Something still didn’t sit right with him about the events of the morning. The more he thought about the incident, the more he thought it most definitely wasn’t the scent of the store or the stains on the alchemist’s hands. Something was off about Bren himself. Not outwardly, for the young man was chipper and polite. But the moment he made contact with that handshake, his brain had been set ablaze with energy unlike he had ever experienced before. The sensations that coursed through him had threatened to render him unconscious. But why? Sighing with irritation, and with a headache threatening to consume him, Roann decided the only thing he could do in that moment was put it behind him.
Clad only in a pair of sleeping pants, he padded barefoot to the den, not bothering to put on his robe. He lit the oil lamp atop his desk as he sat, and immediately retrieved a sheet of his personal stationery. Dipping his quill into a pot of ink, he began to write.
Dear Mr. Bren,
I want to extend my deepest apologies once again for the incident yesterday morning. I want to assure you that in no way are you at fault for my illness. I am truly sorry I left in such haste, and am looking forward to visiting again in the future. I would very much like to pick your brain about alchemy—it is a subject that I know very little about, and would like to learn. I am confident that your shop will enjoy great successes in Keld, and you will rise to the top of your niche very quickly.
Thank you for the potion you sent to the palace, it will be put to good use, I assure you.
Best regards for the future,
Prince Roann Vrelin
Roann signed his name with a flourish. Satisfied with his communiqué, he set a small tin of wax atop the open mouth of the oil lamp. Folding the delicate parchment into thirds, he waited for the blue sealing wax to melt. When it was sufficiently liquefied, he removed the container to his desk, careful not to burn his fingers on the hot metal. He deposited a large glob of wax onto the folded edge of the paper. Wasting no time, he pressed his signet ring into the quickly cooling blob, making sure the family insignia was properly embossed. The prince set it aside to dry, ready for his assistant to deliver in the morning.
Roann extinguished the flame of the lamp, rendering the room almost completely dark. He turned in his chair and stared out at the horizon.
That morning, he saw the sun rise.
CHAPTER NINE
The martial artists hailing from Zaiterra are not to be trifled with. While trained with great discipline and morals in their hallowed school, they will not hesitate to take your life before you have time to pray it be spared.
--Excerpt from ‘On Zaiterra’, Eakim Whitehaven, founder of Whitehaven University
~ Six Weeks Later ~
The heavens opened up, and a chilled mid-autumn rain cascaded down over Keld.
Roann stood at the open balcony doors in his parents’ bedroom. Every time the wind picked up, tiny tickles of moisture peppered his face. The breeze blew his loose hair around his shoulders. Not willing to venture outside and risk a proper soaking, he closed his eyes and let the mists flow over his body. The darkness of night encompassed the palace. Eilith cried softly behind him. He didn’t bother to turn around.
The morning had started out like any other, with Roann tending to his daily duties as acting sovereign. But shortly after lunch with his mother, it became obvious the day was anything but ordinary. It had happened fast, with the emperor’s breathing slowing down, his heart rate following suit. Unwilling to open his eyes, unable to take regular breaths. The prince was called away from his office, and told to prepare for the worst.
And, just after nine o’clock, Artol had taken his final, shaky breath. Eilith sobbed—and Roann was silent.
That night, a prince would become emperor.
He stood watching the torrents of water cascade from the downspouts on the parapets. Thunder rumbled behind the palace. Roann knew it was just a matter of time before the brunt of the storm hit Keld. Father Morigar’s melodic voice floated through the room as he administered various blessings over his father’s body. He did not pay attention to the cleric’s hollow words.
Taking in the humid air in one gigantic breath, Roann allowed his lungs to fill to capacity. His muscles burned as his chest expanded. He held the breath for as long as he could, opening his eyes just before billowing out a great exhale. Lightning flashed, and he cast his gaze up toward the heavens, watching as fast-moving clouds churned in the sky. A great crash of thunder followed the brilliance, rattling the antique glass panes of the balcony doors. The prince felt a comforting hand on his shoulder, and realized the room had fallen silent.
“The rites are finished, Your Grace.”
Roann didn’t turn to acknowledge the figure behind him. He really didn’t feel like engaging in conversation with anyone.
“Your mother’s attendant has convinced her to get some rest. You should really do the same.”
Roann simply nodded with a deep sigh. The cleric removed his hand from Roann’s shoulder and stood quietly next to him, watching rain drench the sleeping city. When dawn’s light broke over the horizon, the official criers of the Vrelin Empire would flood the streets, and the people of Keld would hear the news they knew was coming, but hoped would never arrive. That morning, Roann would be crowned. The robes of his father would be placed upon his shoulders, and the citizens would look on him for the first time as their true emperor.
“Promise me you’ll sleep, Roann…”
It had been ages since the priest had referred to him by his given name. In fact, the only person to really ever do so anymore was his mother. The last time his father had spoken his name was the day of his stroke. His breath hitched ever so slightly as he realized it had been years since his father had uttered a single word. And now, any hope of that ever happening again was gone. The prince finally turned to face the cleric.
“I will. And…” He found himself grasping for words, even if they were simple. His mind was racing: thoughts of funerals, coronations, and life without his father. “…thank you. For everything you’ve done for my mother this evening. I know it comforted her to have you here.”
The old man leaned in and embraced Roann tightly, like a father would his own son. It had been so long since he had felt the embrace of a person other than Eilith. The empress hugged him on a daily basis, but all others refrained from making such intimate physical contact with the prince. He was the sovereign, and it was deemed inappropriate to go much further than a firm handshake. Releasing from the embrace, Roann mustered a thankful smile, just barely visible in the dimly-lit room.
“Tomorrow the people will see you as emperor.” Morigar’s voice was strong, yet sad. “I know you will make your father proud—you already have. He’s watching you from beyond, rest assured.”
Roann nodded weakly and turned back to the open balcony doors as the cleric took his leave. Lightning flashed at faster intervals now, the storm bearing down on the city with furious intensity. Wind whipped in through the doors, papers on his father’s desk catching on the currents and flying about the room. The stationery rustled around in the corner, falling to the floor as the wind died down once again. The rain shifted direction, and the prince suddenly found himself pelted with giant drops. He hurriedly closed the doors with a grumble, not ready for his silent reverie to be broken. Now he would have to face his mother—and his father.
He knew this day was coming. And yet, now that it had become reality, and he looked upon the lifeless body of the once strong Emperor Artol—he suddenly felt very ill-equipped to carry on. Yes, he had been ruling by himself for all intents and purposes, but at the end of the day, Roann would still go to Artol for approval. The prince had learned his father’s silent signals: whether it be a wink of his good eye, a small smile or frown, or a squeeze of the hand. Roann knew that his father understood what he was saying, and wanted to be as present as he could be when it came to the welfare of the nation.
And now—he was truly was on his own.
Making
his way toward the slouched figure at the bedside, he hesitated for a brief moment before pressing on. Roann hated seeing his mother in such a state. Eilith was always graceful and poised. Now, she sat hunched over, her shoulders sagging, her head hanging low. Her hair fell messily over her shoulders, her gown un-pressed and wrinkled. She had been sitting there for hours, never leaving Artol’s side. And now, even after his passing, she kept vigil over his corpse, unwilling to leave until the doctors came to remove him. In two days, he would lie in state before being interred within the family catacombs. The empress sobbed quietly into her handkerchief. A wedding gift from her beloved groom, the lace was old and stained from years of use.
The sound of Roann’s boots on the wooden floor startled the empress, and Eilith turned in great surprise, her red swollen eyes glistening in the flickering light of the bedside lamp.
“Mother…” He took her hand in his, noting the chill on her skin. “You need to rest.”
Eilith shook her head and watched him wearily as he knelt beside her. “Not until your father is taken care of.” She turned back to her husband, letting go of her son’s hand to take his. Staring at him longingly, she cried, tears falling down her cheeks and onto the pink satin of her dress. The droplets darkened the fabric as they soaked in, forming a dotted pattern on her skirt.
“I’ll stay.” He stood, urging her to follow. Resting a hand on her back, he helped her up, Eilith’s legs wobbling as she left her seat. In that moment, his mother seemed so frail. It was as if all the heartbreak and stress of the last decade had finally caught up with her. Leaning down to kiss Artol’s forehead, she lingered. She whispered hushed words into his ear. Whatever had been said was private, and not meant for anyone but them.
“Stay until Dr. Thal returns. Please…” Her voice was meek as she moved forward, resting her cheek on her son’s chest. Her small arms snaked around his back and she cried into his doublet, soaking the velvet. Roann held his weeping mother in silence, showing no emotion of his own. He had no sense that grief would ever overtake him. Eilith finally broke the embrace and pushed back to look upon her son. She regarded him closely before placing her hand on his face, her thumb wiping a tear that was not there.
Roann licked his dry lips, a small, sorrowful nod all he could muster. Eilith kissed his cheek and moved around him toward the door, patting her husband’s foot through the blankets on her way out. A lady-in-waiting took her hand and led her away.
Finally alone with his father, Roann slumped into the chair his mother had just vacated and stared at the lifeless shell in front of him. Morigar’s words had been about salvation, honor, and the Goddess. About the Gentle Reach and what lies beyond for Artol. Now, sitting here looking at his father’s body, he struggled to find solace in the priest’s prayers. Where they were supposed to bring peace to those who heard them, to the prince they brought only skepticism. While Roann had stood at the window listening, he felt himself slip away, into his dark place. As Morigar’s voice went on about tranquility and duty to Oleana, Roann had to stifle a curt laugh. It all sounded so silly. His father lay dead before him. An empty vessel, a body that would soon decompose and return to the earth. There had been no ghostly apparition floating up toward the heavens.
He snorted in the darkness, cursing his mother’s Goddess. It was something he had done many times since his father had been stricken by his stroke. People always said Oleana had a plan for everything, but Roann found it very hard to believe that it included turning the emperor into a veritable vegetable. If there had ever been a time where he considered following the state religion, his father’s sickness had relieved him of the need. The prince knew it was a sham. He knew it was a lie.
He knew there was something out there that was much better.
There had always been something better.
A chill ran up his spine, tickling the hair on the back of his neck. He smiled in the darkness, welcoming the familiar feeling. It seemed to know when it was needed. Always comforted by the spectral wind, he closed his eyes and took in a deep breath, relishing in the sudden cold air that enveloped him. In that moment, any semblance of grief abated. In that moment, he knew destiny was close at hand. In that moment—the darkness seeped completely into his soul, never to leave.
Knowing there was no need to cry over his father, Roann sat quietly twirling his signet ring as rain pelted the windowpanes above Artol’s deathbed.
~~~
The storms had passed, ushering in a sun-drenched new day.
Citizens of Keld gathered in the grand square in front of the palace. The crowd was unusually solemn, there were no cheers or music. All anticipated the start of the ceremony, although many were having a hard time dealing with the reason they were all called. Sadness mingled with excitement. They had lost a beloved monarch, but would witness the heir finally taking his rightful place after so very long.
The prince had spent the morning in quiet reflection. Having slept more soundly than he had anticipated, he awoke feeling refreshed and ready to accept the destiny his father’s death had bestowed upon him. As official ruler, he would see Keld into a new era of prosperity and power. As official ruler—there would be a new dawn.
He ate a small breakfast alone before joining his mother in her apartment. Together, they left the family dwellings and made their way through the palace halls arm-in-arm, guards saluting them with raised swords and shields as they passed by.
Roann stood just inside the grand doorway of the citadel, the sunlight peeking in through the slats of the wooden shutters on the lower windows. It illuminated his golden hair, tied back loosely by a silken thread. His green eyes sparkled, his signet ring polished to a mirror sheen. At Father Morigar’s command, the guards on either side of the door heaved in unison, opening the palace to the outside world. The imperial horn brigade blasted the royal fanfare from all corners of the square, signaling the entrance of the heir to the Vrelin throne. Thousands of subdued cheers erupted, and Roann exited for the last time as their prince, his mother on his arm. Dressed in the deep blue hues that had been the defining colors of his family for generations, he held his head high, his shoulders squared. Not once did he squint in the glaring sun. A pair of attendants followed directly behind them, the crown and robes of his late father resting on a velvet-lined litter. The sea of people before him bowed, their movement resembling an enormous wave. The trumpeters ceased, and the square was quiet.
Roann stared out at the people—his people. As he came to a stop at the top of the sprawling stone steps of the palace, he let go of his mother’s arm. Raising his hands above his head, he gestured to the citizens to rise once more. The crowd finally bellowed a cry of hail and raised their own arms to mirror that of their sovereign in solidarity. Their prince had given them permission to celebrate. After a moment, they quieted and waited for the ceremony to begin.
Father Morigar moved forward, his robes of office wisping just above the ground. He pressed his hands together to begin the invocation. “Today we come together as an empire to mourn the passing of Artol the Honorable. His devotion to his country was unsurpassed, his love for his family expansive. Oleana is surely honored to finally have such an incredible man at her side. Let us pray she blesses our late emperor as he begins his new life in the Gentle Reach.”
Roann tried not to roll his eyes at the mention of the deity, but dutifully lowered his head as the cleric led the citizens in prayer. His words floated around the city center, the people repeating meaningful phrases back to him in unison. After a long benediction, he continued with the ceremony.
“Let us remember that our beloved former sovereign bestowed upon us a great gift—that of his son, Prince Roann. When his father could not, the prince took the helm of the empire and brought even more glory upon our shores. And it is with great honor to every citizen in the realm that today, as you all witness, he will be crowned true emperor.”
Pride filled Roann’s chest. The country was now unequivocally his, to do with as he pleased
. His mother moved from beside him, approaching the litter containing the royal vestments. Morigar assisted her in removing the heavy velvet robe from its seat.
“As the Empress places the imperial robes on the shoulders of her only child, a torch is passed from one generation to another.”
Eilith stood on her tiptoes as she draped the royal garment over her son’s broad back. The weight of the cloth felt sensational. He felt a gentle touch on his arm through the fabric, and turned to gaze into his mother’s eyes. She smiled softly, overcome simultaneously with pride and grief. Roann knew this was his cue to kneel before her.
He dropped to the ground and turned sideways to face his mother, one knee resting on the sparkling stone of the staircase. Morigar moved behind him, retrieving the golden, jeweled crown of the empire. He hadn’t seen it in a long time, Artol having no need to wear it in the last ten years. It had been safely locked away in the palace keep, under the watchful eye of the royal quartermaster. And now, it was to be his.
Eilith lovingly cupped her son’s cheek before accepting the crown from the old priest. Raising it above their heads for all to see, it shone in the bright sunlight, the diamonds and sapphires gleaming across the expanse of the square. Her voice was strong as she spoke, no hint of sadness.
“Today I crown you, my one and only son, Emperor Roann the First. You shall be known throughout the Vrelin Empire as Roann the Devoted, a title personally chosen by myself as a sign of your devotion not only to your country, but to your family. Wear the crown with pride, son. Rule with honor.” A tear slipped down her cheek as she placed the crown atop her son’s golden locks. She beckoned him to rise with her delicate hand and presented him to the crowd.
“All hail Roann the Devoted!” Father Morigar’s voice was booming, echoing off the masonry of the palace.
The Alchemist: Dawn of Destiny Page 12
