From Cygnet to Swan
Mera Delwiche
This book is a work of fiction. Any reference to events or people, living or dead, is merely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Copyright © 2015 by Mera Delwiche
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
ISBN-13: 978-1-310-04132-7
ISBN-10: 1-310-04132-6
Chapter 1
“My Prince! Come quickly. Get up. King Kawa is dying! My Prince, hurry!”
“What?” asked the princeling. He rubbed his eyes sleepily. “My father?”
“Yes, yes,” replied the man. “Hurry, my Prince. Your father must name his heir!”
The young prince rolled out of bed. Three servants ran to his side carrying his red silk tunic and matching velvet slippers. They dressed him hastily and soon he and the man were whisked off to the dying king’s side.
They stopped at the door of the Dying Room. The servants disappeared as quickly as they had come and the princeling and the man were alone in the hall.
“Is he really dying, Fa-Ying?” asked the young prince with a look that begged for Fa-Ying to say it was not so; that the king would recover and everything would remain unchanged.
“Yes, my son,” replied Fa-Ying.
“He will choose one of my half brothers to be king because they are the eldest,” said the prince with a shrug.
“Perhaps,” Fa-Ying replied simply. “Or he may name you, Sheiji-Yueng.”
“No!” declared the prince. “I don’t want to be king. I’m only fourteen! How could I ever rule as well as my father?”
Fa-Ying gave Sheiji a commiserative glance. They stopped beside a thick, oak door carved with strange symbols meant to ward off the spirits. The door squeaked as Fa-Ying pushed it open with his shoulder and guided Sheiji in. Four small candles supplied the only light in the windowless room and Sheiji could scarcely make out the thin figure lying on the hard, flat pallet, called the Death Bed. Anyone near death slept on that pallet. On the first day of each year the priests of Eiron, god of protection, blessed the pallet. The blessing, and thus the pallet, was supposed to ward off evil spirits who would come and occupy a weak and dying body. Sheiji knew that anyone who died with an evil spirit in his body was sent to wander the earth forever, haunting those who had failed to provide a sacred Death Bed in his time of need.
Sheiji’s mother, Yukoshi, the king’s first and most beloved wife, had died on this same pallet just one week after Sheiji’s birth. Two of his sisters, his only brother and countless other relatives had also died here. There was over a hundred years of death in this room.
Sheiji was all but invisible as he crept to the back of the crowd. As the youngest son of the king, he’d had a kind of freedom that his older brothers had never enjoyed. The chance that the youngest prince would become king was virtually nonexistent, so Sheiji had not been burdened with the responsibility of learning tedious lessons in how to rule a kingdom. Instead, he’d had a long and carefree childhood full of hide-and-seek with the servant children, swimming with the villagers, and playing other typical, boyish games.
As more people trickled into the room, Sheiji found himself hemmed in on all sides by brothers, uncles, cousins, nephews; all the king’s nearest male relatives. Sheiji hated the crowds. He hated the feeling of suffocation as the noise and smells and body heat of over fifty people all gathered together to hear the king declare his last wishes. He hated the feeling of nervous anticipation that buzzed through the room as audibly as the fifty voices speaking in hushed voices. Sheiji wanted to push his way back through the crowd to the door and escape to the solitude of his chambers. He would stay there until all this was over. What did it matter if he saw the naming of the king’s successor? It wouldn’t affect him.
Fa-Ying appeared at Sheiji’s side and prodded him forward, “Go right to the front, Sheiji. Push if you have to, but get as close to your father as you can.”
Sheiji squirmed and shoved his way to the front of the crowd. He was now standing between his half brothers Sui-Tsai and Tamé. His father was stripped of his splendor. Gone were his royal robes, the jewels on his fingers, the silk slippers on his feet, the crown on his graying hair. Gone was the kingly bearing that Sheiji loved. Now dressed only in his loincloth, he looked like any one of the thin, ghost-like beggars at the palace gates. His ribs were visible under his copper-brown skin, evidence that he had been unable to eat during the weeks of his illness.
The king lay motionless before the mass of men. He was neither asleep nor awake, neither dead nor alive, but somewhere in between. His mind was far away, but his body clung to life. How long he could hold on no one knew, but when Sheiji looked at him, he felt it would not be long.
Men talked in hushed tones to one another and the sibilant sound of whispered Tekelonnese, the language spoken in Imatsuro, made the room seem alive with serpents. But Sheiji remained silent, watching the form of his respected, almost godlike father twisted with the pain that had brought this strong and noble man down to his grave. It was this illness that had brought to an end the life of Kawa, the true and brave king. This sickness had finished his reign in an agonizingly slow manner.
Fa-Ying was at the king’s side, kneeling beside his master. He had been the king’s most trusted advisor and even a friend at times. He now must guard and guide the king’s successor.
“Kawa, my king. I hope that I have served you well. If only I could go on serving you, Kawa, my friend. But now you must name your heir and I promise you I shall serve him as faithfully as I have served you.” Fa-Ying took the king’s hand in his and removed the ring that marked his position as king.
The king lifted his head and grasped Fa-Ying’s hand for support. Fa-Ying took the king in his arms and lifted him until he half sat, half lay against Fa-Ying’s chest.
Sheiji saw his father wince in pain. The king began to speak in a dry, cracked voice. The whispers immediately subsided. “Sh—,” he began and put his hand to his stomach. He moaned and seemed to struggle for breath. The crowd leaned forward. The brothers, Sui-Tsai and Tamé, both knelt before the king to receive the ring they were sure one of them would receive. They had undergone years of training in expectation for this day.
“Sh—,” he began again and his voice cracked. “Sheiji…Yueng.”
For a moment, Sheiji scanned the room, waiting to see who would come forward to receive the new title. His brothers jumped up, hurt and angry that their youngest brother should take precedence over them. They whirled around to find him.
Fa-Ying’s free hand jumped to his side where he kept a dagger hidden and ready to protect his king. The princes saw the movement and glared at Fa-Ying. They stepped back and the crowd hid them from the warning frown of the heir’s protector.
At last, Sheiji realized that his father had spoken his name. He was to be king. He came forward hesitantly and knelt before his father. The king raised his hand and set it lightly on the young boy’s head. He let it slide down the smooth black hair, down the nut-brown cheek to the small rounded chin. He gazed at the boy’s small nose, the solemn red lips, usually so happy and smiling, and the almond-shaped, black eyes that were so different from the narrow eyes of the people of Imatsuro, Kawa’s country. It was the face of Kawa’s dear wife, down to the very tilt of his head and the sparkle of life in his eyes.
The king let his hand fall to his side. With his other hand he pushed the ring onto the prince’s
thumb. It was much too large, but Sheiji felt his blood surge with the strength and bravery of his father. There seemed to be something almost magical in that ring, something that made Sheiji feel older than his fourteen years. The ring, and with it his father’s blessing, gave him the courage to face the immense task of ruling a kingdom as large as Imatsuro.
With his strength gone, the king lay back on his mat. His breathing had become slow and difficult, yet the king felt calm and at peace. He knew that now the Kingdom was in good hands. Though Sheiji was an untried, untrained boy, the king had faith that his son had what it took to be a just ruler.
His eyes fell upon his dear son’s face once more. He saw an innocent youth, easily shaped at this tender age for good or evil, but more than that, he saw a boy after his own heart: kind, gentle, but firm when the need arose. King Kawa knew that his advisor would teach this boy well. Fa-Ying would help Sheiji overcome his weakness and build on his strength.
“My son…will…rule well,” he murmured. His eyes scanned the room in an instant, then rested once again on Sheiji. He smiled weakly. With a soft sigh, he breathed his last.