? Daramb,” Zetrá muttered.
“Just listen and you’ll find out,” Vipra slid into the pool, and started telling her story.
“It was twenty years ago. The time of the Gathering drew closer.
As usual, this time of the year prisoners and tribe members all over Areshadia often woke from nightmares; the Selections were about to take place.”
“Aaaah, the Selections. How I used to love to see the fear in their eyes. Once done, I would oversee the preparations of the chosen ones for the fights to come in the Arena of the Bone Temple.
Do you know how many times it was I, who provided the most human sacrifices, and was made the ‘Olizobeo Úlmáyi,’ the ruler of Areshadia for a year?” Zetrá asked.
“Yes. Do you?”
“No. It matters not.”
“No, it doesn’t. It doesn’t now and it didn’t back then.
I had decided to change your beloved traditions.
‘Tell the Ceremony Master to gather everybody on the Training Grounds in three hours,’ I ordered a servant.
The man nodded and hurried out of the room. A few minutes later an agitated Ceremony Master arrived, fell to his knees and started to speak in a shaky voice.
‘Úlmá, please forgive my intrusion, but there must be a mistake.’
‘Must there?’ I sighed.
‘That oafish servant… I will have him whipped,’ he said.
‘Get to the point man, I have to prepare,’ I replied.
‘Yes, yes… he said to have everybody gathered outside,’ the man shook his head.
‘And which part of that didn’t you understand?’ I asked him.
‘I assume that everybody means every candidate,’ was his answer.
‘Let’s make this short, as my patience is running out. Everybody means every single person that you can find in and around the Tomb. For each missing one, I will personally cut off one of your fingers. As to the place, I did mean the Training Grounds, which - as
you might know - is outside. But if you know of any room or hall that can hold our entire tribe and all the prisoners, I urge you to enlighten me,’ I said to him.
The fool shook his head vigorously.
‘Now, if you have any more superfluous questions, I will disembowel you with my bare hands, right here. If not, go, you have three hours. One more thing; don’t assume, obey,’ I reminded him.
The Ceremony Master exited as fast as he could.”
Vipra paused for a moment.
“Not much of a story,” Zetrá squinted at Vipra.
“I’m not finished yet.
It was time for our tribe to learn their fate.
When I stepped onto the podium at the Training Grounds, the crowd of the thousands upon thousands of members of our Tribe of the Adder immediately fell silent. Dozens of candidates were lined up in front of the podium. Some looked defiant, some apathetic.
‘Fegilo Kälxi,’ I addressed our tribe, ‘I have decided that we have to break with our traditions and enter a new age. There will be no more Gatherings, no more sacrifices, no more waste of manpower and resources.
There will be peace with the Southerners, and we will unite our forces with them in order to bring progress to our lands.
Send out messengers to the other Tombs to let them know. This is all you need to know for now.
Anybody who has objections line up to the right, over there,’ I pointed.
Nobody moved.
‘Any questions?’ I asked the crowd.
The Ceremony Master took a bow.
‘With respect, Úlmá, if there are no more sacrifices, how will we appease the Gods?’ he asked, wringing his hands.
‘Pray overtime,’ I said.
Then, I descended the podium and made my way towards the Tomb. Only when I stepped inside could I hear the noise of thousands of voices erupting.
The Kronurian stood there and smiled at me.
We both knew that it was time to meet the Southerners,” Vipra concluded her story.
“All this has really happened?” Zetrá asked.
“Yes.”
“You’re a fool,” she said and closed her eyes again.
Vipra spent a while rummaging in her mother’s mind. Then, she climbed out of the pool.
“So what have your new ways achieved since then?” the former Matriarch asked.
“I’ll tell you next time,” Vipra replied.
“Is your sister still around?”
“Yes, she’s still your neighbour. Do you want to see her?”
“What for?”
Vipra shrugged and made her way to the door.
“I’m going now,” she announced.
“Go. Stay. Nembiy,” Zetrá said. It matters not.
‘Of course it doesn’t. There’s only one thing that matters; the unending supply of Vichíl Órbóz. And she shall have it till the end of her days,’ Vipra thought as she knocked on the door.
The prison guard of Os Órbóz Kilnie let Vipra out, and locked the door behind her.
***
A servant brought a letter. It was a detailed report from the Librarian.
It wasn’t the message she had been waiting for, but it was good to know what her relatives were up to in the Realm.
She allowed herself a smile. Having bound the Librarian was one of the best decisions she had ever made.
Royal Palace of Sunflare, Realm’s Heart Island
Nobody – not even the Windscales – could deny that the Sun Court was the most splendid and luxurious place in the whole World.
It was the part of the Royal Palace that was reserved for the most lavish events of the Realm; the Sunflare Festival being the most important of those.
The Sun Court was a circular building opening to a likewise circular inner courtyard, called the Atrium of the Sun, with its swaying palm trees, elaborately crafted benches hidden amongst masterfully pruned topiaries and cleverly illuminated musical fountains – which, according to the Windscales, were brazenly copied from their castles and mansions. Not that the Sunflares cared about such allegations.
“Gentlemen, let’s see this year’s prey,” Wolly suggested with a wolfish smile.
Prince Wolly Wheatfield, only son of Empress Ginia of Vosia, had neither the chance, nor the remotest desire to be Emperor. He was gliding through life with an enviable carelessness, pampered by his mother, knowing that he could marry whenever he wanted, whoever he wanted, – provided the lucky lady was highborn enough for his Royal Family and approved of by his mother. His step-father, King Razzael was of the opinion that he shouldn’t dismiss the option of finding a wife in Ermelia.
His stature belied his age; he could have passed for a fifteen year old. His approaches to the ladies were so ludicrous they verged on the genuinely funny, his eyes, lips and nose were too big for his face, and his unfashionable hair-cut should have sent any girl screaming, but all in all, he was a success with almost any female he had his eyes on.
The four of them; Octarian, Sylvain, Wolly and Mordan were a perfect hunting party. They knew the rules; never compromise any unwed nobles. Octarian preferred the more experienced ladies, Wolly’s philosophy was that lower born girls had the right to experience aristocratic attention just as much as anybody else, Sylvain had been hopelessly infatuated with one girl in the past and now he was very taken by another and Mordan… well, Mordan didn’t limit himself to a certain type; he took advantage of any opportunity that he found acceptable.
There was one woman though, who had haunted Mordan’s dreams for long months, and occasionally made him wake up in the middle of the night, aroused and bathed in sweat. His eyes were desperately scanning the Grand Circular Hall for her.
“Oh no,” Mordan suddenly whispered, trying to discreetly hide behind his friends.
“Aaaah, my dear cousin, the Princess Ovine of the Barge,” Wolly discovered the source of embarrassment, referring to an eventful night that involved the Royal Lady in question, Mordan… and a barge. She had been known to have a weakness for commoners.
Mordan grabbed Wolly’s arm.
“I’m warning you… Just shut up and walk,” he hissed, gently pushing Wolly in front of him, to get as far away from Ovine as possible.
His worry was unnecessary; Princess Ovine Bullsblood of Gundia, daughter of Empress Moxia, was rather preoccupied.
“What is she doing here?” she hissed at a man who the friends were unfamiliar with. Not waiting for a reply, she hastily departed towards the Atrium. The man hurried after her.
The friends walked around the hall, stopping every servant who had glasses on their trays; potent schnapps from Covax, the most expensive sparkles and sweet liquors from Cadentia and Roditee, and of course a selection of Heliodorian fragrant, fruity red wines.
Suddenly Mordan’s heart skipped a beat, and he felt his stomach constricting into a knot; Duchess Summerwind was approaching their little group.
Mordan didn’t remember when his infatuation had started; he had seen her at every ball and event he had visited with his friends. First, he had only acknowledged her beauty, but since he had had the chance to exchange a few words with her every time they met; he had caught himself thinking of her more and more. Not that she had paid any special attention to him, but at least she had never made him feel unwelcome or out of place – even though he had felt that way on most occasions.
He had often wondered if she had any suitors, torturing himself with the image of her being with another man. He was sure that she would want to find a new husband soon.
‘Of course, because if she was unattached and not interested in anybody, you would be her first choice,’ said a mocking voice in his head.
When she joined their group, they all bowed and kissed her extended hand.
“Good evening to you, Prince Sylvain, Prince Wolly, Prince Octarian, Master Grimdor,” she greeted them with her usual flirtatious and pleasantly superior smile.
“Duchess, I must beg for your permission to
utter that you are the walking, talking, angelic, yet demonic incarnation of pure sin and beauty.
Your presence takes my breath away, and makes me want to fall on my knees in front of all these esteemed guests, declare my undying adoration for you and ask for your hand in marriage. I certainly would, if I didn’t know that compared to you I’m a mere worm, not worthy of kissing the soles of your masterfully crafted, no doubt, Roditeean made satin shoes.
You… simply… render… me… speechless,” Wolly gushed, theatrically grabbing her hand, pressing it to his chest.
“And that’s as speechless as he will ever get,” mumbled Octarian, while Sylvain expressed his amusement with a semi-drunken snort of laughter.
“Please don’t, my Prince,” Gloria chortled, “otherwise I would have no choice but to accept your proposal, thus denying the female population of the Realm the exceptional treatment only the Prince of Vosia can provide, and we all know where that would lead.”
Wolly let his head droop in defeat.
“Duchess, your beauty is only matched – but not surpassed, for that is impossible,” he wiggled his index finger, “by your wisdom. We have to sacrifice our doomed bond on the altar of peace, for it would certainly be the beginning of a yet unprecedented Uprising of the Ladies,” he sighed dramatically.
“Prince Wolly, having to accept such a grievous loss could only be remedied by calming my nerves. I’m sure that His Royal Sunflare Highness will be forthcoming enough to assist me in finding an appropriate beverage for this occasion,” she flashed her eyes at Octarian.
“Of course, Duchess,” he said obediently, offering his arm to her.
“Gentlemen,” Gloria addressed Sylvain and Mordan, “it was a pleasure… and a pain.” She nodded her head towards Wolly with an amicable smile.
“He was right, you do look ravishing tonight,” Octarian whispered to Gloria with an approving look, while he was navigating her through the crowd towards one of the Atrium’s serving tables.
“If you love her so much, why do you keep coming back to me?” Ovine demanded with flashing eyes.