by D M Wozniak
A large covered wagon approaches from the south, and I step off the gravel again, well past the sandy roadside, to escape the dust. I wipe the sweat off my brow, and realize I am thirsty and exhausted. The sun has beat down on me for most of the day as I foolishly followed the footprints of a ghost. And while my flaxen cloak is incredibly lightweight, its black color absorbs much of the summer heat.
A grove of tall pines stands behind me, its shade refreshing. So I decide to go in deeper and lay down on the bed of dry needles that blanket the ground. Some rest will do me good before I head back home. But when I lean my hand on a nearby trunk for support, I curse loudly and inspect my palm.
It’s covered entirely in tree sap.
I moan in utter annoyance.
There’s no way to get this grime off using natural means, at least until I return home.
I collapse down on the needles with my soiled hand laid out in front of me, and I touch the voidstone with the other. This use of voidance will only tire me more, but the thought of traveling through the crowded citadel with sap on my hand is more than I can bear.
In the world of black and non-black, I work on separating the indivisibles from each other. Instead of the humming ropes of Marine’s bed sheets, I weave between rounded honeycomb structures, almost like the black road I took here, except this road covers the mountainous terrain of my palm. Massive trees, not unlike the pines hanging over me, jut out every so often. They are the hairs on my skin. The more I enter the area with the sap, the more the honeycomb take over.
I stop.
I’ve seen these honeycomb before.
Letting go, the world around me snaps back as I fervently search my cloak’s pockets. I find it and pull it out, peeling the square of white fabric apart to reveal the black substance in-between.
Marine’s soiled linen.
Though the color of the grime is different than the sap on my palm, it’s clear they’re both honeycomb, and when I get as close as I can, the indivisibles are nearly the same.
My heart races as I finish cleaning my hand. When I release the stone, I look at the shaved remains of the sap, crystallized and hardened, that lie on the pine needles between my legs. I know then why the colors are different: the raw sap is amber, while the substance on the towel is black—one can become the other.
I recall my studies from years ago, back when the king’s father ruled. He had asked me for help because the fleet was taking on leaks. We developed the end product to waterproof the hulls of large ships. Without it, the king’s navy would sink into the abyss.
I started by making a herringbone pattern of cuts on the trunk, and then collected the sap in a pot at the base of the tree. When the sap finished flowing, the tree was chopped down and burned. The resulting black powder was added to the boiling pine resin.
This is what creates the black pitch.
Perhaps it’s because I’ve overused the voidstone. Perhaps it’s because of the heat. Or perhaps it’s because of this newfound revelation. Whatever the cause, I lay on my back and stare into the blue-green heights of the pines above me. They sway in the breeze, sounding like the wind in the void.
It’s obvious to me that before Marine left, she had been around a shipyard. And I can think of only one reason for a woman of her caliber being in a place like that. Preparations for a journey.
Marine took a ship.
Voidreaming
There’s a knock on my bedchamber door, but I already know who it is. I can hear the large man breathing through his mouth like a fireplace bellows. No wonder Submaster Herrophilus hates visiting me. I’m in the top-most floor of the Royal House—a hard climb, even for someone who’s in shape.
“Come in.”
Herrophilus storms in, barely fitting past the door frame.
“How is it coming?” I ask him, referring to the new hospital being built in the lake district—the first of its kind outside the reaches of the citadel.
He nods. “Very well, but that is not the reason I am here. I have made a fortunate find.” Clearing his throat, he turns around, facing the open door and dark hallway beyond.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” he booms, his chest heaving, and his face glistening with sweat. “Show yourselves to the master voider.”
A young man and woman enter, both wearing tan and white riding clothes.
“This is Anaxarchis and Marine,” the submaster says to me between breaths, as he extends a hand in their direction. “I plucked them from the northern town of Giriya, by the lake.”
“Why were you in Giriya?” I ask.
“I found them on my way back from the hospital site. My wagon hit a hole in the road and needed repair.”
“You didn’t think to fix it with voidance?”
“I did,” he answers defensively. “But the balance was off, so I stopped by the wheelwright in Giriya, which is owned by this boy’s father. The moment I saw him, I thought that he might have the gift.”
“Why?”
He shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t know. You know how it is. When you’ve been doing field admissions for so long, you just sort of get a hunch with some people.”
I nod as he motions towards the boy. “I had asked him to do the touch test. At first, he was too nervous.”
I glance at the boy. I suppose, technically, he is a man, but he looks sheepishly at the floor. He’s small—maybe five feet tall. The same height as the girl.
“And then this one comes in,” Herrophilus says, glaring at her. “She’s the boy’s second cousin. Once she heard what was going on, she walked right up to me and grabbed my stone. Impulsive little brat. Father owns half of Giriya and she’s been raised to think the same. Did the touch test without my even asking permission.”
I switch my attention to the young, blonde woman in front of me. Her white, cotton shirt is tied tightly around her waist at the side in a knot. She’s gathering a ponytail in her hands and biting a jeweled hair ring in her teeth that is the same color as her sea-blue eyes.
“This seemed to give the boy here enough courage to do the same.” He laughs. “Can you believe it? Two voiders in the same lake town.”
“Are there any other voiders in your family?” I ask both of them. “Any history of voidance?”
Anaxarchis shakes his head while continuing to look at the floor, but Marine stares intently at me. Unlike the boy, she does not seem intimidated. She seems intrigued.
She finishes tying up her hair while retrieving her blue hair ring from her mouth. “No. My family has enough power in Giriya without resorting to the black arcana.”
Herrophilus gasps in disbelief, and then raises his hand to strike her in the face, but I catch his arm before it connects.
“Such insolence cannot be tolerated!” he yells.
I give him a patient, understanding nod as I release his wrist.
Still, he turns to the girl, a vein protruding from his reddened forehead. “You are speaking to the master voider, girl. Watch your tongue.”
Marine ignores him. She looks around my luxurious room calmly. Without hesitation, she walks over to my desk, pulls one of my books off of the shelf, and opens it.
“My submaster is right.” I say to her back. “You don't seem to respect or appreciate the opportunity we're giving you. My library isn't a Giriyan fishmarket, you know—”
“Is this Asima's complete writings of Xiland?” she interrupts, looking at me excitedly while her blonde ponytail whips behind her like one of Anna’s feather dusters.
“Put that back!” Herrophilus gasps.
Instead of complying, she rifles through the leather-bound book, finding a page illustrated with a map. She places a slender finger on it, as if tracing where she currently is in the world, and planning how to get to the place she wants to be.
Herrophilus yells again, and she jumps, reluctantly setting the volume back down on my desk.
“It is one of ten volumes,” I say. “My scribes are working on copying the later ones.”
“Have you been to Xi Bay?”
I nod.
“I’ve heard it’s more beautiful than anything,” she says dreamily.
“Almost anything.”
I approach her, and I see her swallow nervously.
Her blue eyes dart downward to my chest, where my voidstone is resting at the bottom of my necklace, before meeting my gaze again.
“Is that why you agreed to come to the citadel with the submaster? Just to learn about the southern lands?”
She shakes her head. “It’s more than just that.”
“Explain, then.”
She bites her lip, as if contemplating how much truth to share, but then she suddenly opens up, her voice getting quicker and louder with each passing word.
“Giriya is a small town full of small-minded people. Your submaster is right in the sense that my family owns most of it. I could live my entire life there without worry. Marry some fat fishmonger. Give him a net-full of babies. But that’s not my dream. I was meant for more.”
“Then start acting like it,” warns Herrophilus.
She ignores him. She’s been talking too fast, and must catch her breath. Meanwhile, I pick the book up off of my desk and place it back in her hands.
“When you’re done reading it, come see me,” I say. “We will discuss it together.”
She nods once excitedly, while slowly looking around the room at the gilded mirrors, candelabrum, and damask curtains blowing in the breeze from the balcony. And for the first time, a content, appreciative smile crosses her face. Her body softens too, as if she has finally let her guard down.
I try not to focus on how incredibly beautiful she is.
"Thank you," she says, motioning to the book in her hands.
I nod. "We may be a far cry from Giriya, but I feel that you'll be glad you joined us."
“I already am,” she says without hesitation. “I was never meant for that place. I was never meant for the ordinary.”
“No,” I agree. “I don't suppose you were.”
Dinner with the King
I fell asleep underneath the pines.
After that, my desperate search for Marine’s ship was cut short. Covered in dust and sweat, I had no choice but to head back to the Royal House. I drew a cold bath myself, since Elrich was out fetching my boots from the cobbler. I quickly changed into new undergarments and threw on a fresh, flaxen cloak, arriving on time, panting and exhausted, just before sevenbell.
That was a fullbell ago.
Ever since, I have been pacing alone in this cavernous dining room. It’s King Andrej X’s twisted sense of power at work. I’m sure that he believes he is exerting dominance over me by having me wait, but all he is doing is making the two of us hungry.
Even in his absence, he makes me miss his father.
I’ve been in this room countless times, but never alone. I could spend days here, admiring the luxurious details without having to split my attention between it and someone else. And after the day I’ve had, I find it strangely calming to be surrounded in such delicate silence.
The walls are goldleaf, reflecting the burnished candlelight. Most of it comes from the center chandelier, which has precisely fifty candles. I’ve counted them twice. Five gold candelabras sit on the wooden dining table that crosses the entire room. It’s polished so well that it resembles a mirror. Fifty chairs surround it. I wonder if the matching number of chairs and candles is a coincidence.
Below the table lays an ornate rug, equally as large with yellow stars, orange fish, and tangled white nets, all against a field of brilliant blue. I touch my voidstone for a moment, just to make sure it is woven, and not some painting instead. It must be from the archipelago—they are known for such work.
Turning my attention back to the wall, I study the framed portraits. They flank a fireplace so large I could easily walk into it. The painting I admire the most is of King Andrej IX—the father, who died five years ago. It depicts the moment right after a bow hunt when he downed an impressive whitetail buck. I remember the day vividly. The meat was given to the families of the Royal House servants for wintertide—something I could never see Andrej X doing.
A small clock on one of the buffet tables that lines the room begins chiming brightly. Before it ends, a deeper yet faraway sound from the effulgency temple joins in. The sounds overlap like lovers embracing.
It’s eightbell.
The sound of many footsteps comes my way.
Simultaneously, three of the room’s doors open. The fourth, which leads to the balcony, remains closed though its windows reveal dusk advancing upon the square below. Dozens of gloved servants spill in, carrying covered dishes. A musician has his violin perched upon his shoulder, and he begins playing the moment he steps into the room. Soon, most of the servants set their dishes down and stand still against the goldleaf walls. Finally, the king enters, wearing blue robes that match the carpet.
I stop admiring the memory of his father, and bow.
He lets out an enormous sigh. “Do you know how glad I am that it’s just the two of us?” he says, approaching the table. “I am so sick of dealing with people.”
I stay in a bowed position, since he has not told me to rise.
“Your majesty, it is an honor to dine privately with you tonight,” I answer to the orange fish at my feet, feeling sorry for them. We both seem to be trapped in the king’s nets.
“Stand up straight, Dem. Come, let’s eat.”
The king sits down at the head of the table, and I follow in my assigned seat next to him. A servant holds the heavy chair for me, pushing it in gently.
“I heard what happened with that slut wife of yours.”
For a moment, I am too shocked to speak.
“It is saddening and humiliating, your majesty,” I answer. There is no other way to handle this situation besides guarded honesty. If the king wants to discuss my heartache, then I must discuss it. But I do not have to embellish.
I look left towards the young Andrej, sitting at the head of the table. He is so young—in his late twenties. He is soft, clean-skinned, and overweight, and his hair is parted perfectly, almost to the point of oddity.
A mischievous smile creeps across his face. “I saw the head effulgent in the gardens. He said you were scouring Xi Bay Road for her. Based on your demeanor, I assume you came up empty.”
I close my eyes in frustration, as he laughs. He grabs his empty wine glass and taps the table with it a few times. A servant comes running over and pours us both redcurrent wine, starting with the king.
“Why the two of you don’t get along, I will never understand,” he says, referring to the effulgent and me. “You’re very similar, you know.”
“I fail to see how.”
“Well, for one, you both exist to do my bidding.” He follows up the statement with a large gulp of wine, and I have to refrain from wincing. This vintage is probably one of the best in the Northern Kingdom, and he’s not even savoring it.
“You are correct, your majesty, but I fail to see how the effulgency does your bidding, unless you actually believe in the so-called power of their prayers.”
The day’s events have caused me the slip of the tongue, to push my commentary to the point of offense, and I grip my crystal glass tightly. But shockingly, he continues on, as if I had not overstepped any bounds.
“Of course I don’t believe in that pig shit. We had thirty effulgents from across the kingdom praying over my father when he fell, and it didn’t help.”
He downs the rest of his glass like a fool, and yet there is something about him that is still impressive. That’s when I place it.
He’s a master of perception.
In public, Andrej presents himself as the holiest of acolytes. He defends the faith and recognizes the head effulgent’s supposed authority, yet here in private, all of that falls away. His public persona is like the dark dining room table, polished to perfection, a reflection that everyone wants to see. But what lies u
nderneath the sheen? What other guarded truths is this man built of?
“You know what the head effulgent brings me?” he asks.
“No, your majesty.”
“The people. He brings me the people.”
Servants silently set down plates of food in front of us, our first course. They raise the gold lids, and aromas of seafood, lemon and bitter arugula engulf me. I’m surprised to see baby squid. They come from the Xi Bay, which is practically ground zero in the war with the Southern Kingdom. I’ve not had it in years.
“You see, I need the people on my side.”
“I see.”
“And of course, I also need them to behave.”
“Behave?”
Sticking a baby squid into his mouth, he continues to speak while chewing.
“I don’t have the resources to patrol this kingdom for petty criminals, not when there is a war going on.”
“But you are the king,” I say. “Obedience should be implicit.”
“My blood-right is not enough,” he barks. “The memory of my father is not enough. The fact that my people don’t starve to death in winter is not enough. That’s why I need the effulgency. They instill morals into the people. If the effulgents tell the people to pray for me, they will follow my orders as well. The effulgents are my donkeys, and on their backs they carry the masses.”
Young Andrej’s perspective is certainly unique and interesting, but it’s darkly elaborate, and it might be more complex than how the world actually works. A small part of me thinks he might be brilliant. But the lion’s share thinks he’s just lazy and perverted.
If you want to be a good king, then be a good king. Rule your kingdom justly and through hard work, and your people will love you back. It’s that simple.
“Then what am I, your majesty?” I ask without thinking.
My question takes him off guard, and he looks at me with a confused expression. And since I’ve already passed the point of no return, I give him a softened explanation.
“You said the head effulgent is your donkey, and you also said that he and I are very much the same. So I am wondering if I am your donkey too.”
