Date: Mon, 18 Jul 2005 16:00:32 -0700 (PDT)
From: Kris Gibbons <bookwyrm6@yahoo.com>
Subject: SongSpell-36

This story is a work of fiction. It contains references to both sexual and
violent behaviour, along with expressions of physical affection. If you
find this type of story offensive, or if you are underage and it is illegal
for you to read it, please exit now. All characters are fictional and in no
way related to any persons living or deceased. Any such similarity is
purely coincidental and uncanny.

This work is copyrighted by the author and may not be reproduced in any
form without the specific written consent of the author. It is assigned to
the Nifty Archives under the provisions of their submission guidelines but
it may not be copied or archived onto any other site without the direct
consent of the author.

I do not know how well-received these chapters are. The only clues I get
are in emails from readers. Do you like the story? Hate it? Have liked it
since its emergence? Feel it is getting too obsessive? Not Tarantino
enough? Think Evendal should take a vow of silence? Let me know.

I can be contacted at Bookwyrm6@yahoo.com

Special thanks to Rob for editing.

Copyright 2003 Kristopher R. Gibbons. All rights reserved by the author.



                              36 A Plentiful Lack


                 Hamlet: Slanders, sir: for the satirical rogue says here
                 that old men have grey beards; that their faces are
                 wrinkled; their eyes purging thick amber and plum-
                 tree gum; and that they have a plentiful lack of wit,
                 together with most weak hams: all which, sir,
                 though I most powerfully and potently believe, yet
                 I hold it not honesty to have it thus set down; for
                 you yourself, sir, should be old as I am, if, like a
                 crab, you could go backward.

                                   Hamlet Act 2, Scene 2, lines 198-206


     Tentatively, Wytthenroeg asked, "Evendal, is there no more you can
tell me of the glow suffusing your eyes?"
     "I do not know what else to report."
     Kri-estaul interrupted with, "I can see him, no matter how bright he
gets."
     The lady grinned lightly. "Can you now? I can see him also."
     Evendal paused in taking a drink. "How do you mean?"
     "All that I view reaches my eye as dulled and hazy... bright, but with
a glare or a yellow fog. When I look your way, I see you with a depth of
colour and such clarity as I once gleaned off all objects."
     Evendal turned to the Archate. "This haze... Mistress, is there
nothing you can do? Whence this affliction?"
     "'Tis common with age."
     "That is no answer. Has it a remedy?"
     Sygkorrin shook her head.
     "Then can you reason for me the cause?"
     "An element of the eye, normally supple and clear-humoured,
changes. It thickens, either losing some ingredient of its constituency or
else its admixture bonds in a detrimental way and loses clarience."
     Evendal brooded on this. "So. It changes the way it has functioned?
This effect is not in response to an invader or some vagrant element as
with the clots?"
     "No. Nothing like."
     Wytthenroeg stirred. "Evendal, what seek you?"
     "Peace, mother of mine. I would retrieve what has gone astray. When,
do you ken, did your eyes begin to fail?"
     "Perhaps six years past."
     "Was it quick? Or gradual?"
     "Swift and cruel. It impaired my tutelage of Gwl-lethry and
my... others."
     The King grinned. "Like your sons' children? Mother, do you not trust
me?"
     "With my life and what secrets are mine alone."
     "And with your health?"
     "If you need such reassurance, though I do not grasp the distinction."
     "I told you that what I sing, manifests or eventuates. I would sing
the restoration of your sight."
     Kri-estaul, who had been dozing, jolted awake in anticipation of the
macabre or unique. Aldul likewise straightened in his seat, but with a
doubtful expression mirrored by his Priestess.
     Wytthenroeg voiced her own misgivings. "Evendal, do you truly think
you have any authority over the badges and boundary-markers of age?"
     "I know not. Maybe. Mayhap I but follow a cruel whimsy. You can simply
say 'nek(160)' and I shall not trouble you further with it."
     The lady bypassed the challenge, asking further, "What think you of
this offer, quiet Priestess?"
     Sygkorrin answered carefully. "His Majesty is singularly efficacious,
Your Grace. In many pursuits. But I neither disapprove, nor give my
unreserved assent to such a venture."
     "A repressively qualified commendation, Priestess. And you, Aldul?
What say you? Do you concur with your prelate's contentless comment?"
     The Kwo-edan shrugged. "No, Madame. I trust your son to do what is
best toward all he cares for. I know him to be fiercely protective of those
he loves, and so... Whatever he offers, should it go awry, its consequence
is most likely to be borne by him and not you."
     The Lady of Paludiers considered. While Sygkorrin would not endorse
her son's idea, the Priestess's words displayed a trust in him. Aldul, who
knew her much-changed son and his abilities more intimately, acted utterly
sanguine about what was, to her, a disturbing proposal. She glanced down at
a hint of movement, to find her grandson scowling indiscriminately with
thunderclouds for eyes.
     "And what do you think, sweetling?" Evendal smiled at the endearment
he himself used, which he first heard from Wytthenroeg's lips years ago.
     Kri-estaul looked fit to burst, anxious to be so questioned. "Papa is
astounding! He can make bad folk come to him. He made my old
mast... teach... Nisakh feel everything bad he ever did to anyone! He sings
mean people to tell the truth! He kept those scabs from hurting my
heart. And burned away a part of the kitchen doorway! He can clear your
eyes. I know he can."
     Wytthenroeg smiled wider. "Well, my son. You have an old lady's love,
life, and family in your hands. Why not accept my health as well?" And
again Evendal resisted the urge to cry, hearing behind those bracing words
absolutely no censure or doubt.
     Taking his emotions in hand, Evendal m'Alismogh began. "Mother, look
at me, your son. Look only on me. My face is clear and plain to your
sight. Did you ever examine your semblance as a young woman, Wytthenroeg?"
     "Yes. Of course. For I would often wonder what brought on the pursuits
of men and the... awe of my associates."
     M'Alismogh suppressed a grin. "Did you come to any conclusions?"
     "That some folk are just moonstruck puppies, in love with love, and
others sheep desperate for any shepherd."
     "And have you ever scrutinised the shade and tint of your eyes?"
     "I have noted it on occasion."
     "The seemingly black well of your pupil? The suggestion of movement
even within that permeable night at the core of your eyes? Do you remember
its look, its fascination? You queried if the sable circle was indeed a
well of wonder with no bottom."
     Wytthenroeg grinned wistfully at her adolescent fancy. "I remember."
     Evendal m'Alismogh's eyes glowed brighter.

        I adjure you to remember,
        and as you remember, re-call.
        Re-call that sharpness of edges
        and clarity in all form,
        the brilliance of colour and hue.

        Re-call the transparence that glistened so
        as you marvelled at the differing tints,
        the hues of grey threaded through your iris.
        Re-call that tincture,(161) those wondrous windows,
        before it was so basely degraded.
        Re-call that and tincture them once again.

        Having once stoked your fires for change unsought,
        those that imbue the humours in your orbs,
        return to fan them, bidden, but once more.
        Restore, turn and re-turn; return and re-store.

     The Mistress of Paludiers quickly shut her eyes and tilted her head
down as a cry tore out of her.
     "Mother?" Evendal besought, his light flaring. Sygkorrin stood
abruptly, as did Aldul, ready to move to the lady's side and lend aid.
     Wytthenroeg raised a hand, to forestall further alarm. She gasped out,
"My eyes, they throb and... burn a trifle. It surprised me, that's
all. That and phosphors... like falling stars behind my lids. A moment, I
beg you. Let me just rest them for a breath or two."
     Even as she asked this, Wytthenroeg briefly opened her eyes to a
squint and smiled reassuringly at her son. Evendal, castigating himself in
silence, grinned uncertainly back.
     As the royal Mother again held shut the gates of her sight, their
assembly of nine gained a tenth. The careful Chancellor Fillowyn
aghd'Efferdiy performed the proper obeisances with no undue haste or
disrespect. His first words, however, were -- for him -- blunt. "Your
Majesty, while we all rejoice at the reuniting of these three generations
of your august House, the ninth hour is passing and much is being
frustrated that demands a Sovereign's attention."
     The monarch absolute of Osedys frowned. "Such as?"
     "Requesting escort from the Palace to the harbours, from the harbours
to the... rock. Your sanction for a Crier's Chime, and postings to confirm
tomorrow's execution. Notification to the Maritime Counsel of the bay and
sea route you intend."
     "You have been preoccupied, Master Fillowyn," Evendal
chided. "Ierwbae, Bruddbana, and the Matron have already expedited the
clearing of those obstacles."
     When the man opened his mouth to add to his enumeration, Evendal
stopped him. "All that remains is for you to see to the sums
involved. Wytthenroeg olm'Haedroeg, widow to the late Majesty of Osedys,
Manorlady of the Ülistrien Marshes, Mistress of Paludiers, We present
Master Fillowyn aghd'Efferdiy, Chancellor of Our Exchequer, a man of
unfathomed stubbornness and personal courage."
     The titled mother opened her eyes and declined her head in
acknowledgement.
     Master Fillowyn, about to return to his lists, paused, frowned, and
changed the direction of his speech. "Your Majesty? How is this so?"
     Suppressing a grin, the King answered, "We know not, you simply have
fashioned yourself in that manner."
     Fillowyn grinned with no hint of rancour. "Your Majesty's jocularity
is a welcome novelty. Forgive my imprecision. How is it that the worthy
Mistress of Paludiers now carries the title of Dowager?"
     The present Lord of the Thronelands handed the papers he had been
given to his Chancellor. "By the will of Our royal grandsire, it would
seem."
     Fillowyn aghd'Efferdiy perused the documents and then gripped the bed
frame near him for support as their significance registered. "Your
Majesty. Your Majesty, this is not some jest, is it?" Evendal merely raised
an eyebrow at the suggestion, sending Fillowyn into a lather. "We have not
the food, the stores, the weaponry, or the salt to protect ourselves ably
against Arkedda's ire. We have nothing left but stone to offer in
recompense. They will take our blood instead; in all honour they have no
other recourse!"
     Wytthenroeg let her still-milky gaze roam to the child beside her and
stared frowningly for a moment. "Master Fillowyn, well met again. Still the
excitable quibbler, I see. Calm yourself, good Chancellor, you are wrong in
your assessment and presume a bloodlust Arkedda has not demonstrated since
before Mausna."
     Fillowyn stood unresponsive, until his King gestured.
     "Wrong in what assessment, Mistr... Madame Wytthenroeg? Unlike us,
Arkedda lost nothing at Mausna, it has had no affect on them or their
policies."
     Wytthenroeg tapped her cane against the floor in impatience. "There
you are also in error. Mausna has changed everyone, has altered how each
province dares treat one with the other. Alta and Osedys, alike in battle
numbers, alike in loss, bonded by grief and impoverishment. Kwo-eda, ever
Osedys's friend and ally. That makes three of the five markets our
allies. Donnath-luin, weaker and smaller, always turns in whichever
direction Kwo-eda or Alta dictates. Before Mausna, Alta held closer ties to
Arkedda and Donnath-luin. They served each other's purposes. Arkedda, now
with but one surviving male of the line -- and he dwelling here -- would
resist indulging in rash action. Arkedda dares not demand reparation from a
yet war-ravaged Osedys when every province still suffers losses and
setbacks from Mausna -- every province but their own."
     "You said I was wrong in my first assessment, good lady. How so?"
     "We have the stores. Of salt we have an embarrassment of riches."
Wytthenroeg continued to stare at Evendal's son.
     "You are keen, my lady." Fillowyn aghd'Efferdiy subsided, bowing to
his King and retreating.
     Evendal sought to reassure his counsellor. "We shall not give Our
brother sovereign cause to worry over Us, Master Fillowyn, which is what
storehousing salt and a mass slaughter of livestock for battle-rations
would accomplish. We shall but wait on his better wisdom and fair reply to
this discovery. We adjure you, if you would, prepare apartments for Our
mother. See that competent attendants get her hearth stocked and stoked,
bed warmed, fresh water, and lavender oil or attar of gardenia at hand for
her."
     Flushing, the Chancellor nodded and left quickly.
     "Are you well, maiba(162)?" Kri-estaul warbled, worried and
anticipating reproach still.
     When Evendal's mother reached out to caress Kri-estaul's face, the
child stilled and tracked the hand. "I am well, grandson. Are you
comfortable with my touching you?" she asked, halting.
     A relieved Kri-estaul whispered, "Yes," so Wytthenroeg completed her
gesture and began stroking his hair.
     "I do not know yet if it is a fancy, Evendal, but... it may be I
delude myself that Kri-estaul's sweet face is clearer, more distinct, than
it had been to me."
     Evendal took a breath, and let it out before cautioning, "Allow your
eyes a time of grace in which to restore those aqueous humours they once
contained and maintained."
     "As you say. They yet percuss and irritate," Wytthenroeg
confessed. "When first you spoke of your capacities, I thought you had
become a man of whimsies, suffering thus because of all the vagaries in
Ir's favour of you. Even with such witnesses as encompass you, I assumed
your estate kept them from speaking veridically. I thought them people
accepting a fanciful ruler of goodwill after enduring two vulpine
predators. But then I thought on the testimony that is your son, and the
silence of the Archate."
     The Priestess raised an eyebrow and waited. Evendal smiled.
     "Had you been unmanned, Her Eminence would be bending her energies
toward anticipating or mitigating what damage your whims might create, or
salving your confusions. Yet she has kept as mute as the She-King of
Arkedda. And children know no subtlety or civility, so Kri-estaul would not
know how to cosset you. This signified his fervour to be genuine."
     "But none of that convinced you, did it, Mother?" Wytthenroeg shook
her head. "What did?"
     "Aside from the lanterns of your eyes? That it was you, my
Evre-lindal, telling these tales to me. Time's daughter was ever your
matron."
     Both Aldul and Sygkorrin chuckled at the gently accurate assessment.
     "Having exhausted that concern, I would bring up another," Evendal
began. "The aspersion. Mother, you are not yet hale enough to witness it."
     "Nor do I wish to," the lady returned. "Despite your comprehending
her, I feel no prodding, no impetus to witness Onkira's swan
song(163). Whatever she might have felt for Menam when first they met, she
turned it into pure avarice. She could have done and been so much, and
chose not to."
     "Like what?" Kri asked seriously.
     "Back then, we did not like people from Arkedda, sweetling. She could
have done a lot to change that. She could have accepted that, as consort,
her power was not absolute. Instead of enjoying what privilege Osedys
granted a king's spouse, she refused to encourage a Court life to form
around her. She could have been sponsor to so much beauty and wisdom."
     "The honouring and sustaining of what is wise and beautiful in our
realm and our past stirs you deeply?" Evendal enquired wryly.
     Wytthenroeg gave Evendal a look, a patent warning against
mockery. "You know that it does."
     "Good, for I shall depend on you to foment such hence."
     Again he startled Wytthenroeg. "But... We are just now living in hope
of even a pauper's recovery. To flaunt the trappings of prosperity when
people struggle against rickets, the weather, hunger, and each other is
callous and perilous in a new rule."
     Evendal held his tongue; as a mother, Wytthenroeg would likely never
be able to resist instructing him, whether or not he actually needed
tutoring. The King moulded his response to mildness. "It is in days of
famine that people seek the reassurance that a peerage and a sovereign,
confident in their future, can instil. I am not commending cavalier
expressions of largesse and philanthropy. No kypri-tossing to the lowly
Cinqet-dwellers."
     "Then what would serve here?"
     "Should Our song accomplish Our will towards you, you will be both
free and able to resume instructing, if you so wish to. Kri-estaul could
only benefit from your knowledge and love. Or... Gwl-lethry is now the
Throne-sanctioned father of over fifteen-score rapscallions and
ragamuffins, all tatterdemalions unknowingly starved for your gifts."
     Wytthenroeg's brows rose at that number of potential pupils.
     "If such an entourage daunts you in your current debility, you could
begin with a slightly smaller cluster of candidates that We know of."
     "Who? Where?" Wytthenroeg's voice held amusement.
     "Here. Included in their numbers are Kri-estaul, Niem Dīr's sons
Niar-lles and Harl, Mar-Kestlen once a pearl and coral diver now under my
probation, Shulro's apprentice whose name We regret We have forgotten, one
Punfaesyl in novitiate to the Guard, Ierowen of Donnath-luin, Omerludi
formerly ward of the Stone-wrights.
     "A fourth chance for you is the teachable of the Rosette; the
Honourable Jaserle represents the Stonehaulers and would welcome a
contemporary."
     "How is this 'sustaining what is wise or beautiful in our past'?" she
asked pointedly, beginning to hear labour espoused for its own sake:
busywork.
     Evendal frowned at his mother, but deliberately chose to take her
comment as teasing. "It will keep you engaged in a wholesome challenge."
When the lady looked prepared to remonstrate, he pre-empted her. "Why so
grave, Mother? You asked what opportunities pertained; We but gave you the
most immediate answers We knew of. Your liberties abide. We are your King,
not your will."
     "Papa, I have to piss." Kri-estaul announced, then flushed, lips
clamped.
     "We must absent ourselves for a time. Bear with us, please."
     Kri-estaul took Wytthenroeg's look of surprise for
incredulity. "I... It can wait."
     While Evendal missed the cause for it, he recognised his son's tone
and had his measure. "We have discussed this, Kri. And what have I said?"
     "Don't remember," the child mumbled, squirming.
     "You. You chose me, so I choose to act your father until you decide
otherwise. To perform a father's duty like the privilege that it
is. Now. Arms around my neck. Let us go."
     When they had returned, Wytthenroeg broached the topic. "Is this your
routine?"
     Evendal stopped his mother before she might continue. "Wherefore do
you ask this? From curiosity? To chatter, asking a question whose answer is
self-evident? To prepare the verbal sparring ground for a criticism, a
parental chiding, founded in your own experience?"
     "Evendal, a King cannot spend his hours cleaning up after his
child. For such we engage nurses and au pair."
     This King had had enough. "Do not lecture me on what a King can and
cannot do. Do not lecture me on what a father -- or a mother -- should or
should not do. I despise and deny Menam's example. I refuse any place in my
heart for Onkira's self-obsession, Anlota's inconstancy, or your perverse
and hypocritical concern for what is proper."
     Evendal's glow again increased, the timbre of his voice creating a
vibration in the wood of the chairs and the beds. "This is my son, come to
me out of durance and death, and I shall never abandon him to the
indifferent care of another while he needs me. He shall not fear or wonder
where his father is, never have cause to doubt my interest in him, my joy
in him, my respect and love for him. Do you understand yet?"
     Evendal suspected he was not entirely fair, but gentle speech had not
helped. "Do not make a modus vivendi out of what had been, for you and
father, a personal necessity fashioned from your circumstances. Do not try
to justify it by hallowing it as a method for raising a son. I tell you
here and now, I would rather be fed to the crows than live through my
childhood again. And I will not have anything like it for my son!"
     "It made you the strong man you are today," Wytthenroeg argued, stung.
     A pause of ten heartbeats, and then Evendal laughed, loud, harsh, and
strident. The glare to his eyes dimmed. Aldul and Sygkorrin grimaced at
each other. Kri-estaul, confused, visibly cringed at the horrible noise,
causing Evendal to stop.
     "As one standing apart from his own carcass, I can picture most of the
significant events of my fifteenth year, Mother, telling me what I might
have grown into. What you and Menam fashioned was an emotionally stunted,
morally desolate, spoiled, naīve, self-pitying and hating mother-loving
despot, with no sense of proportion or discipline outside of clerical
matters. But with a fine sense of aesthetics! The love of reading you
instilled in me did not develop into a love of the writers, of
people. Education does not create compassion, Mother, it never has in
anyone."
     "Then, whence the defiant man before me?"
     "I do not know. Another mystery to blame on my nine-year
absence. Mother, you have come into a situation over which you have little
knowledge yet and no control. Do not make judgements or raise an opinion
without the precious details to bolster your edifice of assertion. I myself
have already done that at least once, to my shame." He skewered his mother
with a percipient glare and added, "And do not presume that what passes
with Kri-estaul has no basis but indulgent whim. Nothing could be further
from truth."
     "Forgive me, my..." Wytthenroeg began, when Evendal stopped her.
     "Mother," he whispered, rolling his eyes downward and to the side,
toward the bed.
     Wytthenroeg understood utterly. "Forgive me, chel-Kri(164), for
thinking to jeopardise your well-being. And forgive me, Evre-lindal, for
seeing the child you were and not the man you are."
     Kri-estaul stared up at his father's mother, torn between the desire
to hide and the desire to be held. "You don't think...? If I could... You
don't understand. Papa loves me. He keeps me safe. Only Papa. Even when he
returns, Papa will still love me, too. There wasn't anybody else good in
the dream. Only Papa."
     "Even when who returns, child?" Wytthenroeg asked, puzzled.
     Kri-estaul blinked. "What? I don't know. Who?"
     Again, Evendal interceded, more clemently. "Mother, think you on what
intelligence we have already provided you regarding my sweet son's history,
from before his rescue. Consider it."
     The lady strove to recall as Evendal perused the room and marked the
disposition of his attendants.
     Catching his attention, Bruddbana declined his head. "While Your
Majesty was in conclave," the Guard jested, "Master Fillowyn returned to
report Madame Wytthenroeg's apartments prepared." The Chancellor
nodded. "And Ierwbae waits without to take up Chielheroni's post."
     "You have Our thanks. And Our leave, if you wish it, Master
Fillowyn. You also, good Chielheroni." The counsellor bowed low and
fled. The Guard grinned, bowed, and left with a counsellor's decorum.
     "Kri-estaul, sweetling," Wytthenroeg began. "What did the Beast and
his Guard want of you?"
     The youngster stared up at his grandmother. His Papa insisted he was
not to blame, that he was, and had been, a good boy. He rushed a glance at
his Papa who, expecting it, nodded encouragement.
     "To plough me. A bad boy for the Guard to fuck and hit."
     Evendal elaborated. "My son was an object for Abduram's fury. Then he
had the cruel good fortune of being given over to a man who saw people as
his... clay, wax to be moulded over time to contain and reflect his lacks
and excesses."
     "How was that 'good fortune'?"
     "Kri would not have lived longer than a fortnight, else."
     "True. And in what way 'cruel'?" When Evendal lifted an eyebrow,
Wytthenroeg rolled her eyes. "I am well aware of the Beast's penchants, at
least as they involve the adults of the Court. I am not asking for an index
of that fool's atrocities, Evendal. I just want to know how he hurt my
grandson, so I do not grieve the boy further."
     "Evendal," Aldul intruded hesitantly. "She is your mother and was your
own haven for a time. She needs to know where your son is vulnerable."
     Irrationally feeling besieged, Evendal thought, 'Where is he not
vulnerable!' even as he barely kept himself from snapping out, 'No, she
does not need to know any such thing!' What emerged from his mouth was a
calm "Need it? She does not need it, but we would be better served by her
informed wisdoms. I can only grant you my own tales, Mother. And report
what Kri-estaul permits me to of his own."
     And the King recounted his questioning of Robiliam, his plumbing of
the under-grounds, and how he found Kri-estaul. He spoke briefly, if
bluntly, of his confrontation with Drussilikh, and with equal brevity -- if
more reverence -- of Kri-estaul's adoption. Evendal found the tales hardest
for him to tell were of Soandrh uncovering Kri-estaul's fistula and Emial's
coup attempt.
     Even as he struggled, Evendal noticed a refrain in his narration: 'It
came to me that...' 'I do not know why I thought of this but...' 'The
lyrics emerged of themselves in my head...'
     "I can tell you little more of that hour, myself. What I recall most
clearly is how still my son felt in my arms, and how light and
wrong. People buzzing and whirling around me like bloodthirsty gnats,
annoying and distracting. If Sygkorrin had not reminded me you were there,
Aldul..."
     The Kwo-edan's brow pinched briefly in confusion, as Sygkorrin had
done no such thing. "You were in a passion of grief, Evendal. Your power
responded in sympathy."
     The King shook his head. "No. I knew precisely what I was about. As if
I had done it before. The flames were pain-fuelled, true. But they, and the
barrier, were coldly deliberate. In that moment when I held my offer of
healing -- and the Court's reply -- in my lap, I just promptly knew how to
bring those things to pass, and control them. I had done it before,
somewhen."
     Aldul did not pursue the last assertion; had Evendal known more, he
would have spoken of it. "You said that Sygkorrin had reminded you I was
there. I do not remember her saying my name."
     Again Evendal shook his head. "She did not. But the Priestess called
to my mind the priest -- you. And I had no right to your life."
     Kri-estaul had been sharing gazes with the King. "You kept all those
people from leaving?"
     "Yes."
     "And you set the room afire, to kill everyone?"
     Face expressionless, Evendal repeated, "Yes."
     "Because that sneak had hurt me?"
     "No," Evendal clarified. "Because that sneak had killed you. Did not
Ierwbae and Metthendoenn and I tell you this all before?"
     Peeved, Kri-estaul defended himself. "You all made it sound like it
was not important, Papa. Just a few flames, or some such. A phantasm that
would have been neat to see, but that I missed.
     "You loved me then?" Kri-estaul asked, apropos of nothing that the
King could fathom.
     "Yes. I loved you then, my most precious and loving son. From before
we met unto the far horizon of your future, and beyond that, I love and
have loved you. As any father loves a courageous, cagey, and beautiful son,
and seeks to rescue and protect him."
     "I believe you, Papa." With an eerily sober expression, Kri-estaul
lowered his head against his breastbone to look at Wytthenroeg. "Maiba,
Guard frighten me."
     Again Evendal elaborated. "Then-Lord Abduram wore Guard clothes when
Kri ran into him. The next day he nabbed Kri-estaul and... tortured him."
     Kri-estaul nodded. "The only people to plough me were Guard. Others
hurt me, with knives and needles and wax and sticks. But none of that hurt
for as long as their sticking things up my bum did."
     "This went on for two years, Mother. With a dream of some kind
stranger with glowing eyes redeeming him as his only solace. He has come to
trust mayhap five people since seeing daylight again, and I am the one he
is most comfortable with."
     Wytthenroeg protested, "I do not question my grandson's need or your
eagerness to aid him, my son. But even Kri-estaul would not want you to be
shackled to him, serving his every whim."
     Evendal raised his voice. "You do not hear me, Mother. In the first
place, there is no shackling. Whatever the purpose of the power that
returned me to this theatre of absurdities(165), it had best not interfere
with my raising this wonder myself. If there is any sacrifice involved
here, Mother, it is a sacrifice of thanksgiving. Secondly, he is in his
minority: for most of his present needs, I am the best servant. Thirdly, if
Kri-estaul ever voiced a 'whim,' Aldul, Sygkorrin, Bruddbana, and half of
the Palace-assigned Guard would bleed themselves dry to accomplish it. If
he asks for a thing, he is in an extremity of need. Because Kri does not
voice whims, he does not assert his wants, and seldom reveals his
needs. You said you do not question your grandson's needs, when in truth
your heart and mind discarded his needs with your caveat 'But even...'"
     "Forgive me, Evendal, but..."
     "Mother, I have given you several reasons for my solicitude, and your
sole rejoinder has been convention and tradition, causes you disdained
throughout most of your life. Are you intent on having your way simply to
have your way? Enough." Vexed and confused, Evendal turned a telling look
Aldul's way.
     Just then Wytthenroeg began to cough. Sips of her now-cooled cider
failed to completely ease the urge, causing Sygkorrin to frown. A
feather-light touch to the elder's forehead, back of the neck, and wrist,
made the Priestess's frown deepen. "Your Highness has utterly depleted your
strength for the day. I shall exchange that common bit of cold pabulum you
grip for one of my delectable tisanes even as you exchange all this
occupation for dimly lit solitude in a nearby room."
     Wytthenroeg scrunched her face in a scowl, but with the corners of her
lips turned up. "Your levity is obviously an acquired taste, just as your
tisanes, Your Eminence. But I shall bow my will to yours if it can offer
more days within which to trouble my son and grandson."
     "You gave me your parole the first time you acceded to a request of
mine, Your Highness. Continue to be my obedient captive and you may come to
enjoy many more days of shrewish behaviour."
     The Mistress of Paludiers turned back to her son. "Sygkorrin is a
comely woman, is she not?"
     Baffled at the non sequitur, Evendal assumed it signified a change of
topic. "Yes. As near as I ken the estimates of beauty, Mother. Though I
find the woman herself more fair than her form."
     Wytthenroeg sighed. "I am a stubborn old woman, sweetling, that is how
I have lived so long. But I am not... It may be I now see my grandson so
clearly with these old eyes, and yet not comprehend him at all. So I shall
follow your advice, my son."
     "The song succeeded!"
     "And so I thank you for four gifts you have given me. My
sight. Yourself. Freedom from fear of a knife in the dark. And a grandson I
would enjoy talking to and indulging and cosseting. Now, if I have your
leave, Your Majesty. Your Highness."
     Smiling, Evendal nodded and signalled Ierwbae. The two of them
escorted Wytthenroeg to the door, where Evendal kissed his mother on the
cheek and let Sygkorrin take his place. "You have Our leave to come and go
as you can and will to. Rest well, Mother."
     When Sygkorrin returned it was to a silent room. Noting the royal
countenances as the most sombre, she asked the question given her. "What
troubles Your Majesty?"
     "Who is that woman?" Evendal blurted, dismayed. "Is my peregrinating
memory a liar too? That is not how I recall her."
     The Priestess sat down. "Your Majesty, 'tis an uncommon person who can
discourse with you untroubled. What you take for a minor distraction
distresses and befuddles the green gentry or petitioner."
     "What distractions?"
     "Your eyes and their glow. Your knowledge of matters unseen. Your
songmastery and, in your mother's view, your adulthood. All matters she
must include into her new comprehension of you."
     Evendal did not know what to say. With his current trappings, did his
mother truly fear him so? She had shown little evidence of such an anxiety.
     "Your Majesty," Sygkorrin continued. "Were you to intrude upon her at
this moment, I tender you would find her awash in tears... of anxiety,
confusion, loss, fearful self-doubt, and relief."
     "Why?" The King felt as though his mind had stopped working.
     "Anxiety, over what the child she knew has to face now. Confusion and
loss, not knowing if that son she recalls still exists in the King she
sees. And relief, that the child she felt she had abandoned -- all protests
to the contrary -- has survived and grown."
     "And the 'fearful self-doubt'?" Evendal reminded.
     "Wytthenroeg has over three-score years. She possesses neither the
vitality of her children nor their acuity."
     "Mental acuity is not lost merely with the passage of days!"
     Sygkorrin shook her head. "Yes, Your Majesty, it is. Temperaments
mellow or turn brittle, as do minds. Though in Wytthenroeg it is not just
age, it is loss. For the last nine years she has been enduring, her
concentration all on survival, as those she loved and fought with and those
who challenged her were killed. You wondered where her children were as she
held solitary court in her cottage? My guess is that as they no longer
needed her, she cut them loose from her moorings."
     Sygkorrin spoke of the woman who gave him the tools to endure an
unendurable youth; Evendal felt like crying, but for his son's watchful
eye. "I don't understand."
     "Evendal, her lungs were practically a lakebed with fluid, her joints
rivalled Aldul's, and her eyes had betrayed her. Yet she had one child whom
she dared not abandon -- and so she took him with her. Had the times been
halcyon and the kingdom amoral instead of self-devouring, she might have
expected her children to tend her and Edrionwytt in her last days. She knew
better than to expect that."
     For the first time that he could remember, the hairs on the back of
Evendal's neck stood in protest. "No!"
     "I suppose she thought she could teach him to live off the land, off
what grew wild. And to grasp the wisdom of storing foods for winter before
she accepted Death's suit."
     The King spoke carefully, alarmed but uncertain. "Priestess, you row
me up to the waters called 'self-slaughter'(166) but not into the bay
itself."
     Sygkorrin, silenced, blinked in surprise, her healthy complexion
quickly fading. Aldul's face, already pale, went still in
dismay. Kri-estaul at first did not know whether to gasp or giggle at his
father's strange thought.
     After prolonged stillness, the Priestess scowled over the King's odd
fancy. "Your Majesty, your mother is... thoroughly Hramal, with all the
common apperceptions. That macabre thought never came near the harbour of
her will."
     Chastened by all the bewildered faces around him, Evendal confirmed
for himself that self-slaughter was a concept he had to have learnt
elsewhere, so foreign as to have no arguments his own people might
recognise, a word cluster these worldly Oseidh(167) had apparently never
combined. Another differencing, marking him a hummingbird-red dolphin in a
pod of grey.
     "The direction of my speech, Evendal, is to confirm that Wytthenroeg
will never be as nimble a wit as you recall. The needs for which she
employed her mind have changed - so she has changed. But her apparent
intransigence is pure cere(168). Had you not sung her here, she would not
have allowed my palanquin to bring her today. She would have begged off,
rightly claiming a distemper, and delayed your meeting until much later
when she would have been better prepared. You overwhelmed her, but with the
noblest intent."
     Sygkorrin's diatribe got interrupted. "She doesn't like me, does she?"
     Startled, the Priestess moved, taking up the chair Wytthenroeg had
vacated in order that she might sit closer to the princeling. The Archate
Pontifex stared into the sad and solemn eyes of the child, countering
gravitas with gravitas.
     "She loves you," Sygkorrin affirmed. "She does not know you, yet she
loves you."
     "How? How can she?"
     "The Matron confirmed for me that Wytthenroeg, living so near the
Scriveners, was a fixture at their meetings and meals until... your mother
died. She loves you because you are the child of her dearest friend."
     Evendal recalled a passing comment of Wytthenroeg's would-be
assassin. "She instructed novices in obsolete fonts, which means the
Scriveners acknowledged her as an Adept or a Master of their craft."
     "Your Majesty, she vaguely remembers being brought back from the
cottage, fevered as she was. And so I apprised her of your disposition and
the conditions within the Palace. But words cannot serve to convey the
degree of change; how and who you are now nearly inundated her. But she is
as a sponge, and will absorb at need."
     "Then what was this performance just now? A test?"
     Sygkorrin huffed. "Your Majesty, you make more of her replies than
they merit. You ignore her unheralded acceptance of your son."
     "Acceptance?"
     "Had she not told you what you could expect? The conflicts with Menam
that ended in violence, abetted by mutual stubbornness? Had she truly
objected to anything she saw, you and your mother would be snarling at each
other now."
     After a moment's recapitulation, Evendal nodded. "I had
forgotten. Oftentimes she did not apologise, she simply changed her
behaviours. This visitation so worried me, I anticipated -- presumed --
foul consequence, regardless."
     Kri-estaul warbled, "Me, too. I knew she would hate me."
     Aldul smiled. "It went well, and will. And she wants to like you,
Kri-estaul, and not merely for being her friend's child and her son's
heir."
     "Ierwbae?"
     Kri-estaul started, having forgotten the man was near. The Guard
shrugged. "I concur, Your Majesty. The Lady Wytthenroeg was always
formidable, quick of tongue and wit, and yet she employed none of that."
     "I acted ill toward her then," the King concluded.
     Aldul shook his head. "You revealed an... arena in which you will
countenance no trespass. You showed her what mattered to you. Do not
belabour it, my friend."
     "Very well. Danlienn? If you can address today's disclosures in a
missive, I will see that it reaches your half-brother within a
fortnight. This will allow him most of winter to consider his best policy."
     The round-bellied young man stared at the King of Osedys, blinking
hard against the shine, and then declined his head in assent. "The most
useful communication for our mutual purposes, Your Majesty, would be to
copy what was said here, without embellishment. I can accomplish that for
Your Majesty within the bell, provided you have no further need of me for
the day."
     With a frown of surprise, Evendal realised that the sun had set. "Go
to."

     As the second hour of night began, Evendal accepted two
visitors. Bundled for the night wind, Drussilikh, with an attendant, made
her respects before depositing herself on the chair Wytthenroeg had
occupied. More of the Guard detail had changed with the tolling of the
hour, so Ierwbae served as steward and divested the two, revealing the
attendant.
     "Sialuon(169), accept Our greeting and a courtier's liberties. We
trust you are well."
     The girl arose from her obeisance and nodded. "Under my mistress's eye
I prosper, Your Majesty."
     Evendal waited until the Prince's sister looked up from talking with
the boy. "What progresses, Matron?"
     "We arranged for a Crier's Chime this morning: The Criers went through
each quarter of the city and the Cinqet during the ninth bell of the day,
alerting all."
     "Surely you did not brave the eager air without solely to forward this
tidbit?"
     Drussilikh's face tightened. "To see my brother as well, Your
Majesty. And to report on the entourage you shall address."
     "Say on."
     The Mistress of Oaks and the Master of Rowan offer their apologies to
Kri-estaul, that they cannot brave both weather and ocean combined. So they
send another deputy -- the Designate for Yew and Ash in their 'family' --
Roņirhasel." Evendal nodded his acceptance and empathy. Aikathémi would
have a difficult time countering the pitch and roll of the ocean.
     "The Typika accepts your hospitality, as does the Cantor of the
Criers, the Beam-master of the Shipwrights, Mistress Illandoigh,
Mek-Rwathil of the Silversmiths. Mistress Hurileth of the Limners. Emissary
Heamon will probably be nipping at your heels before you even get out of
bed tomorrow. Mistress Goald-lek(170) and the new Magister-Refiner of the
Metal-smiths beg your forgiveness that they cannot attend, the Refiner said
he hopes his work on the Wash will demonstrate his continued shame and
remorse for his guild's past indifference. The emissary of the Rosette begs
your forgiveness, as the weather daunts him, and sends Melisto(171)."
     "I expected that."
     "Of course Anlota shall be there as Mother of Midwives."
     Evendal raised his hand to halt the list. "Your indulgence, dear
Matron. Ierwbae? Let Anlota know that her attendance, with her children, is
indeed expected. But she and her charges may not board with the others and
are to remain on land, returning to the Palace. We do not require such an
ordeal of her or them." Ierwbae nodded and left the room to tax another
Guard with the message.
     Drussilikh then enquired, "And the Manorlords?"
     Aldul answered that one. "All have responded with either wordy
missives courageously voicing no opinion regarding the bill of attainder
or, in a few letters, avid approbation of Onkira's speedy execution."
     Returning to the room, Ierwbae announced the presence of the Maritime
Counsellor's vice-gerent. Evendal waved permission for a presentation.
     "Vice-gerent Prawtth, abide at your ease with Us this hour. What news
have you?"
     The short, bulky seaman bowed and dropped into a chair without
removing his winter gear. "We've got the boats and brine-necks(172) for
your cordon as well as the escort. There will be a ship for you and yours
and a second for the flotsam, er... the land lords."
     Drussilikh interjected, troubled of countenance, "Is there no one,
landbound, to whom you would entrust His Highness whilst we accomplish this
task?"
     Evendal sat stone-faced. "Kri-estaul stays with me, unless he himself
wishes to remain here. But the choice is his, so long as it is an uncoerced
decision."
     "And you choose to embark from the Cinqet's shadow, and take the
longer way to your destination in winter weather?"
     "Tradition dictates. Ierwbae has mapped out Our progress through the
relevant portion of the City, and arranged Guard for every ell of it. We
deviate from precedent aspersions by holding it in winter and by sailing
out in one of Alekrond's sturdy caravels(173) and not some long-neglected
barge."
     Drussilikh peered uncertainly at her King. "I shall not act your
adversary this time, Your Majesty. Rather shall I trust that you have the
means to secure my brother against the ill humours and foul winds that
would sicken him."
     Evendal held Drussilikh's hand and her gaze, yet the glow from his own
orbs did not cause her to squint. "Should my intent and will prove
insufficient in that cause, rest assured that no amount of entreaty on
Kri-estaul's part shall move me to take him on this journey. Now, rest the
night here, and in the morning join me in greeting the others as they
attend."
     "As you will," Drussilikh acquiesced, unable to see anything more than
earnest compassion and kingly assurance.

                          ------------------------------------

     The cold numbed everything but the feel of metal tight around his neck
and of panic futilely demanding his bound limbs free him. If he sweated, it
was subsumed in the constant sheets of freezing water that dragged at
him. Flayed fists pounded soundlessly against the tide-smoothed stone at
his back. His traitorous tongue tasted blood, the salty liqueur that was
the wage for his pride, his wilfulness. But what was he if not a prince?
And what was a prince if not one to be indulged, obeyed, his autonomy
absolute and person inviolate?
     The only check on his primacy, his royal sire, lay hosting barnacles
in a battlefield now buried by the sea. And here he was, shackled by iron
and degenerate traditions, property in some foreign power game.
     What was he without that central constant, the only real benefit he
ever saw in his birth and station: the precept that as prince, even as
king-in-exile, no one dared whisper how lacking he was? Isn't that what
being of royal estate offered: the freedom to be perceived the way you
pretended to be? If you commanded you were commanding; if you seemed
impassible you were deemed so.
     Bone-cracking fluid ice streamed through every sinew and organ, making
every finger-length of his carcass shiver independently. The muscles of his
stomach, taut from the unyielding cold, quivered even more as his diaphragm
strove fiercely.
     He choked on an old breath and bloody water; he had bitten his
vainglorious lips. The band against his throat suffocated him as he kept
his head up, his neck stiff. He tried to cough, but his now nearly mindless
struggles only served to block life-sustaining air.
     No clemency would come, he knew. It could have been there for him,
twice, if he would only have yielded. Now water, unrelenting, poured into
his eyes, drummed its paths into his ears, battered into his nose, and
pried at his mouth with a damning constancy he himself had never shown.
     So, far from the home of his name, far from any hint of kin, he would
die. For his idea of his estate? His idea of what was beneath the dignity
of a ruler? No. Out of fear. As phosphors swam like madcap minnows behind
his eyes and variegated urchins of light exploded in his head, he knew he
was dying for fear.
     No! Though air would not come, though his head felt as if someone were
squeezing upward from the base of his skull, trying to force blood and main
out by sheer brute strength -- and succeeding. No! He would not die. He
would not! Not out of fear. Not even for fear of his emptiness, his
so-personal, terrifying, devouring night and what it had repeatedly driven
him to. Such a death would mean nothing; it would simply be another
death. He would not die a king then, he would only die.
     He could just collapse, let his exhaustion serve to end his ordeal in
a face-saving ambiguity. But in his new resolve, before hypoxia could claim
him, he felt obliged. And, with a frisson of fear, he knew he would need
help, help to live, help he could not blithely expect.
     With what felt like the last spark of a panic-stoked strength ebbing,
he relaxed and opened his rock-scrapped hands, forcing the palms up in
supplication. Uncertain, he bent his aching neck and took a sweet,
gracelessly desperate draw of moist air, as water continued to fall over
his bowed head.

     Evendal jolted awake, his face awash with tears, the rest of his body
dry and unfettered.
     Small hands clutching his Papa's bedgown, Kri-estaul slept
on. Torchlight from lanterns deliberately flanking the window outside cast
upon the child's sleeping face a kindly light, which Evendal's own glow
only augmented.
     Sotto voce, the King projected the query, "Hour?"
     Prompt came the Guard's reply. "Eighth, Your Majesty. All is quiet."
     'Only without,' the King thought caustically. Details of his dream
elided into chaotic obscurity, but not the fact that he had dreamt a vital
memory of an ordeal by water once endured. The timing of this memory's
emergence was not lost on him and, wide awake, Evendal pondered the wisdom
and justice of what would begin in a bell's time.

--------------------------------------------------
(160) A two-year old's favourite word. No~
(161) An active principle or extract; a slight admixture
(162) Paternal grandmother~
(163) Hramal folklore includes the same delusion regarding the beauty and
power in a swan's dying call.
(164) chel: a prefix added to names to express affection.~
(165) Literally 'platform full of frivolities'~
(166) A mixture of first-person inclusive gender 'me' and 'killing'~
(167) In this context, 'City-dwelling Thronelanders'~
(168) Wax for hiding flaws in architecture.
(169) Chapter 14.
(170) Of the Silk-Distributors. see chapter 15
(171) Chapter 11.
(172) Seamen~
(173) A small, highly maneuverable, three-masted ship -- able to carry
20-28 people in constant discomfort.

-----------------------------------------------
Now the fun begins.
The delay with this chapter stems from my requiring surgery. Ninety percent
of all Crohn's sufferers end up needing intestinal resectioning at least
once. This was my time, I guess. I am still recuperating. Its more annoying
than anything else now.