by Olivia Myers
“Well,” a voice came from behind Gwythn. “That’s either a wood nymph a long way from home or a pretty girl, also a long way from home.”
Gwythn whirled around. Voices that snuck up on her from behind always frightened her, and this voice and its loathsome irony was particularly gruesome.
“Better run along, missy. The streets are dangerous at night.”
There was only one person in the city with a voice as dripping with mockery as this. Gwythn knew by the first word that it was the young man from out of town, Rhythion. He’d arrived in Araf a little less than a year ago from a village in the north where, he claimed, his grandfather taught him the ancient languages by making him learn huge portions of ancient poetry by heart whenever be misbehaved. Gwythn didn’t know if she believed the story, but his talent was real enough. She’d heard him once in a tavern recite an ancient epic in four different languages until after an hour he collapsed, stone drunk.
If his talent was incredible, his appearance was no less so. He had a regal nose adorning his sculpted face, under which his mockery dribbled out through the cruel, thin line of his mouth. His body was thick with muscle, and his hair was as thick as a bird’s nest and as ashy as coal. His eyes were so wide and so marble blue that their unblinking stillness gave the impression that she was drowning if she spent too much time staring into them. It was almost unfair that he had been blessed with such good looks, when his personality was so distasteful.
“I…I was,” Gwythn tried to speak before she realized that she’d fallen into those eyes and was lost, trying to find the surface.
“You’re going to be a chew toy for the Watch if you want to stay longer,” said Rhythion. “Don’t think they wouldn’t jump at the chance to put you into the stocks.” The blue eyes widened. The slender mouth cracked a crooked smile. “Or to put their stocks into you.”
“You’re a beast,” Gwythn found her tongue at last. “And you’ll live to regret every slimy thing you’ve said once I’m married to a prince and can do whatever I want with you.” She was going out on a leap. Her father had done no more than casually mention the possibility of a marriage to one of the king’s sons, but it was ammunition and Gwythn was going to use it for all it was worth.
“Why wait until then, missy? You can tell me what you want to do right now.”
“I want—” Gwythn tried to be defiant, but the blue eyes clapped to her again. Her words scattered like crickets. Damn him! Those eyes, their hypnosis. It wasn’t natural.
“You’ll tell me when you’re married to the king’s fairy,” Rhythion said, and narrowed his eyes.
Gwythn felt the tension within her go out, almost as though he’d released her from a physical hold.
“But right now,” he continued, “I don’t have time for you.”
“He’s not a fairy, you—you dog!” Gwythn cried.
Rhythion ignored her and moved past, dragging something covered in dirty cloths behind him and up the scaffolding.
“Is that for the monument?” she asked eagerly. Rhythion worked as a translator and also as an engraver of foreign languages, and he’d been commissioned by the king for an inscription to accompany the statue. What he’d decided to write had been left to his discretion and would remain a mystery until the unveiling tomorrow.
“Use your head.”
“What did you choose? Will you tell me? Is it a verse from the Lay of Canniculus? Or maybe a lyric from the Seventy Songs?”
Rhythion dropped the large object at the foot of the scaffolding and looked as though he was going to round on Gwythn. Instead, he stretched, keeping his back to her, and then gave Fafiny a pat on the head. The dog let loose its thick tongue, and then tried to rub its head against Rhythion’s thigh.
“Nice pup.”
But the sight of her faithful dog with this detestable man was too much for Gwythn. “Faffy!” she cried.
The husky ignored her. Humiliated, she took him by the scruff and started back in the direction home. She’d have her opportunity tomorrow to view the statue in all its glory. Tomorrow, she wouldn’t have to put up with any unwanted company. Tomorrow, her father would be honored by the king himself. Tomorrow, things would change.
“Until tomorrow,” Rhythions’s voice came, echoing her very thoughts. She felt a tingle in her back, and sped her step.
*
The night passed Gwythn by like a happy blur, curving towards the promise of tomorrow. Before she knew it, the first thin frays of sunlight had come through the window.
She lay in bed until she could hear her father wake in the room adjacent to hers and then she began to prepare herself. Two hours later, she emerged, regal as a princess.
Artyr, her father, sat at the table, picking at a quail egg with his spoon. He was dressed for the occasion as finely as his modesty would allow, in a simple coat with fur at the collar, and with his greying hair parted and wetted by a dragon-bone comb.
He stood when he caught sight of her. “My,” he exclaimed. A string of quail egg dribbled on to the floor from his open mouth. “You look all grown up, daughter, in that fancy dress of yours.”
Ever since the idea that she would meet King Blethen in person had taken form in Gwythn’s mind, she’d determined that she would greet him as a true lady. And so, for months, she’d waded through mud holes and bog heaps in the pursuit of wildflowers she could sell at market. She’d spent days hunting rabbits and stags, had shot them, stripped them, cleaned them and sold them, all by herself and all in order to earn a few coins to buy a few yards of silk for a dress she would wear only once.
But her efforts hadn’t been in vain. All the scratches and all the scars, all the mud clots caught in her hair and all the hours spent excavating the innards of dead animals were forgotten. Not just forgotten. It was as though they’d never existed, so perfect was Gwythn’s change.
Her dress was as dark and as softly rippling as a lake seen at night. It was cut low and tight across her chest so that the deep curves of her breasts shown amply, and over her shoulders she wore a tight fur coat. Her hair was thick and luscious and the dark almond of rich soil. Her eyes were broad and beautiful with anticipation, and glistered with light.
“I’ve never been happier to be a father,” Artyr said, still standing, “nor as saddened by the knowledge that one day, I’ll have to give this beautiful creature away.”
“Oh, Daddy!” She flung herself into his arms. “Is it true? Tell me it’s true!”
“Nothing more than a few words, child. Don’t throw yourself too much into a hope.”
“But Daddy! Haven’t you seen him? He’s so handsome! And just think—you’d have a princess for a daughter! A princess of King Blethen!”
“I already have a princess for a daughter,” her old father smiled and then motioned her to sit down. “But child, if it does happen, if you marry Prince Alwen—you must love him, and love him fully. Do you understand?”
“Daddy!” Gwythn cried, indignant. She didn’t like how serious her father had asked, as if there was anything else she could do with her husband, a son of King Blethen, except love him fully!
“You’re a fearful old man if you’re asking that of me. But I forgive you. I don’t think you mean it at all. I think you’re simply nervous.”
“I’ve been a fearful old man ever since I gained something precious I was afraid of losing. But I am cautious as well. Alwen is certainly a beautiful boy—” Gwythn didn’t particularly like that he used this adjective to describe her future husband, but she kept quiet “—but beauty is not everything in a relationship. I need to know if I speak with any emissaries today, that you will agree to love him completely and absolutely.”
“On my soul, I swear,” Gwythn said promptly, and then dragged Artyr from his chair. “But you can’t waste any more time sitting around here! The square will be crammed soon! You don’t want to be late for your own unveiling!”
Artyr let himself be led to the door. No, he was not really worried that his daugh
ter would lack the spirit, the devotion, the love, or the energy to make a good wife and a fine princess. If there was anything that caused him fear, it was concern for the boy she would marry. Even so, things had worked out well so far, Artyr thought. He’d put his life in the hands of fate, and fate had led him to where he needed to go. Today more than any other day, he would remember this.
With a last few touches to her appearance, Gwythn opened the door and led them away, down to the crowded square.
*
The revelry was already in full swing by the time Gwythn and Artyr (and Fafiny, wagging behind) made it to the scaffolding, where a member of the Watch recognized Artyr and let him pass up to the stage. He joined Rhythion between two other guards. There wouldn’t be enough room for the king and his retinue had anyone else gotten on stage, so Gwythn had to be content remaining below, her skirts delicately lifted to keep the mud off, her neck craned to see the people she admired most.
Nothing less than pandemonium swirled around her. The sheer bulk of so many people—hundreds, if not thousands, were packed into the mid-sized square—contributed to a feeling of immensity. The fumes were so dense as to be a kind of dizzying fog, wrapping around Gwythn, sticking its tongue into her ears, her nose, her mouth. She smelled boiled cabbage, burnt meat, dark beer and the sweet beer from the east called kras. She smelled a fair waft of perfume from the wildflowers ladies (like Gwythn) wore in their hair, and she also smelled piss, horseshit, wine and too many other scents to name. The sights were no less overwhelming, and the sounds—the varied accents, the languages—mingled together into a kind of orchestra.
It was wonderful, but Gwythn soon grew anxious waiting for the approach of the king. After all, what were these delights of the senses compared to the appearance of one so good, so divine and pure? She bowed her head and closed her eyes, shutting the world out and entering the intense concentration of prayer.
Oh Father in the Nine Heavens, her lips moved without sound. Grant us strength today. Grant us strength to receive the welcome of your prophet the Redeemer Blethen. Grant me strength to do my duty.
And then there rose a cry of joy, just one, followed by a smattering of cheers. Hundreds of eager heads turned in the direction of the noise. Suddenly, the crowd was in full force, bodies pressing against one another, moving in slow but ecstatic surge towards the sound of the voice. Hands were put in the air. Ladies threw off their caps and tossed their thick hair about in ecstasy. Men raised their fists and hailed the distant figure moving into the center, their eyes glassy with the tears of hope and promise.
King Blethen’s carriage trundled into the center, drawn by a team of eight horses—fine, glossy animals with muscles carved like statues, bred in the distant lands of the north specifically for the purpose of servicing the king. The Watch surrounded the carriage with halberds raised and gleaming in the sunlight. It was a capital offense to purposely touch a member of the Watch, but the peoples’ excitement was so great that their bodies swarmed the carriage, hailing it, throwing wildflowers and silk streamers.
Grant me the strength to do my duty, Gwythn’s lips moved piously. Grant me the strength. Grant me the strength. Grant me the strength.
She did not see the king’s arrival. She did not see the gates of the carriage thrown open, or the members of the Watch draw out the Royal Carrying Chair, or even the first appearance of His Highness until the Watch had ascended the stage and set the Royal Carrying Chair in the center.
As though a strong wind had blown through the crowd, scattering voices like leaves, the crowd became silent. Gwythn opened her eyes, wet with tears, and looked upon her Redeemer.
The king sat, selected nobility interspersed with members of the Watch forming a half circle behind. Alwen—the king’s youngest—was among them. Gwythn had only seen him once before, but aside from the king he was easily the most distinguishable member of the family. His skin was white and as perfect as water; his body was lithe like a nymph’s, and his face—his beautiful eyes, the small, almost defiant curve of the lips Gwythn thought irresistible—was stunning. He was beautiful. The most beautiful boy Gwythn had ever seen. Yet it was not on him that her attention lingered. It was on the king.
If Alwen was stunning, the king was awe-inspiring. Larger than a horse and as sturdy as a cliff, he overflowed from his chair, from his armor, from the stage, giving the impression of thunder: a constant and uncontainable force of nature.
Nothing seemed to fit him. His bulky armor, like a shining sea, cramped his body. His legs, planted so firmly on the stage, looked as though at any moment they might crunch through the wood. Even his face—his magnificent, austere, godly face—did not seem to fit its own skin. The wrinkles around the mouth were so thick that hardly any expression could be read. The beard was thick and white and parted at the chin into two horns that hung down to his chest. And his eyes, though wrapped with wrinkles, squinting and weak, blazed like two scorching embers dashed into a bank of snow. He was like a man who did not belong to his own body, Gwythn thought with breathless wonder. Like a man who’s already begun to ascend into the heavens, yet who holds to his life with all the power of the world.
The king’s herald—a squat man with a feather in his cap—made a speech from the stage honoring the king’s long campaign and was greeted with tumultuous applause. A few ritual formalities followed, which Gwythn watched with rapt attention. Then, her father was called to unveil the statue.
“Daddy!” Gwythn squealed beneath her breath. She made sure to lock eyes with him as he passed the front of the stage. He saw her staring, and winked.
Everyone stood for the dedication of the statue, except King Blethen, who gave the salute. The count-off sounded, the crowd held its breath, and then Artyr, with two other men of the Watch, threw off the statue’s white drape.
There was an audible release of breath, followed by a gasp of collective appreciation. Then, wild applause. True to its subject, the statue was magnificent. It depicted the king during the famous Battle for Hwythnhyr, a human stronghold that had been overtaken by a vicious and well-organized army of dragon shifters early in the campaign. King Blethen was in the heat of action. His sword was held high; his foot stood on the throat of a dragon staring up in terror, and his face, radiant and indomitable, gazed up at the heavens with such vivacity and courage that not a heart remained in the crowd that was not stirred by patriotic reflection. Even the king, admiring the art from his chair, gave a smile so full of appreciation that there was no difficulty in reading it from behind his ample beard.
“Magnificent,” the herald cried. “A miracle! Blessed is the king!”
Yet even while he spoke, there was a rumble sounding through the crowd. People had begun to notice the large, stone banner wrapped around the king’s chest, and its inscription, carved in the language of the Old Heroes and in the common language. Rhythion’s work.
Gwythn, like most of the town, did not know how to read, but this was not a problem. Rhythion was called forth a few moments later by the herald, and asked to read the message to the assembly. He cleared his throat, fixed the crowd with a twitch of the lips more smirk than smile, and pronounced in a clear voice:
And the lands that I saw there had been scattered cruel,
Bequeathed of and split by the sundering tide;
Oh Fate, more a God than the king or the fool,
Who wrought me to kill, and will teach me to die.
“From the Fourth Book of the Cycle of Gythry,” Rhythion added. “May His Highness King Blethen continue to preserve our National Literature.”
The words were spoken clearly and seemingly with honor, but Gwythn instantly recognized Rhythion’s sarcasm. She knew that either through arrogance or stupidity, his words and his dumb quote about fate and the death of kings would get him into trouble. And it serves you right, you stupid beast.
Scant applause followed. Rhythion returned to his corner of the stage and did not seem to mind the cold reception. The king was squinting at the bann
er and from the twitch of his beard, saying something to himself. Then he curled a long finger and summoned the herald to his side. The king whispered something into his ear. The herald nodded gravely, turned, and addressed the audience.
“It is of His Highness’s opinion, King Blethen the Redeemer,” he said, “that this commemoration shall be regarded as a masterpiece, and all rites of respect and honor paid to it and its creator, Artyr Esquire—henceforth, Architect.”
Thunderous applause. Gwythn squealed, awed with joy. Architect! That was a royal position! Her father would practically be a lord.
“However,” the herald raised a hand to silence the crowd. “His Greatness cannot bestow the same munificence to the creator of these lyrics, copied so unjustly from a book so close to our national soul. The translator, Rhythion, Esquire, has acted with impudence. His fine will be issued from the Royal Consul, and a new lyric expressing the truth our national identity will replace what has been carelessly done. In the name of Our Savior, King Blethen the Redeemer, justice is done.”
If the applause was wild for Artyr’s promotion, it was no less so now that a public punishment had been issued. The people loved punishment even more than munificence. Gwythn applauded with the rest but she could not keep her eyes from falling on Rhythion’s.
He stood as one who, having been struck, stood tense in the confused aftermath awaiting further blows. Then his face twitched, his head darted to the side to regard the king, and a very small smile split the corner of his mouth.
“Justice is done,” Rhythion said, just loudly enough that the people on stage and Gwythn could hear. The words terrified her. They terrified her more than if he’d suddenly revealed a knife. In the words burned a fire of incredible hatred, of a magnitude that far eclipsed the slightly awkward frame of his body. But he said nothing more. He made a little bow, thanked his punisher, and wordlessly stepped into the crowd that had already forgotten about him in the excitement of the presence of royalty.
