by A J Burns
“Well then, how can a name be ugly?” she asked. Then, having realized they had digressed, she said: “And why not? It’s full of orchards and waterfalls—”
“When it’s a bunch of ugly puh and buh sounds strung together,” he interrupted with. “You can’t go because it’s not safe.”
“They’re fighting in Grofven.”
“But our enemies sleep in Hyten.” He gave her one of his many disapproving stares. “Now I would appreciate if you didn’t question me further.”
Emowyn stepped over a patch of ice and leaned against the railing. The sundog was still shining brightly, and she was certain her mother had sent it. “That’s her spirit, isn’t it? I know it is.”
“It might just be…. Your mother is always with us.”
“I can almost feel her presence—as alive as you or I.”
“I do not doubt that your mother will be with you tonight.” He stood and hugged her goodbye. “Put on your red dress—or your black one—but nothing too fancy—and nothing too sloppy either.”
“Yes, Father.”
The frost-bug flew from his pants as he stepped inside. Emowyn was fond of animals and valued their lives more than her own. She would never purposefully do anything to hurt one. When she had learned where steak and venison came from, she refused to eat meat and even let free a couple of their cattle from the farm. The frost-bug glided onto her shoulder, showing a brilliant array of crimson. She loved animals. But this is no animal; it’s a bug. She flicked it off her shoulder and drove it into the ground.
As she prepared for brunch, she discovered that the black dress was too sloppy and the red dress too fancy. She spent an unnecessary amount of time deciding between them.
The cafeteria where nobility had gathered was lit by the sun. A system of mirrors and windows directed the rays so that no corner was darkened. Parmosi servants hurried through the aisles, carrying trays too big to navigate with but attempting such anyhow. Guests toasted and produced clinking sounds by hitting their champagne glasses together. This milieu was almost too much for Emowyn to absorb. Nobility smiled at her, bowed or curtsied to her, hugged her, kissed her, and offered her promises she didn’t quite understand.
“She’s such a delight,” said one lady. “Tefvon, you have raised a beautiful daughter.”
“She takes after her mother.” He lowered his head to whisper in Emowyn’s ear. “Don’t let all this commotion unnerve you. Everybody is here to see you.”
“I’m not unnerved,” she lied. She was directed to the center table; it was large and round, able to seat sixty people at least. The tables around it had seating on only one side so that everybody could watch the royalty.
A massive painting of two black vultures adorned the walls. For such horrid creatures, she thought, it was amazing that they would mate for life. Maisi had told her stories of how these vultures would attack their own if they discovered one cheating. The Sworfaurs considered them to be the epitome of honor and even adopted their image as the emblem of their heraldry.
Emowyn curtsied beside her prince. He pulled out a chair, kissed her on the lips, and insisted she be seated first. Sworgh was very handsome, but it was obvious he had worn his “black dress” for this occasion. “Thank you, prince,” she said.
“You look majestic, princess.” He gave no pretense of being a man but acted truthful to his boyish ways. “I’m so pleased to see you have worn my gift.”
She lifted her arm so that the light could shimmer on her bracelet. “A wonderful gift from my future husband.”
Five knifes, two forks, three spoons, and eight napkins accompanied every plate on the table. They had done things differently in Vykten. Emowyn had never felt this awkward before a meal, but she knew she could just smile away her humiliation should it arise.
She didn’t recognize most of the faces in attendance, but she did gleam that of Theon Beritta: the patriarch of Vykten’s wealthiest noble family. The Berittas ruled over the eastern territory. Each province was divided into territories; those territories were further divided into counties, ruled by reevs, and into towns overseen by altons. Only families that governed territories were truly noble; those that governed counties and towns were elected and reviewed by the senate. Traditionally, they held their positions until the death of the patriarch.
Emowyn saw the Henesons and Macores but was unable to differentiate between the members of each family. Giacomo Stakore was sitting as an outlier at their section of tables, gulping down a chalice of milk and then stuffing lamb into his mouth.
A jester jumped about the aisles. The bells on his floppy hat bounced up and down. He handed flowers to the children and laughed manically at random, making him a favorite of parents and children alike. The only person obviously annoyed by him was Gulon Macore who had been nicknamed “The Bitter Guard” by her father; not only was Gulon unreceptive to the jester, but he was disinterested in every piece of food that had been offered to him.
It was difficult to hear with all the chatter, but she could always recognize her father’s voice. “How delightful of you to bless us with the presence of the Hytaurian chief,” he said, pointing at the jester.
Ketewyn Sworfaur sniggered. “What a fine resemblance is shared between them!”
Byson sat to the right of Emowyn, an ostrich plume on his hat. Her elder brother had sent him here to give blessings. He had a cute face, and his long hair was tied in a ponytail that swayed as he talked. “Very similar indeed,” he said. “Whose idea was it?”
“The Sworfaurians of course,” said her father.
“We didn’t hire him,” Ketewyn said. “Sworgh, did your uncle arrange this?”
“No, Mother.” Sworgh was too busy eating to have given much attention. “Not that I can recall.”
“I bet it was Kron,” said Emowyn, talking to her prince. “He knows I love jokers.”
Her father pushed his chair backwards and walked towards the entrance.
“What’s wrong, Father?”
“It’s nothing, darling.” He rubbed his hand against her shoulder. “I’ll return in a minute. Don’t worry about me when you have your prince in your presence.”
“Why hello there,” said Sworgh smiling. “It’s nice to meet you; I will be your prince for the evening.”
“How did you know?” Emowyn asked playfully. “It’s what I’ve always wanted!”
She was very interested in talking with her prince, but she was looking for her father. Something was amiss. Gulon and Byson, joined by a group of others, had risen from the table and were conversing with other guests, and she sensed impatience as they moved from table to table. Alko Beritta finished his third cocktail and walked off in the opposite direction.
The jester had vanished. “Where’d the floppy hat go?” she asked.
“Probably taking his break.” Sworgh shrugged. “You’re not bored, are you?”
“Not at all.” She was cautious to not offend him. “So, your mother says you’re an admiral of the navy.”
“Honorary admiral.” He blushed. “I just woke up one morning and bam, I was an admiral.”
She tittered. “I wish everything were that easy.”
A ghoulish man walked to the table. “Princess,” he said as he bowed to her. “I’ve come to give you my wishes.”
“Thank you,” she said. “What is your name?” This man appeared to have seen many battlefields, with scars having distorted whatever his previous visage might have been. She was somewhat honored to be greeted by such a brave soldier.
“My name means nothing in your presence.” He smiled as he walked from the table and then gave a wave goodbye.
“Well that was odd,” she said to Sworgh.
“It’s Sworfaurian tradition. The nobles like to grant their wishes without drawing attention to themselves. It’s a sign of respect.”
Her father rejoined the table. “The jester was a gift from some Sworfaurian nobility,” he said. “Now eat up; we have a long day ahead of us.”
They finished their meals; afterwards, the Sworfaurian chief took them for a tour of the hedge maze. The hedges were seven feet high and spanned at least an acre. Nobody seemed to have an explanation for how the maze had gotten there. “Our family has just maintained it over the years,” said Ketewyn. “Surely it was built by one of our great-ancestors.”
“Teacher said the natives built it millennia ago,” Sworgh blurted out. “It predates the Raurs having even arrived in Vehymen.”
“Nonsense!” said Ketewyn. “Our family has always been here. The Raurs have built everything in this country—and I shall be having a talk with your ‘teacher.’”
Sworgh lowered his head, and they continued the tour.
Emowyn knew it was unacceptable for someone to question their elders, as if age magically turned fools into sages. “An old moron is just a young moron with arthritis,” her father used to say. Then he himself became an “old moron,” and suddenly the axiom didn’t apply.
The day felt like it would never end, but night approached as it inevitably would. Maisi was waiting for Emowyn when she returned to her suite. Maisi had been serving the Vyktaurian family since before Emowyn was born. “You excited?” she asked the princess.
“Yes.” She plopped herself on a big, red cushion. “My only wish is that more of my family could be here.”
“I know them fine enough to know that they’re thinking about you at this very moment.”
“I’m not so sure.” Emowyn wanted to ask her how she could remain so calm in the presence of people unlike her, especially considering the war between their ethnicities; but she was afraid of offending her. “They’ve probably forgotten.”
“I doubt that very much.” Maisi had long blonde hair and brown eyes. Emowyn imaged she might have been beautiful as a young girl. “Your brothers love you more than anything.”
“I know they love me, but Father makes war sound like a terrible thing.” Her father had described war as being a big fight between provinces, but she had difficulty imaging anything more intricate than that. “Have you ever seen war?”
“I’ve saw lots of war. A nasty thing it is.”
“Then why do people fight it?”
“Because they’re stubborn.” Maisi looked at her without any signs of thought. “But, alas, it isn’t our place to talk of such. It’s your wedding day, and it’ll be the most memorable day of your life. Hurry up and get dressed; you’ll wanna be early.”
Maisi helped her adorn her dress and make certain that everything was perfect. “I wish you could come,” said Emowyn.
“Me as well, but I’ll be there for when you get back.”
“I will make sure to visit before I leave for my honeymoon.”
“Don’t be silly. Enjoy your wedding and everything it brings with it.” She kissed Emowyn on the cheek. “Now get going.”
Her father was waiting in the hall, and he accompanied her downstairs.
The ceremonial hall had a sweet, graceful silence as she walked down the aisle holding onto her father’s arm. Everybody was watching them. The prince stood by the altar, a happy countenance having overtaken his face. His younger cousin had thrown about flowers on the carpet. Everything was so majestic, Emowyn thought.
Her father led her to the altar and then held the bottom of her dress as she ascended the steps. “I love you,” he said. “You’ll always be my baby-girl.”
11
Sworgh Sworfaur
Sworfaurian Heir
Sworgh gazed into the eyes of his beloved, their hands enjoined as they prepared to deliver their vows.
Emowyn bit her lip and smiled at him, the purple specs of her irises bright in the evening light.
He yearned to lean forward, to kiss her, and to make official his day’s ambition. Luckily for him, with his resolve having started to wane, the Master-of-Ceremony interjected, separating their hands with a gentle touch before addressing the audience.
“It is my honor to be residing over this holy matrimony,” said the Master-of-Ceremony. “But before I begin….” He pulled something from his pocket. “I would like to present a gift on behalf of the Hytaurian chief.”
Everything happened so quickly, from the knife burrowing itself in her heart to the panic that arose after it. Emowyn’s body had gone limp and tumbled to the platform as soon as the knife was pulled from her chest. Blood seeped into the white fabric of her dress and spread out in small bands, thinning as it trickled down her side.
Sworgh hadn’t moved, and he somehow thought that such idleness would serve as a shield. The Master-of-Ceremony stumbled backwards, pulling the satin down with him. Someone, somewhere, had shot an arrow into his stomach.
One-tenth of the people in attendance were brandishing weapons; mostly, they were at opposite ends of each bench so that those in the middle were trapped. Sworgh could hear wood slamming against metal, and he knew the doors had been locked from within.
His mother was calling for her guardsmen. “Victon!” she yelled, but Sworgh saw that his body was sprawled atop the carpet.
Two greasy men ran at her. She was fast and agile with a sword, and Sworgh knew she would be alright. He crouched beside his princess, searching for some sign of life, but he felt no pulse and heard no breath.
“Emowyn,” he mumbled. “No…, please.” His eyes were watering, and his entire body shook. He thought he might pray her back to life as he held her tightly.
His mother sliced one man from nipple to naval. The Vyktaurian chief was too elderly to fight; he rolled on the ground, dodging the blows as best he could, the attention of his Royal Guardsmen seemingly elsewhere. A freckled man raised his mace and swung it at Tefvon who used his cane to block; and although he managed to avert another strike, the assassins continued to throw themselves at him.
Alko Beritta vanquished three men with five motions of his blade and was about to save his chief, but he recoiled as a knife slashed his neck.
Those between the benches pushed at each other; some tried jumping the stalls, but every time they were able to free themselves from the crowd, an assassin was there ready to pounce. A poor soul had found that he was the last survivor of his row. Men approached him from each side. The stab from behind pushed him forward, and the other put him back in his place.
Sworgh’s denial and perception bickered internally until they manifested themselves into rage. He grabbed the fallen knife and charged into the aisle, willing to flay a man into a thousand pieces, setting his sight on a man standing above Tefvon. Sworgh hooked the man directly in his eye and then stabbed, gashed, and sliced the man till there was a bloody pulp where his face had been.
Sworgh clasped Tefvon by his arm and pulled him upwards. “What’s going on?” he asked. “Who are these people?” It was a question he knew the answer to; the Mathon family wasn’t alone in their betrayal, but they were by far the most numerous.
Tefvon looked at him blankly before stumbling to his daughter. “Not again….” His words and cries mingled in the midst of chaos.
There was banging at the western door, similar to that of a ram. Sworgh prayed for the nectors to be on the other side. The assassins were now a sixth of the crowd, and he knew his patrons couldn’t endure much more.
His mother was wailing her way towards him. “The lift! Hurry on!”
Sworgh had forgotten about the lift; if he climbed inside it, he could pull himself up the ropes. He contemplated making the dash to the other end of the room, but his conscience stayed him. A ram continued to beat against the door. “Please,” he said to himself. “Please be here to rescue.”
He spotted a path to the western door and launched himself at it. The freckled man swung at him, but Sworgh ducked and the mace slammed into the door. Again, the man attacked, and again Sworgh evaded, believing that if he could get the man to swing at the aisle, he could then dash for the door.
The sound was deafening. Sworgh was unable to discern between enemy and friend as he made his move and backed himself into
the crowd. Fighters brushed against him, cussing their opponents and slamming against them. He tried to ignore them as he left himself vulnerable in every direction.
The freckled man drew his mace back. Sworgh leapt forward, tumbling to the door and then ripping the wooden block from the handle and pushing it open. “Gods, let it be.” He felt the presence of somebody behind him. Standing on the other side of the entryway was an assorted bunch of Sworfaurian and Vyktaurian nectors. Byson tripped Sworgh and jabbed the freckled man in the ribcage. Nechton Heneson slashed the freckles from his face, and he fell to the ground dead.
The saviors were now there; as if combating nothing more than a common annoyance, the nectors disposed of the assassins in a timely manner. Sworgh waited at the doorway, observing as the enemies were subdued or killed.
Byson was particularly fearsome, wielding two swords, which he had used to simultaneously decapitate one man and slice another in half.
When the battle had ceased, only one sound remained; Tefvon sobbed into his daughter’s wedding dress.
Sworgh had heard a dozen of tales about death, but unlike those, real death brought with it no romance. Death provided no chance of final words and provided no closure for those involved. There was no peace or acceptance in her lifeless eyes, no poetry to be found in her blood-stained dress. Her once-beautiful image was limp and pale with a gaping wound where her beating heart had been.
Tefvon clung onto her body. Everything that had made her his daughter was gone, but he refused to let go as she passed from time to eternity. Beneath his sobs was a deep, raspy cry that blared every time he breathed, so harsh and unnerving that it sounded like the devil himself was weeping.
Others joined him with the mourning of their beloved, their reactions delayed by the threats to their own mortality.
Sworgh meandered to the stairs and plopped himself beside Tefvon where he grieved reticently, unaware of what he should do and even less aware of what he wanted to do. His in-law-that-would-have-been put his arm around him. The gesture brought random memories of Emowyn to his mind; it was some stupid, minor memory that forced him to tears.
