The door was opened by an invisible force, near-silently creaking as if a wind had pushed it out of its lock.
As soon as the aperture had widened enough for only the daintiest of figures to pass, did it close again, unprompted… perhaps it had been given life?
No eyes, however, lay posed over it or looked in its vicinity, so as to see this most confusing phenomenon.
So, as all were concerned, the youngest prince rested still in his chamber, recovering from a light fever, under the orders of his Majesty and doctor Pinel.
Nonetheless, an unseen figure trotted impatiently, across the palace passages and corridors. Its invisible form betrayed only by the slight movement of the carpets under its feet, and the swirling and dancing of dust, revealed by the sun.
That was, until —causing no sound but that of the crash—, one of its limbs struck, by accident, the edges of a beautifully adorned gueridon —its base, a tripod housing a naked figure, imposing and rugged, as it held the vase overhead—, causing it to grind against the floor…
The vase, an enameled heirloom — the gueridon's crown— , in a pale jade with flowing gashes of white, tumbled, spinning as a coin and falling onto the ground, with it a loud crash.
Its contents, water and a bouquet of eastern roses and daylilies, sprawled and spilled unto the floor… a pale rose, glaucous green and copperish-yellow scene of brutality, soon alerting a maid, who worriedly stumbled toward the mess, a grave countenance spoiling her beauty.
The figure cared not much, as it cursed in its mind.
'Ow…! Ah…' The pain was little in comparison to the sacrifcium he had paid, so no longer did he hold his bruised foot, and exclaim in his inner voice, was the hurt placed in the back of his worries.
He stopped for only a moment to gaze at the colors, the beautiful scene, lamenting lightly…
He continued forward, towards the gardens.
It was then, however, that, running down the corridor he attempted to use as his escape, another maid appeared, following behind the crashing sound, surely.
He had to flatten himself, against the wall and to the side, to not unceremoniously crash against this other servant.
She passed him by, unaware, focused only on the broken vase, the flowers and spilt waters.
Heos, then, continued ahead, still raising his foot now and then.
*
He had dispelled the veil. No longer needing to hide from servants and maids. Or his sister or mother… or the king.
The dark summer earth was bothersome to walk on top of, so, he jumped from stone to stone, albeit a bit painfully, as their jagged surface bit into him.
No matter, he followed ahead, accosted by the sounds of insects who flew past, able now to detect his presence.
He only stopped at the occasional butterfly, whom he momentarily watched flutter clumsily, until it left his sight, or disappeared.
Catching sight of a pale yellow one, with opaque wings like gold-frosted glass, he remembered the sage…
The sycamore tree line ended, and the view opened up to the all too familiar swan lake, where he spent most of his time.
The swan's figures glided silently… they were called mute swans for a reason, after all…
'Was that why Swan did not speak…?' Only now did the thought appear to him. It was normal for a swan not to talk… or at least that is what he presumed people thought. A talking animal was a scene reserved only for mages… certain mages. As far as he was aware the old sage could not communicate with animals.
He pranced near to the lake's edge —now enveloped by the sunless forest and pale bronze-green pilar-trees; yellowed straw-grass and fungi underfoot— where two swans received him, one figure trailed by a handful of cygnets.
"Mr., Ms. Swan, Hello." He greeted them, smiling.
"Lad… It is good to see you, we were worried."
Ms. Swan inched closer, as if to hide the words from her beloved.
"He was worried… I never doubted you would be fine dear." Her motherly voice in sing-song.
"Of course I was worried!" Mr. Swan wished to sigh, unable to. "He had not come here these last days… since he left for that… forest." The bird chided.
"My love, I had told you, he would be fine…" Smug airs wafted off of her feathers, evident in the shape of her curving neck.
"Sorry, I was busy." Even when apologizing, his expression rested in a pleasant smile.
"Worry not, lad…" His voice dispelled the worry. "Have you come to rest?"
"No, I am going back into the forest."
"Ah yes we—" The words fizzled out.
Ms. Swan enjoyed her beloved's stupefaction.
"W-what? Lad, has it not been too little time?" What had the child found, beyond that unseen edge, that called him forth so?
"Someone tried to kill me." The prince delivered his words, as always, in such a sun-lit, cold tone.
"Whu-?"
Now, even Ms. Swan showed worry. Her feathers fluttering unnerved.
"Dear… what do you mean?" She hoped it to be some childish misunderstanding.
"When I entered the forest, I walked around for some time… talked to Mr. Owl, and then arrived at the city. There, in an alley, a man tried to kill me."
'Mr. Owl?' Mr. Swan wondered. 'No, no… the matter here is…'
"Lad, what… what… are you unhurt? How did you get away?"
"Swan killed him." He pointed to the impassive phantasm. He did not mention the other man, who had protected him, perhaps that "hero" had slipped from his mind.
"Oh…"
Ms. Swan showed relief.
"I am a wizard's apprentice now… The wizard told me, people want to kill me. Even before I was born, many people tried to kill my mother, with me in her belly. And, I remember… some other man, coming at me with a knife…" He shrugged.
Both swans could barely process the child's words.
Magic? Wizard? Apprentice? Kill him? What reason could multiple people have to hold the wish to kill him?
"Lad…" He was a prince, correct? Why not ask for the king's help?
"I'm going to the city. My father doesn't know why… but the old man told me that there I would find why…" He looked giddy, curious, the fear of death an unknown to his prospects. His words a song, as if he had heard Mr. Swan's thoughts.
"Dear, if you are under threat, why not stay in the palace? If this is true, then you are at risk… outside"
"I'm curious… and I have Swan." He petted the phantasm, fingers burying into grand-white feathers. "Well, I'm going." He began his march into the forest.
"Wait, Heos." Mr. Swan spoke up. "You may have been saved by this big fellow, and perhaps you have no fear, yet… what if you were hurt? What if you died?" The words felt hefty, cursed. "Perhaps you cannot even fathom the prospect… us, however…" His watery, black eyes dripped some… foreign feeling, something he had seen, sometime, before, hidden in the membraned layers of artificial dreams… simmering, in much the same manner, across the surface of his mother's gaze. "We would grieve if you were to die, lad. Please…"
Ms. Swan, needing not to speak a single word, echoed this feeling… something in her disposition more eloquent, even, than the words.
A string was plucked in the prince's heart, as he looked back at the two swans. This tremolo, however, soon drowned. It was all but an alien feeling, some strange bubbling in his chest, dissipating under the weight of curiosity, and magic.
He smiled, brightly, as if possessed by the spirit of the summer itself.
"Don't worry. I will be fine."
A hand waved as he turned back, to the forest.
Soon devoured by the threshold, of some terrible, magical space.
*
"Mr. Owl!" He called out, his voice lost along the darkened borders of the forest. "Mr. Ooooowl!"
Was this how his sister felt?
Even if humorous, the thought did not flower a smile.
"Mr. Owl!"
He ceased his step, as, ahead, a jutting root had almost caused him to suffer another fall, attempting to snag his bruised foot, its shape reminding him of the old sage's playful smile.
Even then, he did not consider wearing footwear of any kind.
He stared at the root, accusingly, as he walked over it.
Looking to rest for a moment, he sat atop a grey-mottled stone, cracked in such a way that its surface cleaved plain, with no rugged pieces.
The moss that had climbed onto a side of its top-most face; serving as a cushion, cool and springy.
Heos looked ahead, around… It seemed his echoing voice had not reached the little owl. And the darkening frontiers, now framed by pale-sepia, solemn trees, did not herald the appearance of any form or visitor, nor the possible existence of something other than forest beyond its darkness… forest, and moss, detritus, stone and roots…
"Child." A before-heard voice, with its accompanying immense, strange depth. Pleasant even if stern.
Heos spun around, over the stone where he sat.
"Mr. Owl!" His jolly tone a greeting to the familiar bird, sat atop a gnarled branch.
"What is it you need of me…?" His yellow irises, like kerria petals cut out into brilliant disks, and pressed with citrine dust, were pushed back by the growing void of his pupils, as he examined the child. "You look to… be a little less of a neophyte now."
The prince wondered about Mr. Owl's meaning, the word neophyte offering little as a clue. He supposed it, perhaps, had to do with his recent delve into magic.
"You mean the shimmer…?" Mr. Owl had used a shimmer, which evaded his own eyes, to classify him a mage, even if, then, a blot of ink-black darkness was all he could profess as knowledge of magic.
"Yes."
"Hm…" He simply hummed. A finger to his lips. "Oh… Can I ask you something? Two things." His hand rose, with two fingers outstretched from a closed fist.
"I do not see why I could not answer you… you, however, do little more than disdain my answers…" His beak clanging. "Blind fools, mages…"
Heos was not hurt by Mr. Owl's scorn. The bird's answers were, after all, so strange that it would not weigh much on anyone's mind —who heard him— to call him an idiot. Still, perhaps he would be surprised, as he was before, when, once, the owl had actually answered his question dutifully, with keen insight to boot… only to follow with a riddle and then, silence.
"First… can you lead me out of this forest, again?" He used magic to justify it, in his mind, for, even having once before traversed this forest, nothing —outside of the black-glass lake—remained as he remembered.
"What If I had not answered, would you have wandered here, lost, until you died or disappeared."
'Disappear…?'
Heos did not answer, gazing, unflinching, at the owl.
"And…?"
"People want to kill me, why?"
A song fell from Mr. Owl's beak, a sharp mocking meow.
"Ha! What would I know of human scuffles and the like?" He screeched, again. "Animals fight over territory, prey, mating and their young. Have you killed anybody's spawn, child?" The owl preened, digging into his tawny feathers.
"No…" A shake of his head to accompany his plunge into thought. 'Have I…?' He seriously considered.
Mr. Owl's look, as he stared at the young prince, went alight with only the faintest drop of pity, causing him to speak, once again.
"Now… if these "people" are mages… well…" His pupils focused. "Mages kill out of sport, I would say… One would think it brings them pleasure, the way they butcher their own kind. So, perhaps you simply are unlucky, child." The pity in his gaze grew. "They find the most strange and contrived ways to torment themselves and others… their joy grows only in accordance and magnitude with the suffering they inflict…"
That didn't really sound like the old sage… he was the only mage he knew, however…
But, if they were mages, would he not be dead already…?
Although…
A suspicion was born, nestling quietly in his mind.
He held his chin, his eyes closed. And then, with a hop, he stood up, a smile clear on his pale-rose lips.
"Let's go, Mr. Owl."
The bird preened again, and, between branches, took flight.
Heos exclaimed, as his foot snagged on a root, bruising further.
Ignoring the pain, he kept ahead, following behind.
*
"Once you take a single step forward, here, you will leave."
"Hm…" As he looked, seeing nothing but endless black, with the shape of a forest vanishing along its border, Heos couldn't but ask… "Mr. Owl, do you wish to follow along?"
"No."
"Oh…" The prince's expression only momentarily changed.
"Now, go."
"Goodbye Mr. Owl."
"Goodbye, child."
A step forward, into light.
The sound, and the radiating sunlight confirmed. He was back.
The alleyway had not changed much. Only now housing more debris, and some rotten-wood planks.
Soon, he was clad in his veil. Even the eyes of mages would not notice his being… he hoped.
The shadowed cobbled ground felt cold, and, somehow, melancholic. Washed by the tears of the vagrants who huddled above it, when night came to claim them.
The scent of human mass, always repugnant, clinging to the tattered and patched rags the walkers wore.
The summer sun did not alight their leaden looks, nor color golden their grime-packed complexions. It descended onto their backs, like an immaterial weight, its radiance mocking their sorrows.
Having seen it once before, the sight had grown boring to Heos.
"Swan… where should we go?"
Instead of pointing with its beak, the phantasm cut a gash on the cobble below, then stilled, growing immaterial, translucid, opaque, once again. This was its answer.
"Huh…" Heos sharpened his brows. "Oh… where you killed him?"
The swan assented.
Perhaps something might be gleaned from the headless corpse.
Before, however, Heos realized something. He had not yet asked Swan if he knew why people wanted to kill him… had the thought not crossed his mind?
"Swan… do you know why?"
The animal, regretful, shook his neck, its feathers fluttering like ears of wheat, sharpened and alabaster white.
"Hm…" Perhaps only the old sage knew, and found some wicked pleasure in making him find out, by his own lacking means.
He crossed onto the street, remembering in his mind where that other man had led him.
'It should be…'
He placidly walked the road, gazing here and there to one thing or the other, mostly wretched sights… as he swerved and needled himself though the passersby, to not crash into them, although now, it would not matter if he did.
A man caught his sight… a giant something-or-other strapped to his back, as he held cups —if one could call them so, for they were wooden and old. Perhaps mugs fit more?— which he would fill with a curving pipe, extending from the body of the artifice he carried.
Those who received the cups would then promptly empty them into their mouths, greedily —to then return them, not before handing the hunched and wizened man some dull colored pieces… ecú, he supposed, was what they exchanged.
The drink looked to be popular, for he had little time to spare, as he walked the road —Heos along side him— exclaiming, caring not for the noise he made.
"Wine! Wine! Good wine! Wine!" If he screamed, was it because he thought that, with enough wine poured, some force would save him from his evident suffering? It was grating on the ears.
'Wine…' He thought. So that is what he sold.
He had seen and heard of wine before. His older brother and his father, the king's two other wives, his uncle, his mother, others… would drink the draught, savoring it all the while.
Never had he cared much, nor inquired why it was the servants only poured it into their cups, not his.
Curiosity winning him over, he waited for the man to rest. It was clearly tiring to haul such a… vase? on his back.
It was shortly after that the man sat by the road's flow. The large metal object he carried left on the worn stone where he rested, beside his hunched back.
Heos moved closer, and, as the wineman dried his sweat with a rag, he took ahold of the curving pipe, pressing a valve at its end —which he had seen the man press before, he surmised, to allow the wine to flow— letting loose the stream of deep colored liquor —tinted, as if soaked in the blood of pomegranates— as it spilt into his mouth.
Immediately, a burning ache seeped into the grain of his tongue, accompanied with a vague depth… the scent of ripe fruit-flesh made taste; it was ignited, burnt up, by that violent watered fire the drink held.
He coughed, letting the funnel fall, wine flowing onto the ground, as the man noticed, alarmed, taking back the pipe and closing it, cursing all the while. His old, sun-marred face scrunched in anger.
He searched for some offender, and finding none, simply kicked the ground, cursing a number of vulgar words, again, hoping the cause of his spilt wine would suffer by order of his wishes, his mind.
Heos straightened his back; his tongue freed from the burning —having it remind him of the sacrificium. The pain of that moment resembling the signals of his fauces entering into contact with the wine, yet worse, as if tasting live fire with all the matter of his body— now contemplating the aftertaste of the draught…
Even if it burned, and all pleasantness was jailed in a prison of fire, he, somehow, inexplicably to his own mind… had enjoyed the wine.
Wishing to taste more, if only by means of his curiosity —triumphant over his sense of pain— he watched the wineman… he would not soon let go of the funnel.
'Oh well.'
He would wait for his return —or perhaps he would find a chance in the city?— to once again sip the draught. As an animal once again attempting to cradle a flame in his hand, so as to apprehend the dancing yellow-flicker's beauty.
The lingering taste was almost pleasant. And its fire had somehow flowed into his body, even in just a quarter of a mouthful, bringing with its march a tingling warmth. How curious…
He cleaned his lips, as he looked down, his gown splattered in a plum and garnet blemish, a crevice, a blot of reddish, purpure tones changing skin as they dried.
'Pretty…'
The wine could wait, for now. His other focus of curiosity livened, as he continued on the path to find the alley and corpse… the body holding the answers? He wondered.
*
After some turns and some more distractions. Like a vendor selling sole golden strips of fried something —by the smell he suspected a mix of tubers of some sort—, another man with a metal jar tied to his back, but now serving coffee —which he knew and had tasted, as his uncle Roderin often enjoyed the drink—, some men clustered around another two, as they threw pieces and dice across from one another, lunging ecú onto the clearing among them when something —what he assumed was the appearance of a certain number corresponding with the pieces— happened, to the cheers or curses of the crowded others.
Breaking away from these distractions, he arrived at the alley, to find its entrance, —deserted as he remembered— guarded by men in uniforms of gray, white under, red adornments and black boots, with muskets at their shoulders, looking stern, even if they found themselves bored to death.
People crowded outside the entrance, held back by the lead-uniformed men, who ordered them to disperse.
Heos passed through the crowd. Some looked down to find what had brushed or pushed their legs, only to find an empty nothing, soon crowded again.
He sneaked past the uniformed men, unseen, and crossed into the alley. Its atmosphere —heavy in stone-dust and stale—, was as he remembered.
Yet…
Soon, warned by a growing stench, putrid as he had never known, the place where he had been found by his attempted murderer grew into his sight.
The uniformed men surrounded something —keeping a certain distance—… a mass, a pool of rust darkened peeling scales marking the jagged ground of the alley.
The perfume of black bile and carrion, of growing gas and black-blue livid flesh, rotting, grew to its zenith, making the air solid with its spongy warmth.
The uniformed men covered their noses, some heaved, away, not daring to grow close.
A form of solid shadow, darkened, hidden by the shade, and the black flakes of rot as the centerpiece, the eye of a poppy, the dried rust-blood its withered petals.
A volcanic, obsidian and stone island, crowned in cooling magma.
Even if he had never been accosted by it before, a single word crawled from the putrid flesh-scent, and onto his thoughts.
'Death.'
A sordid watercolor.