"Heoooooos!"
He ran, barefoot.
"Heos!"
The voice echoed, weaker, growing paler.
"Heoos! Why are you hiding?!"
'Where…? Maybe… here?'
"What do you think? Here?" He whispered to his companion, pointing towards a mystery door. It opened into somewhere… where?
Even after years, this labyrinthine palace hid corners from him.
The pale phantom assented, its feathers rousing.
The door opened, soundlessly…. closing, after, just as silently.
He ran…
Tip, tap…
His feet against the checkered floor… and then, muffled against the eastern carpets, red, gold threaded…
'Soft…'
Going under fluttering curtains like gauze, the bright light from its maw.
The voice had disappeared, drowned into the palace's waters, buried behind its walls…
Even more doors… a bust or two…
'Where is this place?'
It looked to be some sort of… visiting area?
Comfortable chairs, divans, warmer woods instead of stone… more austere, less gold.
'Is it because of father?'
"Do you think this is where he greets guests…?"
The swan did not respond.
He sat in a wide canapé… dark wood with an off-white crème color for its upholstering.
The light had been left behind. This antechamber held darkness better, its curtains heavy, wine deep-red and closed.
Laying back, he gazed at the roof. Indeterminate decorations carving into it…
"Running away was fun… but now? Am I trapped?" Pouting, he wondered.
'Wait…'
There was something… a murmur he had not heard before.
'Is there someone near…?'
Now that he focused his sight… apart from scant sunlight, flowing from where he had come, more shone, tenuously, further ahead, in chorus with the muttering.
'It's two people.'
He sat up, walking, silently, towards the light, the murmurs.
A corridor, opening into light, the view of the gardens… pooling waters, the swan lake…
Looking down from a second story.
The voices growing, growing…
A door, barely closed.
He arrived by its side, silent, hearing all. Looking into a warm study, lightly baked in sunlight.
"What are your thoughts? Is it not a scare… as, what was it? Five years ago…?"
"Who knows? Tensions have risen at Nilaleron, Boëplet, Chaudron… You've read the reports. All commissioners are weary. The governors have written extensively; they fear a war… It is strange… The loegrians have not presented demands, declarations… even a shadow of diplomacy… You would know better than me, but, did the Hiéron not confirm armed shipments coming into Corinia?"
"I've heard interesting reports..." Alphonse mumbled, breaking into a smile.
"As in...?" Roderin feared what the king's joy entailed.
"As in… It being a cover, most likely."
"A cover?"
"For growing discontent in the colonies…"
"That is… redundant, really. Loegria's arian colonies are notoriously temperamental…"
"Yes." He shook his head, pleased. "I mean armed discontent, however…"
The minister's eyes widened. A thumb to his lips as he pondered, with such intensity one would swear: his thoughts, clashing and coursing, rattled, flowing outward in sound…
"It does not merit this much consideration, Roderin…"
"How can yo—"
Alphonse's hand rose, silencing his friend. Confused, Roderin wished to protest…
He held his words as Alphonse turned, inching slightly toward the study door.
The king's eyes cut to a misty pale-blue iris, scales of jade, like water lilies, floating on its surface, looking in, curiously.
"Heos."
The dark wood door creaked open.
"Father, uncle… Why did you stop?"
Roderin sounded troubled, although somehow resigned, as he spoke.
"Heos, it is bad manners to… listen in on private conversations… especially if they go on behind a closed door, in a private study…"
"But the door was open?"
Before his sigh could usher in more of a lecture, Alphonse stepped in.
"Where you curious?"
"Hm… a little bit… but it was about war or something? That's kind of boring… I was going to leave anyway."
Alphonse smiled.
"Why is that?"
"What?"
"Why do you think war is boring?"
Heos lifted a finger to his lips, imitating Roderin perhaps?
"It is people fighting…? Is it like fighting, or shouting, but many people?" He remembered his brothers bickering. "That sounds annoying, rather… boring." He concluded, deadpan. "Silence is better."
"Hmh, is that so?" The king went forward, leveling an intense stare into the prince's eyes. "But, what would you know? Have you seen war?"
Roderin balanced a confused look between the father-son pair, both engaging equally in this strange interaction. His head shook.
A stranger would think the king mad, questioning a six-year-old on warfare, and the prince strange and uncanny, talking in a manner, unseemly, for a child. The minister, knowing the temperament of both, his friend, and his custodia, let the vexing exchange flow past, right through him.
"Yes… you are right… Then, you must know, father. Is war noisy and like fighting?"
"Noisy? More thunderous than all you have heard. It is the death rattle of seas of men, crying out, together, in pain. As the lowest hell erupting on earth."
"Then I think I would not like it."
Both looked at each other, unflinching. Complete serenity in Heos' eyes… and strange joy in the king's gaze.
"Do not be lazy, Heos. Spending a mere thought or two, a word or two, will not suffice to find out your own ends, your fates."
The prince inclined his head as a spectant owl, questioning his father's words without a sound.
"It is not that you know whether you prefer war or not… whether you find interest in it or not. Rather, you care not about finding out. Do not allow mere complacency to stifle away who you are, your nature. It would be a sin to do so." He paced his words, and looked away, behind his son, at the gardens, brilliant, seen from above. "There will be much to dislike once you leave this palace. You will need not deliberate upon it, with words or thoughts. You will simply know. Then, only then, do avoid it, crush it or indulge in it as you please… or discard it away with a wave of your hand."
The prince's eyes remained steely. Unmoving as his father returned his gaze to them.
They closed.
The child nodded, answering, almost obediently.
"I will do so father."
The king, however, simply grinned.
"Or not. Do as you please."
Roderin, seeing an opportunity to interject, spoke up, an important event in his mind.
"Alphonse, will you inform Heos on today's proceedings?"
"Oh, yes!" He clicked his tongue, remembering. "There will be some rather bothersome formalities today. A political game to determine one of your educators. As for the others… I've had a hand in choosing them. Your uncle will be one, and has graciously used his connections at Vanus to secure for you… quality magisters."
"Really uncle?"
Heos had pestered his parents for tutors, for knowledge… though strangely ignored the palace library; a pity, as it put even Vanus' archives to shame.
"Yes. I shall be your instructor for History and Continental Theatrum."
"Thank you, uncle."
Roderin smiled, sensing a drop of rare normalcy from the prince.
"It is a pleasure. Seldom does anyone get to teach such a brilliant pupil. Though I do warn you, I will, one way or the other, build in you a taste for literature. Books are paramount in knowledge." He chuckled.
"I do not dislike books… I simply have no interest in them." He eyed his father.
The king ignored the prince's gaze.
"Father, uncle… what will be decided today, exactly?"
"Either your educator in Philosophy, Theology and Hyperiae, or, in Mysteries."
Heos flashed a blank look, not really comprehending the words.
Alphonse just waved it away.
"Do not stray too far from the main palace. I'll have a servant call for you when it is time." A light of recognition shone in his eyes. "Yes… How did you end up here…? where you just exploring the palace?"
"I was running away from Annika."
The king laughed.
"Well, go on then. Your uncle and I must still discuss… and then entertain some guests." Loathing in his tone. He sounded less than pleased at the latter thought.
"Ok…"
The prince turned around, indifferent, walking out of the study. A tenuous creak was silenced by the door's thud as it shut.
'I suppose I could search for something…'
Not caring to spend a second more around the corridor, he asked.
"Do you remember where the library is?"
The swan uncoiled, and as a pale ivory hand, and extended itself in a certain direction.
The prince stepped.
Down stairs of reddish ebony… a tea room exposed to the sun. Past a hall lined with swords and busts, and a ceiling gaping into darkness…
'Here?'
He looked around, lost.
At some point he had gone up a flight, again.
Climbing onto a balcony…
Out… water made to glimmer as pale platinum under the sun. Waterfowls cutting its silver surface; birds he did not recognize.
They had never spoken, always silent, empty of conscience. They merely glided, and ran from him, sometimes.
'The sun feels nice…'
Servants tending the gardens. Spring, spring… he felt the desire to leap off.
If just for a moment his feet left the balcony stone… perhaps he would glide, course through the light like Swan…
If his hands were to spill into the empty air, and shape it like clay…
However, as his arms rose to touch the emptiness ahead, draped in gilded light, they fell, finding nothing to hinge their weight upon.
He had dreamt of flying, recently, of floating, in some arms… almost a memory.
'It is sad that dreams do not last…'
"Are you magic, Swan?"
The phantasm fluttered, snaked around him in an expressive manner. It almost felt as if it wished to speak, but could not, and felt tanging guilt at the fact.
He had tried giving the swan a quill, once, to hold in its beak, to write, but it passed through him and fell on the ground.
He had told him to signal to letters on a page, to construct a phrase, but it seemed unable to… some sadness evident in its strange, swan eyes.
After its guilt, Swan simply posed itself in front of the prince's eyes, and assented.
As if to say 'Yes, I am magic, I am.'
'You are…'
This question was a prevalent motif between the prince and the phantasm.
'Strange…'
No one else could talk to the swans… or see his companion or even notice the forest by the black, inky lake.
Which is why he, now, finally curious enough to visit the library, wished to look for something.
"I've asked mother to visit the land of fey… I wanted to see the fairies…" He walked, muttering, talking to his friend.
"Do you really think they exist, Swan?"
This time, it did not assent nor deny. It floated about, silent.
The prince hummed.
A grand room, florid, gold. A couple of statues set up by its sides, in armor, and spears, and helmets with combs like roosters.
A pair of open doors, bronze? into a six-floor high library. Its walls covered with imposing shelves, stacked up to the ceilings, filled with so many tomes the eye could not keep count.
He entered.
Staircases at both sides, with walkways above, and tables, maps strewn about, globes, detailing the corners of the known world. Armors, heirlooms and paintings of learned scenes and ancient symposiums caught in time by an artist's skilled hand, decorated the base floor. Large, high windows, which pierced the stories, were half-covered, dressed by ornate drapery in the colors of the Hellian, with thin silver accents, in floral embroidery.
On the ceiling, scenes of war, godly, bloodless, almost divine; chariots pulled by unknown beasts and ridden by near-naked forms, contorted in beautiful action; and heraldry drawn around its edges, held by armored figures, or pale maidens undressed. Gold, of course, flowing into the scenes, like sunlit vines.
Dead in its middle… a device of some sort, cast out of brass, symbols equidistant across its circumference. Rings suspended around, needles placed in strange symmetry, unmoving, still.
No fire, of course… the library was illuminated, perfectly, with only sunlight, somehow.
Sat by a table, a young man read a tome, engrossed, pulling his dark-auburn locks out of sight.
Laid back, his legs crossed, he seemed lost in what he read. A pile of aged books resting by his side.
He stirred, and for a moment, lost concentration, as he looked at Heos entering; the young boy's head craned back, admiring the library… beauty adorning every corner.
"Heos."
The child snapped back to awareness.
"Brother."
The first-born prince put the book down, his heroic visage glowing into a smile.
"It is strange to see you here… who convinced you to visit the library?"
"No one. Father lectured me but… I was curious about something."
"Really, what is it? Perhaps I can help you. Searching for a single book here is…" He looked around. "Or were you just interested in the library?"
Heos walked closer to his brother. "I heard doctor Pinel say that sick people see things others don't… is there a book about that?"
"A book about hallucinations…" His expression creased as he thought, somewhat unnerved by his brother's choice of literature. "Are you curious about delirium…?"
"About what?"
The prince did not respond immediately.
"The state in which people see things that are not there… Sick people do not see things others cannot, they simply see things that aren't there."
"Hm…" Heos hummed, deadpan.
"Are you seeing things, Heos?" Children claiming to see things, playing with imagination… it was all common, however… this strange, brilliant brother of his… he could not figure out his thoughts, or his feelings, hidden behind the mist of those inexpressive pale-blue misty eyes, as if they spilled out and devoured him whole. Being blind as to his brother's moods, the first-born could not but worry, if only slightly, at possible hallucinations… madness… what if?
"No." The child answered, neither confused nor assured; as if the question were nothing, really.
"I see… Why are you curious?"
Perhaps he would press his father, tell him to keep eyes on Heos, and have Pinel look him over… It was outstanding, the absolute indifference the king showed for the youngest prince; allowing him to roam around, undisturbed, like an animal… for his other brothers and sisters the king, at least, attempted to put on a mask of care, but for this one… he was completely unconcerned… what else could it be, but indifference?
"It is interesting."
"Well… there must be something about it here… we may take a while." He tapped his foot, thinking… medical tomes were usually housed on the third floor. "Come." He smiled.
Up some stairs, he looked around. So many things to see… it was all rather disorganized. Some curled up parchment rested in a sort-of-honeycomb at the bottom of certain bookshelves.
"Brother, what is that?" He pointed.
"Old parchments, yet to be transcribed. So, they are kept here."
"How old?"
"Very old… 800 years old, perhaps? Most of them are in strange cryptograms… as in, they cannot be understood. And, for some reason, they do not decay as normal… they were most probably treated with a, now lost, preserving solution… Quite tragic. They must contain important information, especially if someone once wished, or ensured, they would survive all this time…" His head shook "Or maybe there is nothing of worth inside… who knows?"
Heos looked up as he walked, almost tripping.
The brass contraption lodged into the roof, like an immense shield.
"What is that, brother?" He pointed at the artifact.
"That is the Ether of Man, or the Tellurian Astrolabe, if you wish." He stopped. Looking for a moment at the contraption, then proceeded. "Although an astrolabe is an instrument… one specifically designed for location among the stars, this is… a work of art, or at least that is the intention with which it was built." Dark blue eyes stared, intently, at the apparatus. "Normally, the object one wishes to see, in relation to the stars, must be centered, then read according to the markings, which one must adjust with season and time of day in mind. This one, however, is stilled, and cannot be moved, placed in the zenith of day, at the summer solstice. The object in its midst would be all the knowledge in this library, the man in it, reading… as if to say: there is no other center for things than man. Or something of the sort… I do not comprehend it clearly."
Although he understood most words, the idea itself, behind the monologue, and the "piece of art" remained hazy… he still did not understand what it was… and it seemed his older brother also did not. So, Heos simply assented and kept walking behind. A new question blooming in his mind.
He touched, for a moment, the cloth of the drapery.
'Soft.'
"Brother…"
"Yes, Heos?" Even pelted by questions, the oldest prince did not sound perturbed, instead… jolly, he seemed to like answering his youngest brother's unending queries.
"Do you know what will happen later today?" He crouched for a moment, looking under a desk, then rose rapidly, and followed the young man.
"What do you mean?" He thought, as a second went by, and then, remembered something. "Oh, you mean the symposium… to decide your teacher?"
"I think? Father called it a game…"
The first-born prince chuckled.
"Yes, he meant the symposium… what did you want to know?"
"What is it…?"
Heos watched as his brother hummed, clearly thinking as to what to say.
"What do you know of God, Heos?"
"God… isn't it "gods" or…" He starched his chin, in thought.
"What is being decided, is from whom, and so in what manner, you will learn about God, or, the gods."
God, gods… what was it all? He had heard his mother exclaim, "Gods!" but, what was it…? It had to be something important, a voice, or a murmur, told him to remember… but what? Once again, as if it were a dream, far, far away…
"Why do they have to decide?"
They climbed more stairs. The sound of steps against the marble, slightly echoing along the library. The walls, carved, in sharp arches.
"This is a… special case, Heos. Marriages between verdanaiese and romansean royalty are not uncommon, and, traditionally, the child learns in the manner of paternal line… this would be, for us the Wölfli-Loggia, from the Hierophants, from the doctrines of Aamártus… the verdanaiese, however, learn from Druides or Gothar… Strangely, your grandfather, the High King of Verdanaie, asked for you to learn as they do —the Austaufangr-Céline. Your mother agreed and presented the idea to our father… who, not being the most pious, cares little about the matter, and so complied. The Hierophants, of course, are not pleased… and so a symposium was called, to… discuss. Aamártus has sent its representative, set to arrive today… As for the verdanaiese… perhaps they've sent a Druwid, Gothi or Gythja of status, or petitioned the Foedus Sacrum Mystarum… all we know… or, well, all I know, is that they will arrive today."
He stopped, having left the stairs for some time. His mouth somewhat dry from the cavalcade of information. Turning to look at Heos, he saw his little brother, still, his eyes closed as he thought, surely attempting to piece together all the information, the strange, unwieldy words.
'I went on a rant… perhaps I could have explained it clearer…'
Walking up to Heos, he tousled the boy's hair, aiming to catch his attention.
"It is rather confusing, even for me… do not worry much about it, it is just politics… which is why father called it a game…"
His voice turned softer, as he went on his knee.
"I'll be there, in your camp. I shouldn't remind you to speak up, since I know you… I'm your brother, however…" He sighed a smile into his lips. "So, I will, anyway…" His voice turned emphatic. "Do not let them decide in your stead. You are royalty, Heos. Others bow to you, but you to none, be they Hierophants or Priests… do not let them bind your will."
Heos nodded, his eyes half open and serene. And although he remained silent, the oldest prince liked to think his little brother would thereon hold the words in his heart.
Rising, he stood, a hand on his chin. "Now… this should be the bookshelf…"
The large wooden body extended up, into the roof, much taller than a man.
"How about… I check the upper shelves, with the ladder, and you the lower ones, Heos?"
The youngest prince watched the rows of tomes, stacking up, higher and higher.
He muttered.
"I don't think so… it is…" He slowly extended his arm, pointing to a corner on one of the mid-height rows. "There…"
"There…?" His older brother did not understand. "I should search there?"
"Yes." To Heos it seemed an obvious thing.
Although confused, he reached for a tome on the corner his brother had mentioned, pulling out a grey-covered book, not too old, by the look of its pale pages.
"Let's see… I don't think this will be too efficient Heos, we sh—" His words cut out as he read the title page.
'Méthode Scientifique d'Analyse Nosographique, written by Jeron Guillaume Pinel.'
"Hm… this is…?" He looked through the chapters, passing the pages rapidly, his eyes moving, focused, left to right. "Pinel's book… Had you searched for it before…?"
"No." The child answered, impassive.
The older prince balanced his sight, oscillating, measuredly, between the tome and his brother. Disbelieving, he asked.
"So, then, how did you know…?" He shut the covers with one hand, a light thud pleasantly echoing out.
Close eyed; Heos raised a finger to his lips.
"I just knew…?"
The oldest prince stared incredulously.
'Well, as brilliant as he is, Heos is still a child. I should expect "pranks" like this, once or twice.'
"Very well… then, do you want to look for more tomes?" The first born asked, handing the medical text to the youngest prince.
"No… just this one." He took the book and held it under his arm, "Thank you brother."
Heos turned and left, impatiently, almost stubbing his bare foot on a table as he passed. His steps, against the solid stairs, became dimmer and dimmer, until he could barely hear him trot. He could, however, see the small figure as it snaked down the steps, and exited the library, crossing the open bronze doors.
His older brother stood there, watching, silently.
He sighed.
'Should I get back to reading…?'
As if tingling his scalp, he felt the "Ether of Man" above him, making him raise his sight.
'Man as center…'
He leaned on the balustrade, thinking.
'I wonder what God thinks of men…'
The astrolabe sat, unmoving, frozen…
'It is good that man need not explain himself to God…'
He looked down.
Truly, there was comfort in the thought.
One could find God anywhere, especially here, in the gentle warmth of the spring light.