Talystasia stands divided. An ancient wall runs down the city’s center, and for centuries, the Lorens and Telyras have vied for dominance. But their endless feud is not the only schism that runs through these pages. Here, loyalties are fractured and hearts and minds are divided. Will Andreas Telyra and Roselia Loren triumph on the war grounds within, or will they succumb to the cycle of violence and spiral even deeper into the dark?
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II: Rose
LET NO EVIL ENTER HERE, read the
inscription above the fountain in the palace gardens.
Roselia Loren was hovering
between two massive gardenia plants, clutching a book and staring absently at
the water bubbling from the whitewashed, wisteria-choked wall. The damp, charged air accentuated the sweet
perfume of the flowers. The jet trickled
into a shallow collecting basin carved in the shape of a fish encircling a flat
rock, its tune a serene accompaniment to her humming.
A throat cleared behind her.
"Miss Loren, pardon me.”
When she turned, her stiff
brocade skirts were scarcely ruffled by the practiced restraint of her
movement. The wig of vibrant curls piled
atop her head shifted slightly, the plum coloured tresses tickling her
neck.
Raddik stood waiting under the
arcade. Bowing her head slightly, she
smiled, still humming her song.
"How are you this evening
Miss Loren?"
Breaking her melody, she
answered, "I am well, Raddik, and
you?"
"I am also, Miss
Loren."
A breeze set the branches of the
ambrosia tree to quivering. The last
fruits of summer spoiled on the ground at her feet, their white faces blemished
with rot and crawling with fruit flies, their sticky sweet odour weaving
unsettling threads into the tapestry of garden scents. Even as the late afternoon storm-light gilded
branches and leaves, softening the grain of the walls, the engraved letters
held their sharp relief.
“I used to spend a lot of time
here when I was young,” she commented vaguely.
“You still spend a lot of time
here, Miss Loren.”
That was true. And yet …
A twig snapped overhead, a dove
breaking away from the tree to become lost in the sky. Flecks of moisture painted her cheeks.
There was an urge to clutch the
leather volume in her hands like it was the precious relic of a bygone era, and
somewhere unseen in the nebulous distance, a marauding dragon was circling ever
closer.
She sighed. "Only it looks like it will rain.” The sigh deepened. “Oh, that’s right. It’s always
raining.”
Raddik frowned. “Yes, but it would hardly do for Miss Loren
to get her fine skirts wet."
The ballooning mass of violet
and maroon silk, patterned with thorny roses and twisting vines, was already
muddy at the hem.
Shaking her head, she lifted one
corner of her mouth in silent amusement.
"You sound like my
father. You know, I used to come here
when I was a little girl to get away from all that.”
"And you still do.”
“Only it hasn’t worked in quite
some time.”
“Indeed. Lord Loren sent me to summon you. Thus the suggestion about your attire. Immediately,”
he put in when she didn’t move.
"... Oh.” Outstretching her hand, she watched a
raindrop disperse into her skin.
"Okay then. Thank you,
Raddik."
"Of course, ma’am.” Giving a sharp little bow, he disappeared
inside.
Crinkling her nose despondently,
she followed after, leaving behind the fresh air and the early evening glow.
The palace was drafty. It was uncharacteristically dark for this
hour, which only had the effect of amplifying the gloom. Someone had forgotten to light the torches,
lending the corridors an air of chilly neglect.
Shadows huddled in the corners and cold gathered around her feet,
whispering sundown secrets.
The last corridor was illumined
by a dim grey rectangle stretching across the smooth stone floor, cast by the
lone window at the far end beside the marble stair. Hitching up her skirts, she scampered up into
darkness, the steps tapering as they spiralled into the heart of the palace,
where they terminated at a small landing lit by a solitary torch. The deer and wolves engraved on the ebony
doors darted and scurried, their hunt brought to life by the flickering light.
… There was no guard.
Now that was irregular. Should she go back downstairs and call for
help—?
Probably sent on an errand.
She rapped on the wood.
"Enter," the voice
coughed from inside, muffled by the heavy doors.
She pulled them open.
Lord Malek Loren's sickroom was
as extravagant as any in the palace. Like
a macabre sculpture, his wide, oval bed billowed seamlessly from the
cream-coloured marble of the floor on an elaborate dais, a high, lavish nest
brimming with ivory sheets and silk cushions.
Above the bed, three concentric circles of elegant moulding gave way to
a splendid chandelier. A hundred votive
candles burned there, suspended like fire drops in a delicate crystal web.
A thud shook her bones as the
doors closed behind her.
She lurched in surprise. He was sitting upright under the chandelier,
his feet planted on the floor of the dais.
He looked incredibly pale today, his skin even whiter than his parchment
beard.
"Stay right there
Father!" Striding across the floor,
she scrambled up the steps to his bedside.
"It's ... okay," he
grunted. "I mean to be doing
this." He squinted his eyes shut,
heaving for breath like he was drawing air through layers of thick wool
blankets. The rasping sound cut straight
to her heart.
When he opened his eyes again,
they were bloodshot and hazy. They
swivelled wildly, not focusing on any one thing. His circlet was slipping down over his brow
like he was shrinking beneath it.
"Father, can you see?"
she exclaimed, kneeling down and waving a hand in front of his face.
Slowly, his eyes shifted back
and forth before focusing on her face.
But his gaze seemed disconnected, his eyes roving independently of his
mind.
"Yes, daughter, I can
see," he assured her.
"Why are you getting
up? You know what the doctors said. And where is your guard …? You should know better than to—"
“Daughter, you are going to lecture me on responsibility?” He choked on a wheezing laugh. “… That’s a joke.”
She opened her mouth to protest,
injured by his lack of faith, but his winded coughs were too painful.
He doesn’t mean that …
Reaching out an unsteady hand,
he squeezed her shoulder. "That was a joke, Roselia.”
… Oh.
The knot came out of her chest,
her shoulders relaxing.
“Your brother will take care of
everything. Because tomorrow ... I am
going to war."
For a protracted moment, she
stared. Her shoulders, taut once more,
felt like a steel beam had been shoved through them.
She had never liked this room. Just
as the floor sloped up to form the dais on which the bed was sculpted, so too
it curved up to form the constricting, windowless walls, which arced into a low,
oppressive ceiling. The odour from the candles was overpowering, and there were
times it seemed like her mind was playing tricks on her.
He did not just say ‘war.’ Not
with Lord Telyra.
… Who else?
"I am so old, Roselia
..."
"And very ill. Why would you want to break your truce with
that dreadful man …? I am just grateful
that he hasn’t pressed his advantage!"
“Why should he? It isn’t to Telyra’s advantage to see your brother on the throne. Alix is young; he will be strong. He would never tolerate that monster’s
existence like I have—but he won’t have to.
Together, tomorrow, we will press our
advantage.”
“What do you mean?”
You can’t be serious …
Some of the old iron surfaced in
his voice. "Lord Telyra ... may be
a monster, but he is not invincible. A
truce can't last indefinitely with a man like that on the other end. Eventually his bloodlust will overcome him.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Don’t be naive. I can't leave a tyrant like that in the world
... there’s no neutrality against evil, and I’ve still a few tricks up this old
sleeve. I can only hope he’s grown weak,
that the years of peace have made him soft."
"He's half your age,
Father, and far more fit. They say he can kill twenty men single-handed. Don't do this thing. You need to get better—then you can fight
him."
Infirmity, she was certain—not
tolerance—was the only reason her father had ever accepted Telyra’s offer of a
ceasefire. It was also why she had been
so grateful for it. He would never fight
again and live.
And he knew that as surely as
she did.
"Your brother tells
stories, Roselia." He
chuckled. "Twenty single-handedly
... no. That would take sorcery, not
steel, and thankfully we live in the real world. But yes, he can kill many."
It hardly mattered; he only had
to kill one to break her heart.
"They say ... that he likes
it. That he lives for it. That he has the blood of his victims drained
into a big vat, which he uses in place of wine at his feasts for weeks and
weeks and weeks."
"I'm sure he doesn't do
that, daughter. It'd go stale, don't you
think? Did your brother tell you that—?”
“No,” she confessed
sheepishly. “Rachel.”
He chuckled. "And what would Rachel know…? But yes—he is a bloody man, a sadist. Which is why I don't want you to have to live
with him there on the other side of the Wall ... after I'm gone ... "
"Father! You aren't going anywhere. You're staying right here."
His face took on a severe cast,
and he squeezed her shoulder almost violently, arthritis shaking in his
fingers.
"Lord Telyra is ruthless. He is even brutal toward his own staff, who
must endure his presence every day—why else do you think we have so many of his
defectors at work in our halls?" He
smiled, a twinkle in his eye. "That
army of his fights like a nightmare, but it is because their lives are a
nightmare, one they don't know how to escape.
Those men are terrified of their master.
He and his thugs would hurt their wives, their children, if they stood
up to him. But we are not terrified, are
we Roselia? He is only a man, you
know. Men can die. I'm not going to get any better. But perhaps … I can be stronger. I have nothing to
lose—but you. I have nothing left but my
life to give—for you."
"Father ...” She wanted to tell him no, but her voice stuck in her throat. He could be intractable, and at times like
this, she was painfully aware that he was lord first, father second.
“He scares me,” was all she
managed.
"Well, after tomorrow, he
won't have to. There won't be any Lord Telyra. His people wear rags, child. Rags.”
She bit her tongue and resisted
rolling her eyes. So do most of ours …
“Even the man himself scarcely
dresses better than his lowest servants.
He is not fit to rule anyone—least of all half of our people." He smiled
dimly.
"But they aren't our people—they
never have been," she protested.
"Not because they weren't meant
to be. Long ago, our ancestors
settled—" He paused, releasing her
hand. Turning away, he coughed.
There was a wheezing hollowness
to the coughs, as if they came from a cavernous void.
In an uneven voice, he picked up
again. "Our ancestors settled this
country. They came from across the sea, their
ships separated by a terrible gale—but they came together, in the beginning.”
She’d heard the story a hundred
times of course, and it never made any more sense than it did the first
time. But if it comforted him to tell it
again …
“And they discovered our
mountain, but only after a long separation.
That was before the land was cultivated and the fields were
ploughed. Travel was difficult in those
days—forest clogged everything. But the
soil was rich, and the shoulders of the mountain presented a strategic position
to build a city. The ancient Wall along
the summit seemed … alas, convenient in light of the grievances which had developed
between the two groups.”
“—And no one knows who built the
Wall,” she recited. This time, she did
roll her eyes.
He didn’t notice. “… And no one knows who built the Wall. We formed separate governments—different
politics, different cultures, on either side of it. At first, we thought it could work—our
divided city-state. It was unorthodox,
but it had its benefits. We shared a strategic
position against outsiders, but kept our societies apart, with a common line of
defence. We thought our separation would
keep our differences from overcoming us.
But we were wrong. The outer
walls of the city, we built, to fortify our position. Those too became convenient … when the
infighting started and our weak alliance ended."
"Then why are there two
circlets? Didn’t they find those too,
near the Wall?”
She’d asked the question countless
times before. This response too she had memorized. But she asked it again
anyway.
Because I’m as stubborn as he is.
"Only one is real ... mine.
Telyra’s is not genuine. His is a shoddy
replica, forged when it was discovered that we had found the real circlet, that
it was our line chosen to reunite our sundered kin. It ties us to the land. The Telyra circlet is
nothing but a ruse to try and wrest the right to rule out of our hands and keep
our land divided just as it has been for centuries. Under our line, our people have
prospered. Under the Telyras ... they
have suffered. I don't want this world
for you to live in. I want you to be
able to walk freely across the entirety of our land ... no Wall ... I am so
tired. When he’s dead, your brother can
tear it down, brick by brick …"
"Then get some rest,
Father! And no more of this talk
of—"
"Settling things," he
said, his eyelids drooping, and slumped.
Alarmed, she reached for him.
"Do you trust me?" he
asked, his eyes snapping open.
"Of course.”
He looked down at his robes, his
hands balled into shaky fists.
"Your brother will
rule," he affirmed. "It’s
already begun. The fiend gave me an
excuse today. Not a good one—but it
hardly matters now; it’s worthy enough and not the first. The truce was never exactly popular on either
side of the Wall."
"But why? Why do this now—"
"Because I am dying!"
Rose felt her mouth set into a
thin, helpless line, biting back her anger.
"No—don't argue.” He raised his hand. "I am eighty-six—and sick—as you
say. I outlived my usefulness a long
time ago. I’m not coming back from
this.”
"He will kill you,"
she insisted. “Is that really how you
want to die …?”
“I would rather die in battle
than in bed ..." He let out a
rasping chuckle, which dissolved into a choking fit of coughs. She reached out to touch his shoulder, but he
cleared his throat again, and muttered, "Stupid cough ...”
… Stupid decision! How can he
throw away his life like this? Does it
mean less, because it’s ending? Wouldn’t
he rather be here with us while there is still time?
"This death of disease—it’s
a meaningless one. But in the fields …
that is my intent. We will lead him out
... And while he is distracted, we will bring down his city from inside. He does not suspect … stupid fool, with his
open border policy."
… Telyra was no fool. He’d proven that time and again in the long,
grievous years before the truce.
So why had he insisted on the open borders all this time? Father’s men were there even now, awaiting
his orders, ready to rupture the truce and rain blood down on his streets. Surely he knew that?
Sometimes she fancied her
father’s nemesis had a heart, all evidence to the contrary. Supposing, just supposing, he had extended
his offer and unsealed their borders because he really did want peace? Those hopes were about to be smashed, the
grace of his trust broken.
Of course, it was far more
likely he too had people waiting, placed strategically throughout Talystasia
West. Likely he only played at being a
blunt force, and was quite cunning himself.
He too was waiting for his moment.
"But I thought you just
said those were truly our
people. How can you raid your own
people?"
On regional maps, a solitary dot
represented the divided city. It was
labelled simply: Talystasia.
Not Talystasia West. Not Talystasia East.
He glared at her, then shook his
head wearily. "They are—and it
is—but right now they are under his spell, the spell of his terror. We can rebuild their homes and heal their
soldiers."
… Except the ones you kill.
"And the men, women and
children who do not fight," she alleged, anger besieging her voice. "I hate it when you raid. It's the same as when he raids here. People will die!"
"The same?" His voice
mounted, hollow but determined.
"Don't let me ever hear you talk like that again. You're a Loren. Are we not a good family?"
"Yes, Father ..."
"Is he not an evil
man?"
"He is, but—"
"Then let me die so that
your brother may kill him! I'm dying
anyway. Don't you want your brother to
rule?"
"Of course. But—"
"Then support me,
daughter," he growled, "when I need it the most."
"Why are you so angry with
me?" she stammered, her voice rising uncontrollably. "I don't want you to ... die.” The last word dropped like a defeated sigh.
"You are strong. I know you'll support your brother.”
He rose to his feet, his bony
hand clenching her shoulder, his eyes glazing over to match his ashen
skin. She got up off the floor, raising
him with her—and was horrified at how easy it was.
He set his mouth firmly, a
vision of past strength and glory, a faded old war banner.
"We will win this
war.”
A tremendous painting hung in
the great hall—Lord Loren as a younger man: a strong, hard jaw and an aquiline
nose not unlike her brother’s … clear, warm brown eyes, so different from those
that watched her now, colourless and depleted.
In the painting, he wore a wig like a lion’s mane with shining,
blood-red curls to match his scarlet leather armour, an unblemished broadsword
clutched in hand, a thin smile on his mouth.
Scarlet, the colour of their
family crest, a martial colour.
In her youth, she’d found the
picture intimidating. She’d seen
paintings of Andreas Telyra as well—though thankfully she’d never encountered
the man himself. The people on the other side of the Wall didn’t wear
wigs. Their clothing was plain, and
Telyra didn’t even hold court. Her
father’s enemy had hair that was naturally red, red like blood, not rust—a true
red. Her father’s ruby wig seemed an
unsuitable mirror of their hated enemy.
"Father," she
said.
The suspicion had troubled her
for many years, and while she’d skirted around it many times, she had never
dared to voice it. She was afraid to
incur his wrath, and worse, his simple denial.
But they were both running out of time.
What was there to lose—?
"Father," she stated
again, swallowing her misgivings, "Has it ever occurred to you that maybe
the war can't be won? Like, literally
can’t? I mean, there's two circlets, and
the Wall is …” Not normal. “Surely there
has to be two lords. Not one ...
king. I mean, isn't that just how things
work?"
"I told you ... only mine
is real."
"His looks just the same,
doesn't it? Identical? Like its sister?"
"Roselia ... why don't you
listen to me? These foolish fancies are
not befitting a woman of royal blood. At
your age, you ought to be concentrating on matters of state—"
"I am—"
"—and not on these Elder
tales!"
"What Elder tales,
exactly?" she demanded, triumphant.
"That ... just that ... oh,
Roselia, I'm tired."
"Tell me!" she
insisted.
"Tell you what? That men invent crowns and scepters, more of
them than are necessary? One ruler,
Roselia—a good ruler. A just ruler. That is all that is needed for one city, even
one with a wall running down the middle of it.
A circlet on his head does not make Telyra just, or good. It does not make him a lord—or a king, as he
desires to be. It makes him a brute with
one golden bauble in his rotting, black tower.
He clings to that one bright thing—and we will take it from him. And he will be left with what he is when it’s
gone—nothing. Because he will be dead,
and he’ll join the unclean ranks of his despicable ancestors in hell."
"You won't win this
war. I have a bad feeling ... of
terrible inevitability ... please ... don't go—"
"No Roselia—no bad
feelings." He smiled the smile from
the portrait downstairs, a blood-red smile.
"Tomorrow will be an end to
all bad feelings."
He embraced her with all the strength a dying man could
muster. As she leaned into his robes and
shut her eyes, she could scarcely feel his warmth.
~~*~~
