State of Sorrow

by Melinda Salisbury

  Harun nodded, as though considering the words. “Bring him to me. Now,” he said. “I’ll know if he’s my son or not.”

  Charon let out an exasperated sigh, as Balthasar rose. “I’ll fetch him, Your Excellency,” he said, and Harun waved a hand to agree. Balthasar spared a final malicious glance for Sorrow before he left them, closing the door behind him.

  A pall fell over the room, silent and threatening, like a storm. Sorrow saw then that the table was split clearly, almost comically, into two factions: those who she knew would be loyal to her if she asked it of them; Irris, Charon – though he shouldn’t – Bayrum and Tuva, and those who would, for one reason or another, side with Harun. Despite their promises two night ago, she knew Kaspira and Samad were among that number. Two nights ago she’d been the best – the only – option. But now there was something new to consider.

  Sorrow couldn’t believe what she was seeing. They must know what Vespus had done in the past. What he’d hoped to achieve. How could they trust his word now? Didn’t they care what that might mean for Rhannon if Charon was right, and this was all part of a new scheme?

  There was a firm knock at the door.

  “Enter,” Harun called, in a voice that shook Sorrow with its strength.

  The Prodigal Son

  Balthasar entered first, his complexion ashen, taking a spot beside the bureau where the portrait sat.

  Then the boy followed, and it was as if the painting had been brought to life. He was dressed in black, in the Rhannish style of tunic and trousers, as if he’d just sat for the picture. The darkness of his clothes only served to highlight the brightness of his hair. He looked nervous today. The curiosity and confidence of the day before were gone: his shoulders were rounded, his eyes darting as he took in the room, moving from person to person. His gaze lingered longest on Sorrow; his expression brightened, his mouth beginning to curve, as though he was happy to see her. Before she had time to dwell on it, Harun stood, drawing the room’s attention.

  The almost-smile faded as Mael took in the sunken figure of the chancellor of Rhannon.

  He turned to the doorway, where Vespus now stood, Aphora and Melakis with him, a faint sneer marring his lips. Vespus nodded at Mael, as though to urge him forward.

  Harun did not need the same encouragement. His eyes were shining with tears, his mouth open in an “O” that showed his decayed teeth. He took a step forward, arms outstretched, flinching when the boy recoiled, too slow to mask his disgust.

  “Mael?” Harun said.

  After a beat, Mael replied, “Father.”

  His voice sounded flat, and Sorrow watched him swallow, saw him gird himself as he stepped forward to be embraced, looking more like a man approaching a gallows than his long-lost father. After all his pretty words yesterday about wanting to come home, she would have bet on him throwing himself into Harun’s arms. She shot a quick glance at Charon, who returned it with his own grim look.

  On the other side of the table, Samad and Kaspira were nodding, hands clasped before them. Neither of them seemed to notice Mael’s reluctance. When Sorrow looked at Vespus, though, she saw he clearly had. His jaw was tight with emotion, his neck corded, and Sorrow had the strangest feeling he was trying to stop himself from pulling Mael back.

  Mael was a little taller than Harun, and the chancellor reached up to take his face in his hands, pulling him down so their eyes were level. Sorrow saw the effort it took for Mael to allow this, to permit those thin, stained fingers to press against his skin, and she shuddered, grateful she wasn’t in his place. Harun’s expression was hungry; his gaze roamed all over the taut face of the boy before him. He stroked the birthmark on Mael’s neck, and she pitied him then.

  “Do you remember me, son?” Harun said. “Do you remember your mother and me?”

  “I… I…” Mael tried to turn to Vespus, but Harun held him still, keeping them face-to-face. “No,” he said finally. “I don’t. I’m sorry.”

  Harun staggered back as though the boy had struck him.

  “I’m sorry!” Mael said again. He looked away from Harun then, not to Vespus but to Sorrow, as though she could help him. She shook her head and his face fell, turning to Vespus, his expression pleading.

  “You remember nothing?” Harun repeated, staring down at his hands as though they were dirty.

  “He was an infant,” Vespus said smoothly from the doorway. “Is there anyone here who can remember something from when they were so young?”

  Harun turned with painful slowness towards the former Rhyllian ambassador, frowning.

  “Why are you here?” he asked. “Did I not tell you if you ever set foot in my country again I’d see your head removed?”

  “He’s with me,” Mael said swiftly. “Lord Vespus has taken care of me. I owe him a great deal. I owe all of Rhylla a great deal. I would be dead – truly dead – without them.”

  Harun stiffened, at his sides his hands curled into fists, and Sorrow saw the war raging in her father as he tried to decide whether his hatred for Vespus was greater than his need for this boy to be his lost son.

  “You sound Rhyllian,” Harun said.

  “Yes.” The boy didn’t deny it. “But Lord Vespus made sure I was taught Rhannish, so I wouldn’t shame you.”

  There was a long silence before Harun spoke again. “Leave us,” he said finally, his voice trembling. “I wish to speak alone with … this young man.”

  He hadn’t used his name. Or called him his son. That was interesting. So Harun wasn’t quite convinced yet. And when Sorrow’s gaze once again shifted to meet Charon’s, the quirk of his brow told her he’d noticed too.

  Balthasar took a step forward. “Your Excellency, perhaps I—”

  “I said leave.” The hint of iron was back in Harun’s voice, and Balthasar lowered his head at once. “All of you.” He turned to look at them then, though his eyes glanced past his daughter. Sorrow ignored the sting beneath her ribs at the dismissal.

  “I’m not sure—” Vespus began

  “It’s all right,” Mael said. He nodded at the Rhyllian, until Vespus took a step back. Then he looked at Harun. “Why don’t you and I break our fast together? We can eat, and talk, just the two of us. I’d … I’d like that.”

  Some of the tension left the room.

  “An excellent suggestion.” Harun’s voice sounded thick. “We’ll eat here… If you don’t mind?” he added.

  “Not at all,” Mael said graciously. “I bow to your expertise.”

  “Excellent,” Harun said. And then he smiled.

  It was a terrible sight, his thin, chapped lips gaping wide, exposing the damage to his teeth from years of neglect. He looked like a madman, the smile a frightening leer, and yet something inside Sorrow yawned open, some black hole, some cave – a lonely, dark place that she would always occupy. Harun had smiled for Mael. She was outside of this. She had always been outside.

  “Where is Rasmus?” Vespus called then, the name catching her attention. “I’ll break my fast with him.”

  Sorrow kept her eyes down as Charon replied. “Rasmus has left Rhannon. He resigned his position last night.”

  “Why?” Vespus’s voice was laced with suspicion.

  “That’s for him to say,” Charon replied. “He offered to resign, and I accepted.”

  “Come,” Irris whispered to Sorrow, urging her to move, as Vespus began to ask Charon exactly what his son had said, and where he’d gone. “We’ll eat in my rooms. Father can join us there.” She ushered Sorrow past the Jedenvat, and her father. Mael gave her a small smile as she passed, but she couldn’t return the gesture. Instead she turned from him and strode away, as though it had been her decision to leave all along.

  Harun and Mael were ensconced for hours. Breakfast, lunch, then finally supper came, and Mael remained locked away in the council room with Harun. To her surprise, Charon told Sorrow there was nothing they could do, so she might as well make the most of the palace. Hidden behind the high walls, Sorrow a
nd Iris spent much of the afternoon wandering through the orchards and across vibrant green lawns, pointing out flowers to each other, avoiding any mention of Mael, Harun, Rasmus or what might be happening in the palace as they walked.

  They sat on the edge of a fountain and kicked off their shoes, lowering their feet into the cool water, slapping gnats away when they tried to land on them. They pulled branches down towards them and plucked fruit from trees, wiping their sticky fingers on their skirts afterwards. When the sun reached its highest point, Shevela bought them sweet, tangy ices on sticks, and they sucked them as they lounged in the shade of the trees, staring up at an endlessly blue sky. The garden was home to a variety of bright-red-and-green bird with a wickedly curved beak, and they were awestruck when one landed a few feet away from them, regarding the girls curiously. When Sorrow whistled at it, it whistled the same tune back, to her and Irris’s delight.

  It was idyllic, but it was an illusion; every time Sorrow glimpsed the palace through the foliage it cast a cloud on the day; she remembered everything that had happened, and might still happen inside it. Too soon the spell was broken, and they drifted back inside, to learn Harun and Mael had not yet emerged, and would not let anyone in.

  Without planning to, everyone at the palace ended up dining together for their evening meal, Charon, Bayrum and Tuva sitting with Sorrow and Irris on one long banqueting table, and Balthasar, Kaspira and Samad opposite them on another. Sorrow had a mean stab of satisfaction on seeing Vespus’s irritation at being left out of whatever her father and the boy were doing. He sat with Aphora and Melakis at the far end of her table, and the three talked softly in Rhyllian. Sorrow didn’t miss the fact that every time the doors opened Vespus sat up straight, only to slump when it was a servant carrying more bread or water.

  The hour grew late; servants walked the room, turning on the gas lamps on the walls, lighting citronella candles to keep away any insects that had snuck in. Everyone had lingered, again, that unspoken synergy that meant if one left, they’d be the last to know if – or when – anything changed. Charon was at a table alone, going through papers with a frown and scratching notes to himself. Bayrum and Tuva had dug out an old set of cards from somewhere and were trying to play a game, though neither seemed to remember the rules, bickering softly as they muddled through.

  Aphora and Vespus stood in silence at the far end of the room, both holding back a curtain, seemingly staring out into the night, while Melakis remained seated alone.

  Balthasar and his cohorts were clearly preparing to settle in for the night, summoning one of the servers to bring them a carafe of wine, and glasses. He kept glancing at Sorrow, sitting near the windows, not bothering to disguise his wrath, before turning back to the others and muttering, causing them to look at her too.

  “Are your ears burning?” Irris asked her, cooling herself gently with a fan she’d fashioned out of a napkin. “Because mine are, and I’m sure I’m not who they’re speaking about.”

  “I didn’t expect to see Balthasar here.”

  “Neither did we. I would have thought after Alyssa’s death he’d have returned to their home to grieve.”

  “Who told him?” Sorrow asked.

  “I couldn’t say.” Irris shrugged.

  “It should have been me, or at least your father. I should offer my condolences,” Sorrow said.

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Irris warned. “He’ll take this out on you if he can.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I was there. And I’m … I should have done it earlier.”

  She rose, and made her way over to the table, all of whom turned to her as one, with a predatory gleam in their eyes. Sorrow became aware that the room had stilled; Bayrum and Tuva fell silent, and there was no sound of pen scratching, or shuffled papers from where Charon sat. She took a deep breath.

  “Senator Balthasar, I’d like to offer my condolences for the loss of your wife. Please let me know if there is anything I can do for you.”

  The senator stared at her.

  There was a collective intake of breath, and during those few seconds Balthasar’s olive skin darkened, and his eyes narrowed. His lips curled back, he bared his teeth, and Sorrow braced herself.

  But the storm came from a different direction.

  Before Balthasar could say a word, the doors to the dining room were thrown open. And there, in the centre, stood Harun and Mael, arms around each other’s shoulders, faces lit with matching smiles.

  Sorrow, Balthasar, all was forgotten at the sight of the two men standing together.

  Harun looked reborn; he stood taller, prouder, his eyes were clear. Someone had neatened his whiskers, trimming them right back, and they’d removed the remains of his hair, his head oiled and shining. The shadows under his eyes seemed faded; his skin looked less dull.

  Though it was his clothes that made Sorrow’s heart falter and flutter in her chest.

  Harun was dressed in a soft blue tunic over royal-blue trousers, gold chains around his neck. And beside him Mael wore teal, stitched with red. The brightness of the colours hurt Sorrow’s eyes, hurt everyone’s eyes, and they all blinked, looking at the pair from the side of their eyes.

  “Bring us wine,” Harun called in a clear, strong voice. “Open the curtains. Open the doors. For my son has returned.”

  Many Happy Returns

  The clamour was not instant. Instead, a hush fell over the room as the impact of Harun’s words sank in, the two men framed by the doorway like a tableau at the end of a play. Then, as though the council were an audience and had finally remembered they had a job to do, there was movement, applause, cries of delight and surprise.

  Balthasar shoved past Sorrow, sending her stumbling, in his bid to be the first to reach Harun and Mael, as everyone descended upon the chancellor and the boy. Even the servants abandoned their posts and stepped forward, milling on the outskirts of the group.

  Only Sorrow, Irris and Charon held back from the crowd. Charon wheeled himself away from the table, but paused halfway across the room; Irris moved to his side, placing a hand on his shoulder. Charon looked up at her, and Sorrow found herself turning to seek out Rasmus, needing comfort of her own.

  He was gone, she remembered then. But Vespus was there, striding across the room, his own smile spreading as he moved, his arms held out in welcome, Aphora behind him.

  Sorrow stood alone.

  “Where is my sister?” a voice called, and the group parted, leaving Sorrow exposed before her father and, so he said, her brother.

  “Yes, child, come forward.” Harun did not take his eyes off Mael as he spoke.

  Sorrow found herself moving, though she didn’t want to, walking forward to be embraced by Mael. Someone patted her shoulder as the man who claimed to be her brother folded her into his arms – Harun, she realized, still keeping one arm locked around Mael, held fast to him. She heard the cheers of the people around them, half-hearted now she’d joined them.

  Sorrow really was all she brought.

  She tilted her chin upwards, and looked out, over their heads. She kept her expression clear, as though she was happy to be there. As though she celebrated with them, when inside she was cold.

  Be careful what you wish for, a voice murmured in her mind. You might actually get it.

  Mael finally released her, but put an arm around her and brought her to his side, so the three Ventaxises were standing together, facing the room. Charon and Irris had joined at the fringe, and offered identical looks of pity and concern.

  “I have been blessed,” Mael said, and though he didn’t raise his voice, the chatter ended at once. “Eighteen years ago, I should perhaps have died. Many did, trying to save me, and others suffered.” He offered a nod to Charon – clearly someone had told him how the vice chancellor came to be in a wheeled chair. “But by the will of the Graces, I survived and found a home and family in Rhylla. Two families –” he smiled at Vespus, who inclined his head “– and today I have found a third. My fir
st family. In my first home. I don’t think it was a coincidence that I fell on the day the peace treaty between our countries was signed. In fact, the more I think on it, the more I think it was by design. Because of it, I am a child of both nations. Eighteen years ago, my father sought to bring about a peace between Rhannon and Rhylla, and in me I believe that hope is fulfilled.”

  Hope fulfilled – not so humble now. The voice came unbidden again into Sorrow’s mind, and she recognized it now. Rasmus. For a moment she was overwhelmed with longing for him. For his touch, and his presence. She wouldn’t feel so bad, so alone, if he were there. No, she reminded herself. That’s not fair.

  Harun spoke. “I…” He faltered, and looked to his son. Mael nodded encouragingly, and he took a breath before continuing. “I have not been … myself, for some time.”

  Understatement, Imaginary Rasmus whispered to Sorrow.

  “The loss of my wife and son shook me to the core,” Harun was saying. “Left me in a place that was dark, with no way out, and no solace.”

  If only you’d had another child to care for and cherish… Rasmus’s ghost muttered, and Sorrow’s lips twitched.

  “I have done things I’m ashamed of,” Harun said. “Behaved in ways that didn’t behove the chancellor of this great nation. I have let you and Rhannon down, and I owe my Jedenvat, and my late mother, eternal thanks for working so hard in my absence, and for keeping the land together.”

  Phew. For a second I thought he was going to mention you. That would have been awkward, the Rhyllian voice joked. But Sorrow wasn’t tempted to smile any more.

  “I vow, though, as of today, I am a new man. I will preside over a new Rhannon. For my son has returned.”

  The Jedenvat broke into applause at the end of the speech, and Harun nodded cheerfully, accepting their praise. They stepped forward then, eager to shake the hand of the chancellor and his son, and it was easy for Sorrow to allow herself to be moved aside, back to the outside of the group.