Chapter 6: PART IV (End of Act I). Onward to the Summer Court

◆ VAMIR ◆

 

Very quickly I realized I had not traveled by land—and this far away—for many years. The last time was over a decade ago, long before there were even airships in the Glass Empire. The family had an invitation to celebrate Ettrian's fifteenth birth day, an important coming-of-age rite for highborn Alphas.

I remembered the trip to be arduous, with father and Isarrel getting sick through the entirety of the journey. This current trip of mine is not so different then, save perhaps for the absence of raucous company.

The first several hours in the carriage was uneventful and quiet, save for the sounds of the galloping horses and the wheels rolling over the cobblestone road. General Barandir led the entourage to a narrow path that wound up the side of a steep precipice from River Beren that divides the kingdom of Ilialana from the Duchy of Lorraine, a dukedom ruled by one of the sons of King Estel of the Dusk Court.

As we made our way up the hillside, I felt the wheels leaving the cobblestone roads, turning into a worn, rocky path that tossed us about in the carriage. For miles, I saw nothing but a vast stretch of water and valley. No signs, no markers, nothing but the dirt road, trees, and bushes.

For a long time, Orrian remained quiet, hands clasped together, squeezing and loosening as he absently stared at the clouds of dust in the road. But as the carriage carefully cut its way down the hillside, my steward blinked up at me as if trying to gauge my mood. I cocked my head and tried to coax a smile from him. It was then that he grinned wryly and sat down next to me.

For a moment, we said nothing to each other. Orrian's warmth next to me was strangely calming. A steady, soothing presence radiated out from him.

As a comforting silence settled between us, I closed my eyes and hummed a tune I remembered from my childhood. It's a folksong my consort-father used to sing to me when I was sick.

In the howling storm

the god Lia takes flight.

 

Descending from his throne

to give you might.

 

Kiss the bed of roses

with its crimson joy.

 

Ne'er shall let you suffer,

pain and sorrow he shall destroy.

I can hear him now, and I can never hear the song again without hearing my consort-father's voice. It's a little song of misery and comfort so intertwined it breaks my heart to remember it now. And then, Isarrel's tear-stained face etched into my mind, so frail and small like a babe in his sickbed. Already it feels like something from another time.

"'The Song of the Healing Roses'," Orrian said in a low tone, eyes filled with wonder. "Your consort-father used to sing that to you and the crown prince."

I nodded and smiled, leaning in to nudge his shoulder. "Hello there, my friend. Are you done sulking?"

Orrian balked. "Sulking? I'm not-" His cheeks flushed red as he cut his sentence off and ducked his head. "Forgive me, Your Highness. I did not mean to ignore you. This...I know this is not easy for you." He gestured to the space around us. "I understand that you need time and space to think."

Deciding the moment was right, I looped an arm around my steward's shoulders and kissed his temple. He stiffened in reaction but did not pull away. I do not always express my affection so openly, but I bid Orrian esteem as more than just a servant. To me, he is like a brother.

"You know, I do not think I have thanked you. For staying by my side. For everything you have done and sacrificed for me."

Orrian is Beta, like most other servants and laborers in the Glass Empire. He was a mere six years old when his Omega father, a lowborn Willorion native who worked in a brothel, sold him to a slave trader. He ended up in Ossola, found and bought by my Alpha father who made him my cot mate and eventually, my steward. We have been inseparable since.

"Let's face it. You can never get rid of me, not till your dying day." He let out a breathy chuckle before he pulled away from me. "Unless..." He lowered his head as he placed his hands in his lap, nervously picking at the skin around the nail on his right thumb. He may not be aware of it, but it's a habit he does whenever something is troubling him.

Eventually, he broke the silence and said, "You know, in Cardan, they treat the servants differently than in Ilialana. They make them wear black veils to cover their faces. They are not allowed to leave the palace unless they give account of themselves. They are not to speak without being addressed first." He wrung the sleeves of his coat nervously. "And they are punished by whipping, at the discretion of any royalty in the palace." This time, there was an edge to his voice. "Punished severely for the smallest of things, like spilling wine on a nobleman, or...or for missing out a silly little spot on the floor."

A flicker of fear passed over his face before he turned to me, a silent plea in his eyes. I reached out for his hand and squeezed it gently.

"I will never let anything happen to you, Orrian," I said reassuringly. "Anyone who would wish to do you harm would have to go through me first." I tried to force enough bravado into my voice to soften the raw edge of my steward's fears. And perhaps it worked, because the frown on his face slowly disappeared, a glimmer of a smile edging the corner of his mouth.

We talked about everything and nothing until at some point, Orrian fell asleep. Outside, the world blurred past in the sprawling afternoon shadows of small thickets of trees and bushes running from the edge of the hill, the sun glittering on the surface of River Beren.

As soon as we got out of the ravine, the carriage slowed and the blur beyond the window resolved into a landscape so entirely novel to me. Beside me, Orrian roused from his nap and followed my gaze out of the window. Soon the path became wider and smoother, leading us to a towering stone gateway, towards the Duchy of Lorraine.

I observed with wonder how the landscape had changed dramatically. The further we drove, the cooler and greener the terrain became. Where the kingdom of Ilialana is an arid and dry land, the countryside is a broad, rolling grassland blessed with trees and a vast array of flora. Dense and lush vegetation grew along the riverbank, with native villages dotted near irrigated fields of berry bushes, bladderwort, and cattails.

The Duchy of Lorraine is a quaint, rather sleepy little town sitting on the high eastern bank of River Beren, strung along the crest of the towering Jagged Mountain. It's a self-sufficient town that finds no need for airships to transport food and medicine. By the time we arrived at the town, the sky had already deepened to a deep purple, with wisps of pink and crimson from the setting sun. From the horizon, the first bright sparks of stars had started winking. A thin shroud of fog slowly rose above the river and meadows, where swarms of fireflies gradually rose in the mist to dance with the stars, and snow-colored flowers shrunk from the chill of approaching nightfall.

We settled for the night at a small tavern that served food and drinks, while the royal entourage pitched to camp outside the town. As I reached my designated chamber, the whole torrent of the day crashed through me. I was ready to settle in for the night.

After a quick basin bath, I changed into my nightgown and crawled into a small, single bed, feeling a sensation of bliss as I was finally able to stretch my limbs. Hungry as I was, I had barely eaten any supper, but as soon as my head touched the cushion, I quickly sunk into a deep, dreamless slumber.

 

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Morning had come too soon, but I felt well rested, filled with an urge to seize the day. Orrian, who had already been awake since before dawn, was in high spirits as well, looking a lot better than he did just a few hours ago. After we broke our fast, Orrian and I once again found ourselves inside the carriage. The company rode farther on our second day than we had the day before.

So it went. The journey was fairly uneventful, save for news of ruffians up in the Jagged Mountain, where the road is hard to approach without being seen. General Barandir and his men made a swift decision to circumvent the mountain road and instead took a lesser known and much narrower trail in the east, which was safer but added several more hours into our already-long journey.

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By sundown, we traversed three cities and five towns, only stopping to rest at night in a remote village simply called The Vale. It was then that I remembered Isarrel's coronation. I could only wonder what the Council must have done to bring news of their new king's deteriorating health. Was it a public ceremony or did they hold it in the privacy of the throne room, where only noblemen are permitted to witness my brother's ascension to the throne? Have they prevented the citizens from knowing altogether? More importantly, was Isarrel strong enough to be taken out of his bedchamber, or has his condition only gotten worse?

For the rest of the night, I was swarmed with thoughts of my brother and of home, my imagination dark and parasitic. The silence of my chamber gnawed at me as I tossed and turned in the darkness, weeping silently until the first light of dawn turned the sky a color more blue than black.

I slept a broken, shallow sleep. I dreamed of Isarrel, looking healthy and happy, a slender golden crown perched upon his head. Beside him were our fathers, smiling and laughing and waving and wanting me to say hello. It would have been a happy sight, but Isarrel standing alongside our dead parents could only mean one thing.

I did not know why I knew this; surprised I was even aware it was all just a dream. But before I could demand answers, Orrian's voice shook me from my sleep. He had given me a reproachful look at the sight of my swollen eyes and darker circles under the eyes.

Finally, we are now on our third day-the final stretch of our journey. As the carriage drives off, I try to ignore the low, dull headache that refuses to go away. On and on, the roads dwindle into smaller tracks, but the forest begins to thin at the windows the further we go up north. Occasionally, I see farms and lone taverns, clearings in the woods full of cattle. The scenery passed in a blur, lulling me to sleep.

 

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I jolt awake as the carriage lurches to an abrupt halt and the door swings open, with General Barandir reaching in to help me down. "We have arrived in the kingdom of Cardan, Your Grace," he announces. "This is our final stop before we reach the capital. You must make the necessary preparations before meeting with His Majesty."

I frown in confusion as Orrian jumps out before a footman could pull out the steps, and goes to retrieve a trunk from the back of the carriage.

"What the general means to say is that you should wash and get dressed before seeking audience with the Summer King, Your Highness," Orrian explains, voice low enough for only me to hear.

The general clears his throat awkwardly and steps back. "An hour, Your Grace, should be sufficient." He bows as he gestures to an impressive red-brick manor house, then walks away to join the rest of the entourage.

I climb out of the carriage, and a burst of heat wafted up into my face, the dull headache I had been nursing now turning into a throbbing pain. For a moment, I stop to take in my surroundings, stunned by the sight before me.

The manor stands atop a plateau overlooking a wide desert valley surrounded by craggy mountains. Unlike the countryside, the kingdom of Cardan is denuded of vegetation. In place of meadows, grass, and trees, wind-worn rock formation, sandstone, and vibrant desert blooms dotted the landscape. So much like Ilialana, yet so much more.

And there, on the horizon, is the castle of the Phosories, sitting regally on the edge of a sheer cliff overlooking the Merlara Ocean. The Summer Court itself, its silhouette lords over the surrounding villages with an imposing gaze.

A shiver runs through me as I allow myself to gaze upon its grandeur. The Phosories itself is not what's causing this storm inside me, but rather the life I shall live within its stone walls.

I am to be the Summer Consort.

I gather my wits about me and head over to the manor house, which turned out to be one of House Cardan's many country houses strewn across the Glass Empire.

Orrian ushers me into a privy chamber. In conjunction with the chamber is a spacious dressing room opening into a private bath, where a couple of bath attendants stood waiting next to a linen-lined wooden bath tub.

My face warms at their presence. Besides Orrian, I had no such personal attendants back at home. Never had I let anyone else seen my naked body, my imperfections, my scars. But now, I allow these strangers to help me wash and do my hair, wishing that with each silent gesture, each garment and accoutrement, I can gradually acclimate to a new world, a new culture in which I find myself.

After scrubbing my body of all the dirt and dust of travel, the bath attendants quietly clear out of the room. Orrian then dresses me with all the exuberance of finery, ensuring that I represent my kingdom that fortune is to be expected proportionate to my appearance. A swathed peplos of fine red silk the color of Ossola's sky at dusk drapes over one shoulder, fastened with a brooch engraved with House Ilialana's royal insignia. Relief washes over me as the garb covers the ugly scar that marred my upper arm-a constant reminder of my ignorance, of a trust once broken.

Orrian secures the garment with a beautiful girdle of the same fabric woven with silver and bronze threads entwined, followed by a sash from my waist that trails to the floor and flows freely with the hem of the silk peplos. Under my garment, I wrap a thin strap around my waist, sliding Azuri into a knot until its sheath lay flat at my hip, putting the light weight of the dagger along my upper thigh.

Orrian's reaction to the sight of Azuri is barely a flinch. Our eyes meet fleetingly, meaning passes between us. My steward knows when not to question things.

Finally, Orrian places the diadem on my head; a delicate, beautiful piece so finely engraved it appears like crocheted lace with diamond threads. Like the choker, my consort-father had once worn the same piece during his reign. Intricate swirls of gold and precious stones form dozens of loops, each centered with teardrop-shaped sapphire. I had seen many family heirlooms, of course, but nothing quite compares to this one.

By the time we emerged from the manor, the frontline troop under General Barandir's command had already departed from a distance of a mile, slowly moving forward. During my preparation, the general had made contact with the palace, the two sides had set fire to each other to receive the signal. Fireworks were set off as I climb back into the carriage, signaling that the royal entourage is approaching.

 

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It's almost Summer, the air boiling hot outside the carriage window. The air has a distinctive taste and aroma to it, tangy like the ocean's salty taste blown towards me. As we descend the plateau, the terrain around us became an endless stretch of flat, dry fields. On the horizon, canyons and sandstones make dark laced silhouettes against yellow strips of light from the sun that still had not set.

As we neared the castle, we meet other troops descending from the winding hill. My heart begins to pound in my chest as my carriage falls in line. I peer out the window, palms sweating as I see the familiar terracotta hue of the castle's exterior, a sight that has always fascinated me.

As we reach the outer walls of Cardan, I wait for the sense of relief, of security as I see the castle's imposing towers on the highest point of the city. But as our carriage approaches the main gates, a pall of apprehension hangs over me.

The carriage finally rolls to a stop in an inviting courtyard shaded with cedar pine, shrubs and bushes, and a running fountain at the heart of it. The palace is built solid with terracotta bricks and stones, the facade lined with rows and rows of marble pillars, latticed windows, and arched double doors.

The carriage driver hops down and swings open my door. "Welcome to Cardan, Your Grace," he says to me with a curt nod.

I climb out of the carriage and give a small bow to the driver. And then, squaring my shoulders, I follow General Barandir and a handful of manservants into the palace, Orrian walking close behind me. But before I could take another step, the double doors swing open and a flurry of gold, red, and white emerges.

A deep, cheery voice calls out my name. "Mirre!"

I look up at the tall and lean figure standing before me. He is wearing the most opulent white brocade coat I had ever seen, embroidered with golden thread, bejewelled collar and a magnificent red armband embellished with the sun crest insignia. The coat is complemented with a pair of gold-embellished white pants and freshly polished dark-brown boots made of fine leather. A sword rests on his right hip, wrapped in a silver kilt, peeking from the blood-red cape draped across one shoulder.

I pause to steady myself and take a breath at the sight of the Summer King's impressive frame. I raise my gaze to meet his cerulean eyes, a smile spreading rapidly across his youthful, brutally handsome face. His gaze never leaves mine as he strides toward me with masculine grace and a complete disregard for the roomful of eyes on him-on us.

Then he reaches for me and engulfs me in a heated embrace that lifts me right off my feet. The intensity of his eyes, the touch of his body against mine, the suddenness of it all stole my breath.

"You're here. You're finally here," Ettrian whispers in my ear, voice overflowing with unrestrained joy.

His spontaneous burst of excitement had been unexpected, but his body encircling mine is comforting, like it's the most natural thing in the world.

I wrap my arms around him, burying my face in the crook of his neck as I take in his scent and the feel of his strong body. At that moment, all my fears and uncertainties gradually melted away, replaced by a sense of happiness and hope that I wish would last forever.

Only the gods can intervene now, and in the midst of all these chaos and doubt, I pray that they too, are on my side.

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