章 123: Author Note 4
Hi friends!
I apologize for the absence. Eriki, my sweet rat, passed away two days ago and I had a difficult time focusing on the editing process.
Beginning tomorrow, the next chapter will be released, and I've already begun the celebratory special (which is now a two-part special because of all your patience with me), which will be released sometime this week.
I do, however, want to offer you a sneak peak of the two stories I've been playing with and pondering while considering what to do after Hallowed Be's conclusion. Don't worry, at this moment, we are far from finished with Heiko and Cele's journey - many twists and turns to be taken - but you've all been so wonderful for sticking with me and I'd like to offer you guys some fantasy-fiction to quench your thirst. Hit me up in the comments on your thoughts so I know where to put my focus for the purpose of planning!
Again, thank you for your patience and, everyone, give BoingNoises some love - I wouldn't have motivated to do this had I not read their kind comment of concern. #loveyaboing
Secret Story #1 Snippet:
Nothing felt more free than running as fast as your legs could take you, through fields of wheat and tall grass. Nothing but the sun blazing above you and the wind against your cheeks. In the days I could still do that, I felt as though nothing could offend me, nothing could upset me. In those days I had enough food for my belly, enough stories from my mentor and guardian to fill my imagination, enough games with Therocritus that I would never be bored, never without laughter. In those days, I had Therocritus.
“The gods aren’t pleased.” Coming from my tongue, the sentiment would go for miles. I looked over the beaches. Behind me was the city, conquered by my king’s men, spear-pointed by my military might. Bodies were strewn behind me too, of the conquered men. It was a final, last-ditch effort to surmount our forces and end our siege. But they couldn’t do either. We were far superior a force. While it boosted the morale of the men who now sat, exhausted in the camps, eating a well-earned dinner, it wasn’t worth any real glory. This wasn’t the heart of the land. This was a city, fortified only because the sea to its west brought about raiders. It possessed no elite soldiers, no superior military. It had farmers who took up weapons and ill-fitted armor to try and defend their city. A part of me felt bad for them. Most of me didn’t. Such was the way of men.
“Why would you say that?” Captain Kleikos asked, ripping off the leg meat of a pigeon from where he squatted on the beach beside me.
“The wind is dropping,” I replied. “We could not sail home even if we tried.”
“We weren’t planning on it,” Kleikos grunted.
I smirked.
“No, Kleikos, but say we wanted to. The gods would not allow it. They are displeased.”
“Displeased enough to make us conquer more?” He looked over at me.
I nodded.
“I am no oracle, but if I assume correctly, they don’t like that we killed a rabbit when we should’ve a lion.”
“The lion is miles inland. We need a base that is more than just a beach encampment,” Kleikos countered with a mouth full of meat. “A fortified city with suppliers around it would do fine as one, I’d think.”
I hummed my concurance.
“They’re displeased because we used our heads?” Kleikos laughed. He was always lighthearted when talking about the gods. Still, he was deceptive. He’d killed more than one wife in way of an offering.
“I’m no oracle, remember?” I reached down to grasp a handful of cool sand. “All I know is that they’re displeased.”
Kleikos grunted and tossed the now bare thigh bone into the water, lapping at us.
“And it’s not like there’s a virgin left amongst the spoils.”
I sighed.
“Always sacrifices with you, Kleikos. I'm starting to think you have a problem behind those crazed eyes."
His cackle did him no service, aside amusing me.
The real prize that we were after was Priatum. It was the gem of the east, and my king - and the few others he commanded, through various means – wanted it for his own. It had trade routes into the deep east. That meant spices, silks, fruits, and grains foreign to our land. It meant profit. Power.
“How should we appease them, then?” Kleikos asked after a moment.
The answer was easy.
“More slaughter."
He grunted again. He was in the older half of his younger years. He’d seen plenty of battles, plenty of wars. Slaughter was now in his blood, in the reflexes of his muscles. And he was good at it.
“I’m hungry still," he informed, standing suddenly. "I’m going to the marketplace. Come on. You could use a walk, no?”
“Telling me what I can use?” I teased, rising as well despite it.
“I know how you are. I’ve followed your horse for more than seventy battles,” Kleikos reminded, clapping me on the shoulder. “You can’t stand still for too long. Always walking, you. So, naturally, no matter the time, a walk is always overdue.”
I cocked a grin. “And for you, a quick-witted response.”
“Hm,” he mused mockingly as we began up the beach and towards the encampment’s erected marketplace. “Quick-wits, I suppose I can handle.”
“As if you had a choice.”
The closer we drew to the epicenter, the more soldiers began to catch sight of us, standing half-drunk, half-exhausted, raising cups and yelling my name in praise.
Their shouts too staggered for me to offer a proper response, and even if I could, it would be no more than a gesture and a few words. Kleikos, on the other hand, drank in my fame like a dying plant. He always did enjoy the pomp. His cunning mind may have belonged to that of a fox, but his thirst for glory and celebrity was one hundred percent man.
“Hopefully we don’t run into Hadro,” he murmured in my ear when he eventually had his fill.
It was my turn to provide a displeased grunt.
King Hadro was a lesser king. One that got hooked by the sentiments of my king’s eastern campaign. The only other was his brother, Lachomastus.
King Cleomen needed men. He was a powerful monarch, and demanded excellence from every one of his soldiers, but he ruled a small land. King Hadro had the men he needed. He didn’t have the brain to use them, so it was easy to wave some trade-promises in front of his face to get him to follow us across the Vagron Sea. Lachomastus was the lesser brother, though merely in age. He was sharp - comparable to Kleikos, even - and used that skill to win the heart of an island princess. Upon her father's death, he inherited not only the throne, but the numerous ships necessary to keep a tiny isle running - and to defend it. If we came to him alone with the offer, he would've declined without a proper proposal, but we were lucky. He was far too intelligent to let his short-fused elder brother run free on his own. Especially towards Priatum.
The two kings acted as their own generals, which put them in a precarious position on Cleomen’s counsel. As Cleomen’s general, I spoke freely to him, and often my advice would be the first and last taken. I was not once wrong. It made the two other kings seem lesser than me.
Of course, they were. I was god-born.
“Tomorrow we’ll move into the city,” Kleikos spoke. “Stay another week before moving further inward. I wonder… what will become of Hadro then?”
“What devious thing do you think will happen when we move into the city, Kleikos?” I smirked.
“Cleomen will give you the second-best bed chamber in the castle.” Kleikos said it was utmost certainty as we stopped at a cooking stand.
The soldier working the meat frying over the open fire turned to us and, upon seeing our uniforms, inhaled sharply.
“General Epiphanes.”
I was younger than him, but I smiled and nodded the way an older general would.
“Soldier.”
“Nerlaud, general,” he informed eagerly, preparing two more portions of meat for us.
“Nerlaud,” I repeated, giving him another slight smile.
“The spoils are to be split soon,” he said, his gaze skating between us and the meat. He was a soldier of Hadro, a blotch of red on his shoulder, the color of his king. And that’s how it had to be. Hadro had no elite company. All of his soldiers had tunics the color that their wives made them. Off white, the sun-bleached color of wool. A fist sized spot of thin paint, hastily pressed onto the right shoulder of tunics with a horsehair brush was all that differentiated them. Red for Hadro, though he didn’t deserve it, navy for Lachomastus, gold for Cleomen. Gold, Cleomen liked to tell anyone who would listen, let the spatter of blood show from miles away.
“Is there something there you’ve got your eyes on, Nerlaud?” Kleikos asked, leaning an elbow on the stand and looking out towards the north end of the marketplace. It was loud with drunken men.
“No, captain. I’m not deserving,” he dismissed hastily. “But that jet-haired farm girl. Blessed by the gods. I figured you would've set your gaze upon her. Or General Epiphanes.”
Kleikos snorted, and then quickly bit it back.
I shot him a look. It had been a joke of his, my dislike for flesh. At first, he thought it only for the flesh of women, but when – battles and battles ago – boys became spoils of our victories, he noted that I had no interest in them, either. Kleikos found this humorous, considering who my father was - from which god I was sired.
Kleikos cleared his throat to cover his unwelcomed outburst, pushing his elbow from the stand to straighten his posture.
“Our meal, Nerlaud?”
“Done, captain."
“Keep up the good work, soldier,” Kleikos replied, taking them and offering one to me before we left him. After some moments of silence, Kleikos inhaled, preparing to speak.
“You know...”
We were nearing the seized city, where torches were lit, and a thin clustering of men were already preparing for its occupation.
“It’s curious.”
I sighed.
“Does this have to do with my father, Kleikos? I still cannot explain to you why I’m alive.”
My father was a jealous god. He had a habit of killing his children, fearful that they would surpass him. And of children, he had many. He was always ravenous for women’s flesh.
“Yes.” Kleikos frowned. “My dear friend, I worry that you are alive.”
I couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity.
“You worry that I am alive because you’re fearful of my death.”
“Yes… I suppose…” Kleikos nodded, brow furrowed.
“You’re sharp. You think that Tybir knows of my future and is positive I will not surpass him," I replied to my friend. "That’s fine enough. I don’t pray for immortality amongst the stars.
“What do you pray for?” Kleikos asked.
I looked to the stars.
“I do not pray anymore.”
Secret Story #2 Snippet:
The disadvantages of living in the Mad Lands were more copious than the snow that infested the kingdom not quite year-round. The quarrying of the mines of the north depended on the generosity of the sun, which never seemed so generous. The number of livestock and crops expected to be consumed throughout the year had to be doubled, so as to account for the losses that would occur during the successive bouts of sub-freezing wind and storms. And, of course, the spirits – the wine imported from the south barely lasted through the snow season. No courier from the summer lands would dare trek north at the end of the snow season, no matter the offered payment. Even the simplest of minds at the farthest stretches of the continent knew what followed the snow season in the Mad Lands: the ice season. Even if their courage and greed trumped their fear, however, wine wouldn’t be enough to warm the body, not during the ice season. That’s why we winter lands had our own domestic spirits, utilizing wheat rather than the grapes of the south. Still, the supply was nearly as unstable as the promise of summer.
The cold, though, it was a blessing. It preserved bodies perfectly.
My stomach burst with warmth, my lungs swelling with laughter as I looked down at the body, eyes wide, hands sprawled over his neck, as if clutching for air. Beside him, on the wooden bedside table, his pewter cup was overturned.
How terrified he must’ve been, I mulled, the giddiness overpowering the control over my jaw, when he realized he was to die suffering. The sound I strained to repress escaped, filling the room with a vicious sound.
“Nikolai?”
I whirled at the sound of the priest’s voice, grinning like the mad man that lay, cold, in his bed.
“Vitale,” I giggled, power pulsing through my veins. “He’s dead Vitale. The king is dead.”
The priest stepped to the foot of the bed, regarding the body with practiced neutrality.
“Dead indeed.”
“The king is dead!” I shouted maniacally, drawing Vitale’s cautious gaze. “Send word to the four provincial houses, Vitale. My father is dead.”
*
I couldn’t have begged for a better funeral day. The wind was minimal, biting only here and again. The sun was cloaked with thick clouds, keeping the glare of the sun from the ice encroaching over the banks of snow. Best of all, the ice season began at nightfall.
“Preparations are complete, my lord,” Vitale informed, coming up beside me.
I looked to the massive pyre and to the body it was built around, dressed in his best furs.
“His sword is at his hip?” I asked.
Vitale nodded.
“And his spear?”
“At his side.”
“I expect you had no trouble slaying Akim.”
In his silence, I turned to the priest.
“Akim?” He questioned.
“The tiger.”
“I know who Akim is,” he countered with a hiss. “But you can’t honestly expect me to slay a tiger, my prince. I’m a priest, not a hunter.”
“I beg to differ,” I replied. “I have no use for a priest, Vitale. My father may have feigned faith in the god of the summer lands, but I am not so senseless. I know that your god has no place amongst the snow.”
The man frowned, his brow creasing.
“Thus, holy council is not a necessity for a sovereign of frost. Ability to slay a simple cat? A bit more obligatory, I’d say.”
“Simple cat, my arse,” Vitale muttered, turning from me and beginning back towards Castle Mechi.
I suppressed my amused chuckle. It would’ve been improper at such an occasion. The throngs of my people huddled before the funeral platform would question my sanity. The nobility seated atop the stage would question the nature of my father’s premature passing. Neither were acceptable. My inheritance of the throne could not be doubted.
“Your Majesty.”
I blinked, regaining reality at the sight of the duchess.
“Lady Svetu,” I greeted.
“My deepest sentiments.”
I nodded. “They do not go unnoticed.”
The woman hugged her cloak close to her as a breeze whistled past. She was a solid woman, tall like all inhabitants of the winter lands, and about the age of my mother, had my mother remained amongst us.
“But I dare say that Rodakrov couldn’t have been passed to better hands.”
I gave her the small smile she expected. “I only hope that I can live up to your prospects, Lady Svetu.”
“None amongst us have doubts,” she assured me.
“Amongst whom?” I enquired. “The patricians or the people they represent?”
“Amongst your people.” She answered wisely. Whether it was the truth was beyond her bother.
I turned from her, dissatisfied. A kingdom couldn’t be run on lies. They produced civil unrest - generated animosity towards the crown, fueling the notions of mutiny.
They made the monarch look foolish. Lies would not be tolerated.
“And the concerns?”
Lady Svetu creased her brow.
“Pardon me, sire?”
“What are the concerns of me ascending to the throne?” I spoke evenly, my gaze upon her. “Preferably the concerns of the other houses.”
She hesitated, shifting her feet.
“Lady Svetu, be blunt or prepare for the expropriation of Province Tomiti.”
“Your words,” the duchess stumbled, her face growing pale, defiant. “They’re quite sharp, sire.”
“I should hope so,” I responded. “A soft tongue is not proper for the king of the winter lands. They are, however, also preventable, Svetu, should you answer with honesty rather than placated statements of loyalty.”
“Ivon,” the noblewoman conceded, the security of her land much more concerning, as I had assumed, than the fidelity to her peers. “He speaks with questionable boldness against you. Your age, your upbringing – he wonders whether one amongst the provincial houses would not be better fit to wear the crown.”
“And is there?”
“Is there what, my lord?” Svetu questioned.
“A better fit amongst you.” I furrowed my brow, morbidly curious to how she would response. “Would the crown better rest upon the head of another?”
She regarded me wearily. “Ivon would think so - most likely in favor of his oversized ego. Kazac’s loyalty to the Royal House Kazbirati is unwavering, as it always is. And Rurik, he will show no opinion until the battle of the alphas has ended.”
“With no intent on being such himself,” I agreed. He was always a wise man. “And you, Duchess of Tomiti? Would you dare challenge my position?”
“Never.”
Her answer came quicker than expected, and though haste oftentimes implied fabrication, the woman wasn’t senseless enough to actually believe that she could sit upon the throne.
“Then Ivon is the only contender.” I mulled this, finding my gaze being pulled in the direction of the platform of aristocracy. The Duke of Kersti was the youngest amidst the pool of provincial nobles. Young enough to still have hope. “Foolish, foolish Ivon.”
“Sire.”
I kept my eyes on Ivon, watching as he rubbed the shoulder of his daughter, eyes narrowed at the throngs of people below them. It was a shame she was chosen to be my bride some years ago. I cringed at the thought of sullying Kazbirati blood with that of Ivon’s.
“Pardon her ladyship,” Vitale besought when he received no answer from me.
I sighed, turning to him as the duchess gave a small bow.
“My priest has slain his first beast, then?” I remarked.
“Your priest has seen to it that the beast formulated his final breath, sire.” His response was bold, taking full advantage of the fact that in the presence of the Duchess of Tomiti, I had no choice but to hold my inevitably crass remark.
I exhaled, unamused by his defiance and, more so, by the mind that allowed him to defy me so commendably.
“Set him at the feet of the king,” I commanded. “He will accompany my father in the afterlife.”
As Vitale nodded, I caught his sleeve.
“And I expect you at the head of this endeavor, Vitale. Overseer is not an occupation that suits you.”
It was warning enough for the man, who bowed deeply, before retreating.
“He’s an interesting fellow, your priest.” Svetu commented this as she watched the slender man make his way through the guard formation.
“Interesting is one way to define him, yes,” I agreed, lifting my gaze to the greying sky.
“He seems to have grown accustomed to Rodakrov, much more so than the common vicars of the south,” she continued.
“He left the Church Sanctorum of Casteria nearly eight years ago. I would hope he would grow accustomed to a new environment within that span.”
The comment seemed amusing to Svetu. “I have visited Casteria before, sire, and the heat the sun offers is nothing I could ever grow accustomed to. I couldn’t imagine the cold is any different for the dwellers of the summer lands.”
“I fear you exaggerate, my lady,” I replied. “If the suns of Casteria truly are as brutal as you claim then the lands of Maraq, south of the Inlet of Abel, would be nothing but dust.”
“Perhaps not dust,” she parried. “But the sand is vast and stretches across the countries like the snow across Rodakrov.”
“Then my priest may want to give thanks to his god that he does not hail from those tundras of sands,” I responded, bored. I knew of Maraq, of the deserts that embodied the south continent. I knew how the sun blazed upon them for so long, at such close and scorching intervals that their very skin was strengthened, colored deep and rich. I also knew that the Casterian sun had quite a different effect.
Another nipping breeze bit past, prompting me of Vitale’s incompetence. I sighed. Had I set the captain of my garrison on the task of killing Akim, the damned tiger would’ve been at my father’s feet ages ago.
“Ah,” Svetu began, shifting herself to better face the ceremony platform. “Duke Sebe approaches, my lord.”
I, too, turned, watching as the greying man found solid footing in the snow beneath his feet. He was at least a decade older than my father – my late father – but he was a Krov, and such were solid and strong until death. Frailty was a foreign ailment to the winter lands.
“Lord Kazac,” I greeted over the whistle of the wind.
He gave a slight bow. “Your Majesty.”
House Sebe had the longest allegiance with Royal House Kazbirati - longer, even, than we had the throne. They were always a welcomed sight.
“House Sebe offers you its deepest sentiments, sire.” He paused to allow the comment time to set in. “Though, as Lady Svetu, I’m sure, has amended, our confidence in your upbringing is thorough and unwavering. You, above all else, are fit for the crown.”
The man’s dark eyes met mine before he scowled.
“I would, however, be watchful of Lord Ivon.”
I cocked a grin. I could always trust Kazac’s candor.
“This, I've heard."
Regarding my smile cautiously, he titled his head forward, eyes narrowed.
“Then you know he speaks of treason.”
It didn’t surprise me that Ivon had treacherous intent – he and I had been at disagreement since I met the man years ago – but to be so bold as to allow the other houses a gaze into that plan? Unacceptable.
“Of what kind?” Svetu questioned, leaning closer to the man.
“Civil revolt,” Kazac divulged in a hushed tone. “The amendment of Kersti territory lines four years ago under Bozhidar’s reign still sits rancid in his stomach. He speaks of using this time of transition to overwhelm you, the coward.”
“And what,” I demanded. “Are the chances of the fruition of this revolt, Kazac?”
“As you know, my lord,” he responded swiftly, noting my growing aggravation. How simple it would’ve been to just kill Ivon where he stood. That too, however, was unacceptable, until proper evidence – and not just the whispered rumors of those loyal to me - was brought forth. “I pass through Kersti’s capital, Constans, on my ride to Castle Mechi. Ivon has formidable defenses.”
“I should hope so,” I murmured. “As his is the territory of metal.”
Kazac nodded. “Their multiple mines have been put to use, indeed. He, undeniably, has the means to a revolt, but bodies behind the campaign seem to be lacking.”
“Then he is the only man who believes he can rule.” I sighed. “Why does that not surprise me, Lord Kazac?”
Svetu stifled her chuckle.
“Still, I would keep a sharp eye on the movements in Kersti territory,” the duke advised. “Ivon can, simply enough, raise propagandist words against you, sire.”
“If such spill from his imprudent lips, Lord Kazac, I will swiftly remove his tongue from his treacherous mouth.”
Such would be proper evidence.
The old lord gave a satisfied smile.
“Just what I would expect from a Kazbirati, sire. And know that House Sebe shall be there to clean the mess left behind.”
“Your loyalty is noted, Lord Kazac,” I assured before catching sight of my priest huffing heavily as he approached. “And it is greatly cherished.”
“Ah, Vicar Vitale,” Kazac greeted, eyes on the Casterian priest.
“Please,” Vitale smiled kindly. “Vitale will do, Duke Sebe.”
And then, turning to me, he said, “It is done, sire.”
It was about damned time.
“If you will excuse me, Lady Svetu, Lord Kazac,” I spoke turning to them. “I believe it is time to show my father off.”
Both bowed deeply.
I waited until they were seated in their proper arrangements upon the platform before following in their wake.
“Any longer,” I muttered to my priest. “And I would've had your head for wasting my time.”
“I made a quick amendment to your orders, sire.” The priest skillfully ignored my words, stopping to produce a golden bangle from the folds of his clothing. “The Kazbirati heirloom.”
“Presumptuous of you, priest,” I purred dangerously, gaze even with his as I plucked it from his grip. “To assume you have the barest right to touch it with your Casterian hands. Even more so that you think you can amend my orders.”
“Forgive me, sire, but surely a proper funeral for your father and the proper ascension of the new Kazbirati ruler is neither a waste of time nor a presumptuous notion,” Vitale countered, sweeping a hand towards the steps of the platform.
I flashed him a warning glare before conceding to his gesture, taking the stairs slowly and deliberately, as such preceding should not be performed with haste. The bangle – a solid golden ring, dulled with generations of wear and the lack of prioritizing to polish it – weighed heavy in my hand. I clenched my jaw, shoving it onto my left wrist, where it hung loosely, just fitted enough to not fall off.
Vitale followed two steps behind me, head bowed low in his priestly way. Once on the stage, I overlooked the aristocratic families to my right, and continued forward towards the vicar who held the lit ceremony torch.
I gave him a nod.
“His son and Majesty, Prince Nikolai Grisha of the Royal House Kazbirati.” The vicar swept his open palm towards me in a large motion.
I stepped forward, taking the torch from the holy man. While the nobles of Rodakrov were seated behind me on the platform, veils covering their faces, before me were the hordes of my people bathed in black, resting upon their knees out of respect for the dead.
The Sanctorum frowned upon public funerals of royalty, and it showed on the face of the vicar in his robes of white and the friar beside him. It sullied the dignity of the aristocracy, or so said the scriptures. Still, the centuries old customs of the Krovic people wouldn’t so easily be changed, and not even the church had the power to force it.
And anyway, these people had the right to know, once and for all.
“The king is dead,” I declared, raising the torch over my father’s pyre. I held it there for a moment, and then two, my stomach roiling in anticipation. When I let go and watched as the flames made contact with the hay, igniting quicker than one of Vitale’s chemical experiments, I had to draw blood from my inner cheek so as not to allow my giddy grin to escape.
I wouldn't dare let them see it, the rapture that engulfed me the way the flames engulfed my father. They would think me mad, and I was not mad.
No.
Finally, after fifteen years, I was able to bask in the euphoric glory of sanity.
Okay little bunnies, tell me your thoughts! #1 has a very bumpy love/hate romance and #2 has a romance that is poetically twisted. Very fun for me to write :) ~
Thanks again and be on the lookout for a Heiko update within the next few hours!
~ Higgins
-- 贈り物
が届きました 
-- 推薦
ランキング 
-- 推薦
チケット