by A. J. Cronin
“Tell him tomorrow. He is so busy with his little celebration that he probably does not know we exist right now. Uri’el should be your only concern at the moment.”
Leon stands, ready to leave.
“Sometimes you frighten me nearly as much as father does, mother.”
“It is the prayer of my heart that someday, somehow, you will see as I do, Leon.”
The Valachian prince leaves the way he came, revisiting to the keep, the secret grotto and finally exiting the cathedral. He does not have to travel far, walking to the spire that Uri’el had flown to earlier. The stairs are on the outside of the spire, circling upwards, eventually coming into a large, comfortable home, like a manor in the sky.
Uri’el sits with his wife in the study, pouring over maps and documents. As the couple sees Leon, Uri’el whispers to his wife, who rises to leave the room, giving a slight smile to her guest.
“I am glad to see you safe,” she says as she passes Leon.
“Come and sit, please,” Uri’el calls to Leon.
The prince collapses into the thick, comfortable chair with a sigh.
“Here I am,” he says. “What do you wish to discuss?”
“First tell me of Elenesia.”
“There is not much to say. I went there, delivered the message and left. It rained a good portion of the time.”
Uri’el gives a dismissive wave of his hand.
“What use did Lionkiller see?”
“Sand Pirates laid a trap; a fake village set ablaze. When I came into the center, they attacked. I fought back.”
“How many?”
“Ten, I think.”
Uri’el looks up from the map he had been studying.
“Is that it? They attacked and you defeated them?”
“Their leader asked my name before attacking. After I told him, he calmly demanded my head.”
“And you killed all of them without a single wound to show for it?”
“Have you forgotten who trained me?”
“Of course not. But I am well versed in the ways of the Sand Pirates, and their tactics.”
“They thought I was unarmed, but I had Lionkiller in hand, still covered. A mistake they will have an eternity to mull over.”
Uri’el goes back to his map, marking various places using a quill pen. Leon does not rightly care to ask why.
“I see. What about when you delivered the scroll?”
“Like always, I gave it to their king and left before he could open it.”
“Did you read it before giving it to him?”
“I never read the letters. I just deliver them.”
“And your mother has the nerve to call you Leon,” Uri’el scoffs in disgust.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Leon asks angrily.
“I think it quite clear, but in case it is lost on you, I will say this bluntly: you are a coward.”
“How dare you!” Leon shouts, shooting out of his chair.
“How dare I?” Uri’el counters, he too standing, facing Leon with a righteous fury. “You are the one who delivers those letters, you are the one doing Cain’s work, knowing full well what each of those letters contain! This little ‘festival of victory’ your father has stirred up is the work of the last one you so easily delivered. Do you even know how many died in Cain’s siege?”
“Fifty.”
“You cannot honestly tell me that you believe that lie too...”
“If not fifty than how many?”
“A city of one hundred thousand, Leon, nearly decimated under the heel of the Dread Knights. Only when there was none left who could pick up a sword did they finally yield to Cain. The survivors barley numbered five hundred, the streets red with the blood of their brothers and sisters, fathers and mothers.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw it with my own eyes!” Uri’el says, his wings flaring open. “And what I saw was not an isolated incident. It was but another in a long chain of such events, and you know this, even if you do not wish to admit it!”
“What do you expect me to do about it!?”
“Fight him!”
“Are you mad? The instant he was given even the slightest inclination that I might raise arms against him he would... no, I do not even want to think what he would do...”
“There are many who would stand with you, fight beside you.”
“I would be leading them nowhere but to the bottom of a shallow grave, Uri’el. Even if I were so inclined to rebel against father, I would not risk the lives of others.”
“Those others would risk their own lives regardless.”
“I am sorry. I will not do this.”
“And I cannot abide it! I will not let my child grow up in the service of a tyrannical madman whose lust for power has no end!”
Leon opens his mouth to argue, but Uri’el’s words clutch away the hostility, their meaning taking a moment to form.
“Child?”
“Yes. Shira finally carries a child.”
Leon falls, defeated, back into the chair.
“I cannot risk rebellion against my father. I will not.”
“There are many who will, kingdoms to the west.”
“Then let them. I will not attempt to stop them, but I shall have no part of it. You are not the only one thinking of the lives of loved ones.”
Leon stands to leave. As he walks away, Uri’el calls out.
“No more kingdoms will fall to your father’s insanity, Alastor. I would give my life to see this promise through.”
Leon does not acknowledge Uri’el and, after a brief pause, leaves.
~-~~-~
Leon returns to the castle, this time pushing through the crowd, which eventually parts for the prince. When he finally comes into the outer court of the castle, Cain catches sight of his son.
“People of Valachia!” Cain exclaims. “The man whom without my victory would not have come. My son, Alastor!” Cain cries, gesturing to the prince in the crowd.
The people begin to chant the name of Alastor, embracing him, swearing fealty to he and his father. Cain rushes out to Leon, embracing him fiercely.
“How went Elenesia?” he whispers.
“Even easier than normal, father.”
“Good, good. We can speak later, but for now, enjoy this, as it is for you also.”
At that moment, many of the harlots come dancing around the prince. Now it is his heart that falls apart at the stitches.
A lion without claws is not much of a lion at all.
~-~~-~
The celebration lasts for hours, but Leon grows tired of it long before it comes close to ending, avoiding everyone he can while sneaking back into the castle, sleep the only thing on his mind. In the morning, he receives a summons from Cain.
Reluctantly, Leon heeds the call.
~-~~-~
Over the course of two weeks, Leon is sent to the east three more times to deliver yet more wax sealed scrolls, though these times are far less eventful than the first, with no surprises upon returning home. For a time, Leon is not called by his father, but likewise he does not see much of his mother, sister or even Uri’el and his wife, Shira.
This suits the Valachian prince well.
To be alone is a rarity.
The lack of contact from his father, though, gets him to thinking that perhaps Cain has finally had his fill of conquest. That open rebellion will be something he never has to see. The drought of summons ends one cold fall morning.
~-~~-~
“You wanted to see me father?” Leon asks as he enters the throne room.
Cain is pacing across the room, thinking upon some quandary.
“Yes. Tell me, son... what do you know of the kingdoms of the western lands?”
“Not much to be honest, father. The extent of my knowledge is what was taught to me; that many of them have been our allies since before your rule of Valachia began.”
“That is all you know?”
�
�I have had no dealings with the west, father. I have never needed to, as Valachia has always had what I needed.”
“That is now the problem. Many of the goods we have enjoyed for so long were brought here from the west, and from one kingdom in particular, Essain, from which the materials to build this castle and much of the old city came.”
“I do not think I follow. What exactly is the problem, father?”
“We have received no trade from Essain for the past month.”
“You wish me to travel there and discover the reason for this?”
“Yes. I would hope it is a simple matter of bandits, something which the likes of you could easily deal with. However, if it is not, come back to me.”
“As you wish, father.”
“Do not procrastinate on getting to the bottom of this, if at all possible,” Cain tells Leon as the prince is leaving the throne room.
Outside the castle, Leon’s horse is, like always, prepared, but now packed with a sword and shield baring the Valachian crest.
“In the event that Cain’s hope of bandits proves true, good Prince Alastor,” the stable master holding the reins to Leon’s horse explains with a chuckle.
Leon takes his animal with a nod of his head and mounts, waiting for a moment, half expecting Charlotte to run out from the castle, demanding to know where he is going this time. When she does not, he begins to ride away, somewhat saddened that his sister has not come to see him off.
At the fountain, he heads onto the western road, passing under Uri’el’s spire, again expecting to be stopped and questioned, but there is nothing. He continues to Valachia’s western gate. The land beyond, he sees, is the complete antithesis of the east lands; green, rolling hills and tall, strong trees as far as the eyes can see. He rides out of Valachia, oblivious to what the near future will hold.
~-~~-~
Leon does not bother to take notice of the beautiful landscape, instead keeping watch attentively for signs of roadside robbers, or perhaps a blockade. The journey to Essain is taken slower than previous outings and stopping to rest is far more frequent. Days pass sluggishly with no evidence of anything out of the ordinary. Not traveler nor evildoer is seen. The trade road he has taken, the longer of the two that go west, guides him through forests and glades, beside lakes and waterfalls, but still he comes into contact with no one. This longer road passes a city called Judeheim, but he does not look upon it long, passing through and going south. Finally, the day comes when he arrives in Essain, currently in the process of constructing a thick outer wall.
Trotting into the city, all work stops as the citizenry stare at their foreign visitor. The Valachian prince looks in admiration at the castle rising up over the city, freshly built; the stone and glass, the fantastically wrought metal shimmering in the sunlight, giving the illusion of having been made out of jewels and precious other materials. Without realizing it, he has ridden up to the castle entrance.
He dismounts, walking to the castle doors.
The guards nod to him with the slightest of smiles, allowing the visitor free access. None of the suspicion Leon was so used to in other lands and upon other faces is present on these men. He passes slowly through the outer hall which leads to the throne room, a beautiful and wondrous sight, full of spectacular art of myriad mediums, nothing like the cold, sterile hall leading to his father’s throne. The doors of the Essain throne room are open for the guest, and Leon walks in, the doors shutting behind him.
Leon’s preconception of kings and queens is wholly obliterated as he sees the rulers of Essain upon their throne seats. The Essain King is no older than Leon himself, younger possibly, and to his right sits the Queen with flowing brown hair and hazel eyes. In her arms she holds an infant, some months old.
The King leans forward wordlessly, summing up Leon. The Queen does the same in her own way. Leon readies to speak, but the King holds up a hand for silence. A young maid enters the throne room from a side door, whom the Queen hands her child to. When the maid has left, Leon again tries to speak.
“I am - ”
But the King nods to the guards stationed behind Leon, previously unseen by the Valachian prince.
“Seize him,” the King says with a smooth tone.
The guards act decisively, grabbing Leon’s arms and pushing him to his knees in one well orchestrated movement.
“What is the meaning of this!?” Leon demands. “Do you know who I am?”
“All too well,” the King replies in something akin to a low growl. “Alastor, also called Leon by some, the only begotten son of Cain. And, before you ask, I know why you are here also.”
The King stands up from his throne, walking over to Leon. The Queen watches with a cold detachment, never stirring, simply watching, her eyes never leaving the form of Leon.
“Then why are you doing this?” pleads Leon. “I merely came to discover why trade with Valachia had ceased.”
“Cain knows exactly why trade stopped. My letter to him was quite clear. Given your reputation, you probably do not realize nor care what his true intention was in sending you here.”
“I fail to see how the two things are related.”
The King stares harshly at Leon, as does the Queen.
“You would fail to see the connection, of course. How you can live so blind is a mystery to me,” says the Queen, her voice almost cruel.
“Take him to the dungeon,” the King finally orders the guards.
Leon tries to free himself from the guard’s grasp, but the King himself strikes Leon ferociously, rendering him unconscious.
~-~~-~
When he awakes, Leon discovers himself in a small cell in a dark dungeon, the only rays of light coming from a single lamp hung upon the farthest wall. He rubs his face, the pain of the King’s strike still very much present.
“Which one are you?” a voice from the darkness asks. A small, sweet, feminine voice.
“What?” Leon asks, still groggy and slow.
“Are you Alastor, son of Cain? Or, are you Leon the brave hearted?”
“Both.”
“No. You are not both. That is wholly impossible.”
“Why is that?”
“Alastor is nothing more than an extension of his father’s hand. A shallow, cowardly little boy. Leon, however, is a champion of the weak. Leon, I have heard tale, has saved a fair share of lives on his secret excursions, the ones his horrid father never had any inclination of. So, I ask again: which are you?”
“How do you know about that?”
“Never mind how I know and just answer the question.”
Leon sits in his cell, thinking for a moment.
“I do not think I know.”
“What will it take to make you decide?”
“I wish I knew.”
“At least you are honest in this regard. May I ask another question?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Everyone does.”
“Do they? I somehow doubt that, but ask away.”
“Why are you so afraid of Cain?”
Leon falls against the cold wall of his cell, wrapping the darkness around him like a cloak. No one has ever asked such a question of him, but it is not the question that makes him slink back from the light. It is the answer.
“He raised me to fear him.”
“How?”
“He would beat me near death when I did anything out of order. He butchered my pets as punishment, and sometimes he would do it as a warning just to keep me in line. When I became older, and thus able to fight back, he would threaten to do terrible things to my mother and, eventually, my sister once she was born, if I ever refused to do exactly as he commanded.”
“So then, it has never been the fear of yourself being killed that has you doing his will, has it?”
“No. It was never myself I thought of.”
“The thought of him hurting others, your mother and sister... this is how he broke you.”
Leon thinks hard on this sta
tement, leaning back into the light.
“He did.”
“Does it sadden you that your obedience, brought about by this breaking, has resulted in the deaths of thousands?”
“It is a guilt that consumes my very soul.”
“Then why did you not confront your father?”
“People in far off lands, whom I would never meet and for all I knew never even existed, or my mother and sister whom I love more than anything in the whole of the world. How could I be asked to make that choice?”
“Did it ever occur to you to ask your mother and sister what they thought?”
“Never.”
“At least you are honest in this regard as well.”
The dungeon falls silent and Leon is left with that feminine voice still hanging in the air like a tainted veil, the words a barbed arrow piercing through his heart and hitting his very soul, and he left unable to pull it out lest he cause even more damage.
Hours pass as he broods, reexamining his entire life carefully. The lamp sputters and goes out and still he finds no sleep, his very existence now coming into question for him. Even as the dawn breaks, he contemplates.
So lost within his own mind, his own past, his heart buckling under the weight of his many decisions, or lack thereof, that he does not notice as the Essain King enters the dungeon and stands before his cell. Leon’s metal and stone womb of rebirth.
“I feel I should apologize for what I did yesterday,” the King speaks gently.
“I bare you no ill will, good King of Essain,” Leon replies.
“Why is that?”
“My time here has given me an ample chance to think about the very things I hid from myself for so long.”
“If I let you out, will I have any trouble with you?”
Leon looks up at the King, genuinely surprised by the question.
“Why let me out?”
“We have much to speak of, I think.”
“Releasing me is not a necessity for speaking since, after all, we are speaking right now.”
“True, but I have found that a man speaks more truthfully and honestly as a free man rather than a prisoner.”
“As you wish. You shall have no trouble from me. I give you my word, worthless though it may be.”
“Your word has more worth than you think.”
As the King opens Leon’s cell himself, the Valachian prince is struck curious by those words, but he holds his tongue. The King reaches down to help Leon from the floor, which he accepts gratefully. After dusting himself off, Leon is guided out of the dungeon and outside, from a small, thick building standing beside the castle.
