~18 WINTERS BEFORE
AN ENCHANTED DAWN rose over the plains and rise of Syveria. Golden rays of sunlight hit the Carrean sea, lighting it in a dazzling sparkle of emerald, and over the high towers of Calipsos hung massive drapes bearing the gilded royal banners.
The eclectic atmosphere reflected the joy in the people's heart, for with the slow break of Dawn, a new summer king was to be named.
Arlon of House Pierran: the second boy child born to Vaster the Third, Ruler of the summerlands. The coronation was to be held in the Ivory Castle, presided over by the Graces.
The castle stood proud and unwavering, its highest tower like a fine wand against the blue sky. All the wings of the Castle, it's windows, doors and pillars were shined to a shimmery edge. Women servants scurried around, arranging yellow roses, scarlet willows, and purple lilies in ornate vases around the castle. A few plump white plumes also dotted the walls, and the beautiful smell of lavender filled the air.
The Prince stood before a plate of watered sapphire-glass, watching as his reflection beamed back at him. The MIRROR, the Seers called it: their newest invention. The willowy scholars had found a way to shine the treasure of sapphire-glass so that it became transparent like the waters of the White Lake. They then added a bronze skin behind, producing a new wonder that made men see themselves. It was different from the silver plates used before which only showed distorted shadows. The Crown was the first benefactor of this craft and soon many noblehouses emptied their coffers to obtain the crystal looking-glass.
Arlon turned this way and that, his eyes glued to the reflective surface. The craftsmanship was remarkable. He saw clearly the firm angle of his jaw, the blue of his eyes, and his piled golden locks. He admitted he was fair. Arlon knew he looked handsome from the stares he occasionally garnered from the female castle servants while growing up, but to see his own eyes and behold the sky color of the orbs was bedazzling.
The ocean eyes had remained with the lineage of House Pierran for centuries and not a single child had been born without such eyes. It signified their pure royal blood, or so his father had said.
Arlon slowly put his fingers to the smooth glass, marveling at the work. The Seers might be a proud house but they were gifted. The round angles of the looking-glass was robed in a golden overlay shaped to the form of an eagle's head. The golden eye stared straight at him.
His gilden coronation robes fluttered as a mild wind blew into the chamber; spills and spills of the finest golden silk spun in an ornate threadwork soft as a feather. He was to be king.
The King of all of Syveria.
Arlon had watched his father, Vaster the Third rule with an iron fist. King Vaster Pierran was a mighty man, great in stature and with wicked blue eyes. He received tributes of all the summer lands, even the western hills that the Iron clans always raided from time to time. The farming villages always struggled with the taxes. He made the Crown's coffers swell with gold and Syveria had never enjoyed a more prosperous reign.
The masses without coin of course suffered. Vaster had been formidable, with his long golden hair and tall stature until that day in the royal ball when he spied Latchlon in the gardens with a man.
They weren't discussing...
Vaster went mad, madder than his normal self. He swore and cursed his son's stupidity. Latchlon was his firstborn, his pride. The one meant to wear the golden crown after his death. What would his subjects do when they found out he lay with men? A coward King. Vaster had his secrets too. The multitude of young girls slipped at night into his chambers confirmed it, but he did well to hide them. And then his son had gone like a cunt, shaming him in front of the whole empire.
Vaster was glad he was the one that caught the boy. Even though Latchlon was big and fierce like him, and would be the perfect king, Vaster swore the boy would never wear the crown. The esteemed position fell to his second son, Latchlon's younger brother, Arlon. A much calmer and obedient fellow.
King Vaster Pierran died at an old age, surrounded by his two golden-haired sons. He never fully admitted Latchlon's cravings into his home but he loved the boy nevertheless.
"Prince Pierran! The Houses await you."
Arlon turned at the deep voice. He instantly met with the nimble form of Lord Geralt Cranmer. The man had a glorious smile stretching his lips. Lord Cranmer had been his father's confidant and contemporary, but for some reason, the frail man didn't want to join him in death. Must be all the multitude of women looking after him, Arlon contemplated.
He heard Geralt had married a new wife. A Mithosian beauty from one of the notable Isles on the emerald sea famous for their refreshing tropical winds and exotic atmosphere. When the other Lords thought he couldn't hear, they whispered about the woman's full tits and pine-colored eyes.
"Are you having second thoughts, my boy?" Geralt asked, pulling Arlon out of his thoughts once again.
Arlon gave no reply. Geralt walked to him. Standing beside him in front of the mirror, he looked straight into his eyes reflected in the shimmery surface.
"You shouldn't. The crown is just pure gold spun and crafted by pompous seers..." Arlon frowned at the mirror. Only a Cranmer could say 'just' and 'gold' in the same sentence. He liked Geralt but the man could be an entitled prick sometimes.
"...The true nature of a king is in here," he touched Arlon's chest, right over his beating heart. "From what I feel, my boy. I know you would be the finest king there is. Now, come. The white throne awaits you."
Geralt turned and strolled away, leaving Arlon to follow. Arlon watched Lord Cranmer leave through the mirror.
If he kept so much secrets already as a Prince, how would he fare with an entire kingdom full of them.
~. ~. ~.
THE THRONE ROOM was filled to the capacity as Arlon walked in. Colorful robes dotted the population. Distinguished Noblemen, Lords of Great Houses, Barons, foreign merchants—and no commoner.
All who couldn't afford the gilden wardrobe of the wealthy remained outside, in the long halls, watching as the Prince strode across with tall Blue Cloaks surrounding. They still smiled nevertheless, and Arlon wondered: Whose love did he want? The love of the rich with coin to spare, or the love of the people with more love to spare?
The air was vibrant with the expectation simmering from the crowd of onlookers. The coronation of the Summer King was no small event. A few ships had even sailed into the syverian ports a few days before; Men and women docked and strode into Inns along the coast to await the golden day.
Arlon walked alone across the polished floors of the hall. Orange sunlight bathed the throne room and the floors gleamed at his eyes. Men and women bowed as he walked past, reverent smiles on their faces. Some were even older than his dead father, yet they bowed. The glory of the Crown, he mused. Above him, mighty drapes hung off the white walls bearing blazons of the noblehouses. The crests were spun with fine threads onto the drapes. A magnificent embroidery. A magical atmosphere.
The Prince walked past the silver banner of House Bathurst with the leaping stallion. The Lord of the House, Herondale Bathurst bowed to him. His family around him smiled and bowed also.
Next was House Cranmer. The branched antlers of an Elk was their emblem. Lord Geralt of the White Keep didn't bow. He only gave Arlon a slight nod. Arlon chalked it down to his stiff back. Only a fool didn't bow to a Prince as he walked the aisle of a coronation hall, and Geralt was no fool. Arlon almost stopped in his gait when he spotted the woman by his side. The gossips were true.
The woman with Lord Cranmer was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. She had hair like the pits of the mines. Black as a windy night. Her eyes swirled deep brown, and her lips made the other women's mouths look like thin strips of a scroll.
A glorious shade of brown skin revealed curves showing under her cream gown. And her tits.... By the Pantheon! Arlon wondered. How did Geralt find such a woman? Surely, he must have kidnapped her. No father would give away such diamond to such an Old man.
Arlon noticed his eyes were lurking around her ample bosom and he quickly looked away. He still had a kingdom to claim.
The Seers' lit eyes greeted his next. About fifty men they were—the Grand scholars that is. Other lower class seers waited out in the long halls with the masses. Their elegant red robes matched colorfully as they stood in the pristine hall. They gave a collective bow and Arlon almost snorted. The men were funny, what with their proud noses and lean bodies that showed no meat. The scarlet robes breezed around them like curtains.
Arlon walked on until he stood before the throne. The White Throne: the very seat of Nihila Pierran, the first summer king and Ruler during the First Ages: the Golden One. It was him that had gifted the Pierran household their golden hair and piercing blue eyes. He was king in a time when enemies lurked in every shadow and under every arch. Yet he withstood them, building an empire in a desolate land. A barreness with a scorching sun. Bards made music of his heroic deeds, and he was named the Golden One after his death centuries ago. His exploits birthed the banner of House Pierran: an eagle with golden eyes.
The banner hung proud behind the White throne in a gilded halo and Arlon couldn't be prouder. From the first moment his father forced him and Latchlon to read about their warrior ancestor, he had fallen in love with the Golden One. Nihila was his golden knight, the one that made all the secrets he kept for House Pierran worthwhile. His strength in the dark times of adversity inspired Arlon.
The Graces stood in a line on both sides of the throne and as Arlon ascended the white granite steps, they looked upon him with unsmiling faces. The Graces never smiled. Arlon looked to a bald man and almost laughed in his face. The Graces were castrate but that didn't mean they had to always glower. He stood in front of the White seat: a smooth stony beauty shined to an inch of purity, said to have been made from the tooths of the hairy mammoths that roamed during the First ages.
The White throne was solid as a rock and beautiful in its silver shine. What made it more appealing was that it was the single treasure in the whole of Adramon that had no mining pits. The source of the white ivory had never been found, even by the Seers hawkish eyes.
The bald Grace strode to Arlon and he noticed the single dot marking his smooth forehead. The bald man was the Cardinal: the Grace head, Frater Cervantes. A draping yellow robe made of the most common silk hung down his shoulders, dropping to his ankles. From the plainness of the cloth, Arlon could tell it was the cheapest, and from the push through the thin material, he could also tell the man wore nothing underneath.
The Graces were like that. All of them. They ate with the poor, the beggars, and the whores. They wore clothes made straight from dried plants, and they drank no wine. There was a time when Arlon thought a Grace should be the king until he saw their temple. No Grace was accepted in with any material possession whatsoever; that meant no Grace would ever succeed as king. The Crown was all about coin, gold, and more gold.
"Kneel!" The Cardinal said, with a voice soft as a child's. The crowd in the hall instantly fell silent at his words. As Arlon's knees met with the hard granite of the dais, he locked eyes with set gazes pinned on him from all over the room; Lord Cranmer. His beautiful new bride. Latchlon in his blue army cloak. His soldiers beside him. The Seers and their upturned smiles. Everyone looked upon him and all eyes mirrored his own.
Another Grace, also bald, strode to the Cardinal beside him. In his hands was a smooth red pillow. On it lay the crown of Syveria; golden, beautiful, and powerful. He stretched out his hands and Frater Cervantes slowly picked up the crown. He held it above Arlon's head and the throne room fell so silent it seemed empty.
The Cardinal opened his mouth and began the naming chant.
"By the authority of the Pantheon, the priesthood of the Graces, and the blessings of the Seventh Flame, I name you Arlon, son of Vaster the Third of House Pierran, ruler of the summerlands. The first of his name, Lord of the Ivory castle, and Defender the White Throne..."
As the metal landed softly on his head, Arlon spied Latchlon release a great breath. Latchlon was proud but also secretly elated that he never would become King. The crown attracted gossip, and Latchlon hated hushed words.
What a gossip that would be if the people discovered the King's brother loved men.
"...ARISE!" The Grace boomed, "King Arlon Pierran, Offspring of Nihila, the Golden One!"
Loud clapping immediately filled the hall. As Arlon arose to the misty eyes of the crowd, he smiled and slowly sat back on the throne. The stone was cold, comfortable, and white as frost. The clapping soon became thunderous. One thing was certain as Arlon's blue eyes looked over his new kingdom.
The Crown was heavy.