Arrenia stepped into the palace, a wave of bliss bathing her being, the radiance of her soul resounding through her twinkling eyes. She shed her cloak into the hands of the doormen, elegantly striding forward, face uplifted, arms outstretched. Twirling about, she laughed, watching the bright hues of gold, purple, and scarlet blend together in a brilliant banner of color. Her feet strode gracefully over the marble floor, as if to the measured beat of some inaudible melody. She spun about, her skirt spinning round her legs until she stopped, her cheeks flushed crimson.
“Oh, how wonderful it is to be home!” she said.
The guard tried not to let his troubled emotions bleed onto his face. “Yes, quite…Now come, the queen waits upon her throne.”
They made their way down the hall, Arrenia drinking the familiar sights of her lofty abode. Tapestries dangled from the ceiling, their interwoven threads chronicling important events in the lives of the de la Cornias. From carved out alcoves, candles projected their light into the room. Large paintings spanned the wall, depicting the deceased members of the family with artful clarity.
And it was before one of these that Arrenia stopped….
Squinting in the dim light, she barely dared to breathe. No! It couldn’t be! Was it?
“M…m…my father.” The word issued from her lips, barely heeded. A knot tightened in her stomach. Before the guard could even answer, she knew what the truth must be.
“Dead, my Lady. He has been at peace since the day you vanished.”
Arrenia pressed her fingers into a fist, crushing them with the strength of her grief. Her heart bled the tears she had not the strength to cry. Head drooping between her shoulders, she kept her back towards the guard, allowing a veil of hair to drape over her face. Lids clenched a taut seal across her vision, attempting to shun from her sight the painful depiction of grief masquerading beneath the pretty hues of paint. Pleasant memories flowed across her mind, deepening the wound wrought by wrongdoing. She knew well the slaying hands of Sleyvink had slaughtered her father, obliterating for eternity his smiling face and laughing eyes. The tear in her soul widened, threatening to rip apart.
Why, Ino? Why?!
No answer.
The guard behind her fidgeted nervously. “Perhaps I had best go tell her Highness that your ladyship is awaiting her summons?”
Not even glancing in his direction, Arrenia said, “Of course.”
Haste shuffled him out of the room. With a sigh of sadness, Arrenia de la Cornia sank to her knees. She was alone. Truly alone.
Castor pulled the strings, narrowing the neck of the sack until the ends met. All around him, the busy bustle of people resonated through the camp. Laughter and joy crackled through the air…they were going home.
The boy supposed he should have been excited. Sleyvink, his beautiful home! The streets with vendors calling out their wares, coins flying from one set of hands to another. The incessant voice of the caller standing proudly at his podium, proclaiming the latest news. The grassy plains, dull yet vibrant with untold mysteries and secrets. And the castle looming over them all, tall and foreboding, like a restless centurion standing his post.
He sighed. Where was the magical feeling that used to tug at his insides? Many a time before, he had embraced with great joy the land of his birth- why now did it seem so inferior, so loathsome to return?
“How goes your packing?” a voice behind him said.
“Well enough, Mother,” he said, shrugging the thought from his mind.
Long strides carrying her across the grass, she stood beside him, watching his hands stumble over each other. Arched shoulders slumped limply, his fingers scurrying to and fro, tripping over the items set before him. His gaze remained fixed upon his work, refusing to meet her probing hazel eyes.
“Why so dejected, my son?”
Gulping, he said, “Nothing.”
“Think you can fool me, do you?”
No answer. A small glisten glossed his eyes. Tongue roving over his lips, he stared at the cloth wall flapping in the wind momentarily.
“It’s the girl, is it not?”
Terror’s sharp claws dug into his face, scarring him with their impression. Chill spread from his soul, tingling his nerves and freezing him in his place. The dagger he held dropped to the table below.
The woman gave out a short laugh, slipping her arm gently about him. “I am a mother, dear. Do not think I did not notice how you would light up whenever she walked in the room!”
A fleeting smile crossed the boy’s lips, the warmth of his mother’s jovial manner thawing the cold that held him prisoner. It was not long, however, before the expression vanished, replaced by the redundant countenance of sadness.
“And it is now for her you grieve, is it not?
Nodding, he sniffed. Stuffing the dagger into a bag, he tried to concentrate on his work. He clenched his teeth together, trying to squash her memory between them.
“Please, dearie, not so sad, if it please you. There are plenty of other women in the world.”
Castor sighed. “But I can only give my heart to one.”
The woman stopped, taken aback by his words. Pity stirred her soul as she studied her son, the fruit of her womb. For a moment, she saw his little infant face, hallooed in his swaddling blanket. Sleepy eyes shut tight- the faint sound of a violin, from somewhere in her memory, lilting out a lullaby. Her finger embraced by his little fist…how could this young man before her be the same boy she had cradled in her arms? He had grown so fast- did she even know him?
“Well, the jousting tournament’s in a mere fortnight. I hear it will be Sleyvink’s finest,” she said.
“But I’m not even sure I want to return!”
Her mouth curved knowingly. “Oh, you will be glad enough once you have arrived. And the contest ought to take the girl from your mind.” She took his hand and kissed it. “I’m proud of you, Castor. More proud than you could ever know. Now, if you’ll beg my indulgence, I must return to the King and help him with his packing. I will see you tonight at dinner.”
He paused as she turned away from him. The words she uttered left him neither warm nor cold, but only desolate and empty. Yet sincerity sung through her words. She understood, and in that he could take comfort.
“Very well, Mother.”
No comments:
Post a Comment