~18 WINTERS BEFORE
THE KING'S CORONATION held till the sun went down, and the celebratory feast lasted a fortnight. Lords and Ladies of great stature mingled all over the Castle halls. Syrupy conversation flowed freely and distinguished faces dotted the baroque archways.
Chants of the glory days of House Pierran hung in the air and the Bards invited onto the Castle grounds spun new tales of the Golden Knight. Some were true deeds. Most were complete fables. Noblemen and Heirs of High families listened with their silken robes, their eyes misty in awe. Then the jesters came forth and they all forgot about brawn and bravery. Arlon watched with a plastered smile as their laughter rang the fortress walls.
There were golden banners everywhere. Silver cutlery and lordly dishes upon every dressed table. The jingle of coins as they tumbled off fat purses and into the hands of various service providers.
Roast meat sat upon long tables and the rich summerland ale poured from great jars into silver goblets. The knights of Syveria laughed with booms like thunder, their hands occasionally slipping to the bosoms of the whores astride their thighs.
Colorful garlands rested on the heads of the women and the drunken men surrended more coins with every bat of their eye and show of cleavage. The night was spent rending the sheets as the Lords took their pleasure from the whores.
The ones without great coin to spare spent the night in public whorehouses with any willing woman and taverns with ale of the watered variety. But the castle walls sung with all the regal abandons money could buy.
Highborns unveiled themselves in the most embarrassing ways and many Ladies hung their heads in shame at their husbands utter lack of self control. The Lords in question blamed it all on the good wine.
The Lord of House Bathurst, Baron Herondale particularly plagued the castle walls with his shivery moans of ecstasy and Arlon growled in fury at the appalling groans more than once. It seemed the Noblemen were celebrating themselves rather than the new King.
On the third day of the feasting, Arlon awoke with the Dawn. As the dark clouds slowly brightened to a rare shade of pink, Arlon traveled the grounds of the Ivory Castle. Women servants were already up, tidying up whatever horrors the intoxication of the previous night left, and preparing the Grand hall for the breakfast banquet. They bowed from their places as Arlon strode past.
He was in company of two kingsguards but they followed from a distance prior to his earlier instructions. Arlon did not like the fear in the servants eyes' when they saw the hulking guards. He needed people who respected him enough to rule, not people who feared what would happen during his rule.
Arlon stopped by the colossal doors of the Throne room. The doors were polished into the colour of a bear's pelt and intricate carvings made of melted silver ran across the wood. The royal crest was blazoned onto it also. Two statuesque Blue Cloaks stood at both sides of the double doors, their dark eyes fierce behind the helmets. The doors were untouched. The throne room was the one place the celebrations didn't stretch to. Even the Highborns didn't dare. It was neat and as tidy as the day of the coronation.
As Arlon pushed the doors open, he heard the faint tolling of the sanctuary's bell. The Graces were awakening for their morning meditations. Some faithful among the citizens also joined them—the only ones who weren't drunk or tangled with a whore that is.
The first thing that greeted Arlon's eyes as the doors creaked open was the space of the hall. The Throne room was massive; clear shiny floors that spanned a great width. Marble walls that stretched so high it blurred his eyes. The white walls were in constant play with the light slipping in, and as the light from the high windows turned brighter, the throne room seemed to glint in splendor; this was another masterful creation of the Seers. The scholars designed the whole of the Ivory Castle.
The room tapered to a dome above with graven symbols that showed the story of Syveria. The windows were made of sapphire-glass and turned different shades with the light. Thus, the throne room never lacked for a magical atmosphere. The hall was beautiful.
A room worthy of a King.
On both ends of the hall, very near to the walls, the stone statues of past kings rose thirty feet into the air. Arlon took all of them in. He knew them by name so he didn't bother with the names carved onto the massive flint pedestals. He however stopped at the first.
The first statue was specifically made of bronze and Arlon could clearly see the male beauty the sculptors were trying to showcase.
He lifted his head to the man's unmoving stone eyes and smiled at the gigantic statue. He already knew the man before him but he still brought his eyes down and read the plaque. The first statue was the Golden Knight, Ruler during the Dark Ages and the First of his name: Nihila Pierran.
Arlon had being sleepless since the first day of his coronation. The weight of the crown seemed to bear down on him and he wondered how Nihila had done it. It seemed a huge responsibility and a great honor. There was also the good number of secrets that came with inheriting an entire kingdom.
The way of Kings never came with a written script on the workings of Power. He had spent the previous night thumbing through his father's journals. They were mostly unhelpful.
Vaster the Third had been a poet not a King, but the weight of the crown fell on him so he had to accept it. He never wrote of his dealings with the Overseers of the State, or meetings with emissaries of the foreign lands across the emerald sea.
All he wrote about was the young girls he could never get enough off. He sang of their bodies, their young flesh; the purity of their smiles and the strength of their eyes. Arlon had eventually grown tired of reading his father's love letters and sought another form of passing the time. His Golden Hero. Nihila, the first summer king.
His smile was still in place as he calmly walked to the steps before the White throne. He did not know how long he stood watching the Ivory seat but the sun was quite high in the sky when he felt another presence behind him. Arlon turned and then wished he hadn't. It was Lord Cranmer's new bride.
Her eyes were so warm and brown like honey and Arlon could not stop staring at her. It was like he looked upon the very soul of his existence.
But he could not let himself want her. The multitude of reasons tumbled together in his mind.
She was married, to the Lord of the second wealthiest House in all the summerlands. She was a foreigner; while he did not necessarily care about her origin, the servants of the Crown did. No king before him had ever married a Mithosian. The interested ones only took them as mistresses. Always only mistresses. And Arlon was already betrothed to another, to be married in a few moons. He had a Queen already but why did another woman plague his every thought? A forbidden foreign beauty.
The two of them stood alone in the quietness of the Throne room. Arlon, the crown king of Syveria. Lady Cranmer, the seductive bride from the Isles. Brilliant sunlight spilled in from the high sapphire-glass windows, coloring the hall different enchanting shades. Arlon could feel his heart beat with the woman's every breath.
He walked a few steps to her. She didn't move.
He walked again.
They were so close he could breathe her, and he did breathe her in. A lot. Arlon did not know what he felt. They hadn't said a word to each other yet the pull was strong. The Seers had a name for such strong connection. They called it the spell of love. Arlon stared deeply into her brown eyes and felt it, strong in her drowning gaze.
Suddenly, the doors swung open and Lord Cranmer walked in. The spell was immediately broken. Arlon shifted back a few feet. He watched her lower her head as Geralt approached them.
"Your Majesty!" Geralt bowed, his voice holding its croaky quality. "I'm glad you've met my wife, Rebelle."
Arlon nodded to the man, then surprised himself by bowing to Rebelle.
"My Lady!" Geralt's eyes widened at Arlon's gesture. A King never bowed to a Lady.
Arlon noticed Geralt's gaze. He quickly lifted up and strode away. As the doors closed behind him, he made up his mind to avoid the woman. Lady Rebelle Cranmer was slowly becoming too attractive a sight for his sinful mind. Arlon closed his eyes and walked silently away. He failed to notice that he was the only one to enter the Throne room since the break of Dawn.
If no doors opened again, how did Rebelle get in? It seemed Lady Cranmer was even more mysterious than her enchanting beauty.
~. ~. ~.
LORD GERALT CRANMER invited the King later that evening for a stroll around the Kingdom. The sun had receded deeper down the western horizon and the fierce glow of Noon had dimmed to a scarlet even. The winds were soft on the horses they rode on and the animals eased into a happy trot.
Four Kingsguards and two Houseguards of Lord Cranmer followed behind. The air around was cool, whispering over their clothes and Arlon gladly reveled in the natural environment. He avoided the Lord's eyes. Geralt had a way of boring the truth out of a man, like his father. Arlon was afraid Geralt would see right through him. Maybe also see he wanted his wife too. So he looked away.
He looked at the orange sunset painting the sky. At the hamlets in the distance. At the braided mane of his horse. At everywhere but Geralt's eyes.
The two men maintained an easy silence. The guards made light conversation behind them and Arlon enjoyed the evening. It wasn't until he looked back that he discovered they had been riding for over an hour. The sun was already blotted out by nightfall and the sky was a dull ash. Not yet dark but not quite bright. Geralt noted his widened eyes.
"It's alright, my King. There are patrols all around." Arlon looked to him as the horses moved on. Geralt continued,
"I take this strolls with my horse few times a week. The cool air is a blessing from nature and I intend to drink my fill before I cross over." He looked across to Arlon, studying his expression in the waning light of dusk. The guards behind them pulled out torches, quickly lighting them. Orange flames immediately brightened the area.
"I also want to show you something." Geralt finished. As soon as the words left his mouth, the horses stopped in their tracks. Low grunts escaped their muzzles and Arlon smoothed his, easing it back to a calm.
"Look beyond, my boy," Geralt boomed, inclining his head forward. Arlon gave him a curious look but looked anyway. His eyes instantly spread wide open and he almost fell off his horse.
His eyes stared straight at Eracuse: the Blood Forests.
The gigantic red trees rose massive from the ground. The grappling roots sank into a soil equally red and terrifying, and the forests stretched for miles to the west and to the east. Geralt smiled at Arlon's wide eyes. It was obvious the boy had never seen Eracuse up close before. The terror shone clearly, lighting his eyes.
"This is what kings can do when they become jealous, ambitious men." Geralt said.
Arlon continued gaping at the uncanny trees. Geralt beside him watched his features soften. After a while, Arlon lowered his eyes. Lord Cranmer was a wise man. Showing him the dangerous effects of power was exactly what he needed to wear the crown.
'A man cannot fear himself until he sees with his own eyes what he can do,' Vaster always said to him.
It was a mantra kings used to remember the time of the Night wars, when all the eyes could see were the rivers of blood and the shadows of death.
Arlon could not imagine such times. He had only seen the burnings at the stake which was a horroful sight. To witness such great massacre froze his blood. Geralt left him to his thoughts for a while before interrupting them.
"Your Majesty, we must go. Night has already fallen."
Geralt turned his horse and moved it to a slow trot. Arlon turned also to follow when a guard's voice stopped him.
"Your Majesty! Wait!" The man boomed. The four Kingsguards quickly moved to the front. The one in the lead climbed off his horse and moved forward to the treeline, torch in hand.
"What is it?" Arlon growled.
"There is something by the forest's edge, your Majesty," one of the Cranmer houseguards replied. The two soldiers had moved astride their horses to both sides of the king in a protective stance.
The Blue Cloak with the torch stopped directly in front of the first colossal red tree marking the Eracusan border. He knelt to his feet and shined his torch near the ground. The other men waited behind with eyes clouded by the shadows. After a while, the Blue Cloak rose, turned and walked slowly back to them. He reached them once more and the men fully saw what rested in his hands.
It was a boy child. A baby with eyes white as the moon, and undoubtedly born of Valkalon.
"ShalI I kill him, your Majesty?" The Blue Cloak said. Arlon fired him an angry glare.
"Bring him to me," he growled.
The guard walked over and Arlon leaned down his horse, collecting the child from the guard. The boy's moon eyes shone at him and little fingers stretched for his golden hair. Arlon smiled. The syverians hated the Icelanders but that didn't mean they had to murder an innocent child. Arlon made up his mind right there by the forest's edge.
"No!" He thundered. "We won't kill the child." He gestured at the guards staring at him with wide eyes. "You will not speak of this to anyone. Do you understand?"
"Yes, your majesty." They all fired in unison. He turned to Geralt and the man nodded his acceptance of the command.
Arlon looked down again. The boy's pale eyes and frosty skin were dazzling but Arlon knew he had to start somewhere. That somewhere meant not killing innocent people no matter how hated they were.
He turned his horse around and began a ride back to the castle. The boy's moon eyes fixed on him during the ride and he figured out a name. A summerland name for the mysterious Icelandic boy child.
MARSIL! he mused. The boy's name was Marsil. The Syverian word for 'Moon Eyes.'
Arlon the new King rode back to Calipsos with six soldiers, the Lord of a Great House, and a new Prince.