Episode 17: Vanishing Horizon
Dear mother,
Two months have passed since first I came to the Althean Collegium. You know that before I came here I was hesitant to attend the school; for hundreds upon hundreds of years, ladies of our family have learned from their mothers, sisters, and aunts, not from men, and certainly not in the company of simple peasant youths. I argued and fought against your suggestion, but I must confess that you were right and I was wrong. I am having a marvelous time here.
So far, I have not learned very much. The college is very disorganized, or perhaps only just learning to organize. At the commencement ceremony, Lucien Skye spoke, giving an encouraging lecture on the place of schools such as the Althean Collegium in the better Komaru to come. Many things have been said of Lucien Skye in the past, so I only feel it necessary to add that his presence is arrestingly commanding. If Lucien Skye's words were enough to shape this school, I cannot help but think that its organizational problems would be solved already.
However, they are not. I have five classes: mathematics, theology, music, language, and logic. In the fields of language, logic, and music, the instructors are doing their very best to handle a broad range of students, but they are not entirely successful. In my music class, I spend my hours strumming chords on my harp while the instructor teaches peasant girls how to blow his flute. In my language class, the professor seemed astonished to discover that the peasants had never actually read from books before. As to logic, well, let me just suggest that there I am at the disadvantage, and leave it at that. Mathematics and theology are more straightforward: a merchant explains to us the interrelationships of numbers, and a Churchman explains to us the Church's doctrine for the day. Usually, he is at least a week or a month behind the doctrines of Prophet's Hope; twice already I have noticed yesterday's conviction become today's heresy. I do hope the Church manages to straighten itself out soon, or else we'll all be chanting psalms to candles and dancing naked to celebrate the sunrise.
Certainly, though, that would not be considered out of place by the denizens of this county. Althea is everything it is whispered to be: Save for the Royal Capital, I have never seen such an amazing tangle of passion and politics in any place, but even in the capital, none of the participants (except perhaps the Sone) carry on their antics with such gusto. In Althea, vines grow beneath every second-story window, and nothing matches velvet as well as a stray piece of hay. This, mother, is what I adore about the school.
I think that the Count of Althea is hard-pressed to deal with the chaos, but he is doing his best. The window of my dormitory overlooks his office, and I often watch him in the afternoon and evening while I study. It is difficult to remember that he is older than I am, for he looks like a handsome boy. Only his obvious experience with life and the burdens he must bear mark him as anything other than another student. He is very popular among the student body, and I must confess that were I offered the opportunity, I would not fail to do my best to comfort him for an evening. He is one of our family, after all, and deserves to be supported in his efforts.
Fortunately, I know that he is not without allies. Jade Touraine himself returns to Althea often, and I believe that he and the Count of Althea have become close. I was quite surprised to see him here, for you told me yourself that he was glad to be free of Althea. I can only assume that whatever has brought him back was sufficiently important to convince him to set aside his earlier plans. And he is just as lovely as you told me! I hesitated at first, but I have given him the letter of recommendation you wrote for me, and he received me well. He is a very kind man, and I am glad when he can spare me a moment of his time. But even when he cannot see me, it is a rare treat to watch him sit with the count in his chambers, whiling the night away in conversation. Often, I wish I could listen, or even join them, but it would be crass to be mistaken for one of the strange Althean peasant women who sneak into the office window at night and do Light knows what until the guards throw them out.
The sun is setting, and it appears that Jade has come again this night, so I will conclude this letter now, mother dearest. I am very glad you forced me to come here, as I am learning ever so much.
Your dutiful daughter,
The River Valley of the Aten
It is autumn, and the sun's heat beats down on Felix Ambre as he wipes the sweat off his brow. Today's harvest lies in great bales behind him, and come tomorrow he will haul the wheat into the barn to be threshed. But now he is tired, and his arm muscles ache from wielding the scythe for so many hours. He sighs: he misses growing rice, doing the heavy hauling while his sisters worked and sang. Many things are different across the Eastern Furnace, and he reckons he misses the songs most of all.
Three hours later, he retires to the tavern in the makeshift village down the road. Like his house, it is built of stone scavenged from the idiot structures of the serpents and crafted into a sensible dwelling. Its walls are straight and meet at right angles, and its roof is thatched and will be proof against the winter rains. It is a little piece of rural Komaru, here in the middle of the serpent valley.
He sits down at the bar beside Frederic Belvior, who raises cattle in a ranch northeast of the village, and buys his night's meal from Shina Rau, the bar wench. Shina gets a second piece of copper because she reminds him of a girl he knew, back across the desert. As he watches her fix his meal, he finds himself imagining the shape of her body beneath her blouse, and shakes his head to clear the image. He is certain every lonely farmer in the village dreams of sharing her bed, and knows she will never choose him out of that crowd. He takes a bowl of chicken stew from her, smiles awkwardly, and eats his dinner. Between mouthfuls, he listens to the buzz of conversation around him.
By the hearth, the tavern keeper Damon Rau tosses on another log and turns to Philipe Vanya, "You heard that? I heard the Church was going to draft us all to knock Spearpoint down, and only Numinous Smith's presence saved us from conscription. He's a hero, is what he is."
Vanya shakes his pretty head, "He's no hero. The Church promised us whatever land we could hold, and now it's telling us we can't hold anything beyond the line the Royal troops form. There are hundreds of families out there who have to come back and squeeze in with the rest of us or end up outside the Line. What kind of hero is he to them?" Felix can't bring himself to like the trader, no matter how good the deals he offers the village are. He has seen the way the man looks at Shina.
Shina's father shakes his head, "Well, more fools they, then, for going so far away from the rest of us. They should have expected it. Besides, none of this will be a problem when some more soldiers come over. If the Minamet and the Church weren't having their little squabble, I'm right certain we'd have Church armies here now - or even Minamet! Light knows why they don't just come out here and burn all the serpents out. Numini Smith and Courant would do it in a moment, I'm right certain. Those two - and Numinous Smith in particular - they know who they're really responsible to. And the troops we have now - they do keep our lands safe."
Vanya raises a hand, a gesture Felix finds particularly effete. "Smith, Smith. Have you talked to the Minamet soldiers sent over? They don't want to be here. I don't think you'll be seeing more of their ilk, not willingly. If you want armies, you'd better go break Spearpoint yourself. That, or pray the Regent sends us more of her men. But I don't think that'll be happening. From what I hear, she'll need them all to convince that daughter of hers to take a prince. And even if she does, she'll still need her armies to keep off the other families - those who don't end up with a Prince Consort. No, I think you, master Rau, are one of the lucky ones - you and yours stand to make quite a fortune here, for being in the right place at the right time. Why, your gracious daughter's future is practically assured already..."
Felix tears his attention away from the two, not wanting to listen any longer. Beside him, Belvior clears his throat, and says, "You heard anything of the Mirepoix boy?"
Young Randal Mirepoix has been missing for a week now, but Felix hasn't heard anything new. He shakes his head, and Belvior presses on. "They say he's not the only one to vanish. Up north, in Greendown, they say whole farms are found empty. I don't know if I believe it, but it's enough to make a man think." He takes a deep pull from his tankard, and Felix realizes Belvior is very, very drunk. "So are the damn birds. Why the Light am I here, and not in my damn home?"
Felix cannot help himself, "The birds?"
Belvior sighs, and stumbles to his feet. "The damn birds. You'll see. Must go..."
Felix helps Frederic Belvior out the door, despite the scent of cow manure that clings to him. Outside, under the half-black sky, Belvior pushes him away, "I'm alright. I can get home from here." Felix watches him stagger down the road, each step a little more composed than the last.
He looks back into the tavern, and sees that Philipe Vanya has taken his seat, and that he is flirting with Shina. She's laughing, and her eyes are twinkling. Felix sighs, and feels the ache in his muscles burn twice as fiercely as he watches Vanya catch the black-haired girl's hand and press it to his lips. She blushes, and Felix turns his back on the tavern. He trudges down the road, back to his home.
In the dark, the shapes of the abandoned serpent buildings, now stripped down to their foundations, rise in disordered patterns along the road. He is not an imaginative man, but he cannot help seeing them as shattered teeth and broken bones. He shivers despite the night's warmth, and redoubles his pace towards home. When he reaches it, he sighs with relief, and reaches out to slide open the door.
Then, he hears the noise from above.
Looking up, he sees a great emerald bird perched atop his home, its beak as sharply curved as his scythe. He watches it, and sees it watching him. Its eyes are lambent gold, and its plumage glitters like metal in the half-starlight. For half an hour, he stands there, doing nothing but watching it, until at last it spreads its great wings, broader across than twice his height, and takes to the air. Felix Ambre watches it fly away until it vanishes into the night. Then, exhausted, he goes to bed.
Tomorrow is another day.
The Royal Gardens
It is autumn, and the warmth of the sun caresses her skin like a lover's touch. The stone of the marble bench she reclines upon is cool against her bare shoulders, but the golden light balances the coldness, sending a delicious tingle down her spine. She sighs in pleasure at the sensation, basks in it for a moment, and then rolls onto her side and studies herself. She knows that the years have treated her well: her skin is still as flawless, the lines of her body still as perfect, as when she turned sixteen. Even motherhood has, she admits, only made her more beautiful, another pleasant surprise from something she had so long dreaded. She runs her hands across her body and smiles at the sensation, her reward for the countless hours she spends honing it, her finest weapon. Satisfied, she catches the braid that binds her blood-red hair, and takes a moment to artfully wind it around her body. Save for her jewelry, it is all she wears.
Beyond the maze of hedges that conceals her, she can hear that the party is in full swing. She, of course, has already fulfilled that portion of her social obligation: she has curtseyed to the new Royal Heir, shown the woman respect while ignoring the daggers of her gaze. Poor Aimee - one life from the throne, yet still scarcely older than Adriana herself. She finds herself laughing gently to herself as she imagines Aimee's life as Royal Heir. Of the many crimes Arabelle Sone has been accused of, she cannot imagine one worse than stripping that woman of the many dreams being Royal Heir will tear away from her.
As Arabelle waits, she indulges in idle fantasies of Komaru under a Crown Princess with no comprehension of men. She wonders if Aimee would dissolve her own marriage, steal her brother back, and make him her Royal Protector or some such nonsense. Or if she would choose Gahariet Komaru instead, providing herself with a perfect husband in all respects save the most important. For a moment, Arabelle imagines Gahariet in her own bed, and smiles at the thought. It would not be the first time she has assayed that particular challenge, but it would be too much work to top her previous effort. Her thoughts return to Tohru, bold, bright, foolish, adorable Tohru. It takes so little effort to understand why the silly girl would fall in love with him. Arabelle laughs to herself again as she thinks about the nature of kinship amidst her family, and Tohru's. Arabelle knows that Aimee, for all her naivete, is certainly not the only one with intense feelings for her siblings.
If anyone needed any additional proof of that, the events of Aimee's ascension as Royal Heir should have banished all doubt. Arabelle vividly recalls the scene, now a season past: Aimee took her seat beside Adriana and Kimiko, while Adriana watched her and hid the faint glimmer of sadness in her eyes. Then the herald's pike against the marble floor brought the candidates for Adriana's hand forward, and the glimmer of sadness turned into a battle against angry tears. The boys presented themselves well, clad in their finest garments and all proudly bearing their family mon, but Arabelle still cannot think of them as men, not even the Yuasa, twice the Crown Princess's age. The speed with which Adriana's tears vanished beneath a schooled face of flat hostility assured Arabelle that the Crown Princess shared her doubts about their suitability. The memory brings a flicker of a smile to Arabelle's lips: none of those children will find Adriana Komaru a willing bride - not when the girl's first act after escaping her suitors is to run to her brother for solace.
She hears footsteps beyond the hedge, the sounds of a couple lost in quiet conversation. She briefly indulges herself in imagining their reaction were they to find her here, but knows her servants will permit no such thing. She waits for only one man, and woe betide any other who dares enter her presence uninvited.
As her maid sends the couple away, Arabelle twists onto her back to consider Hideo Sone. Soon, though, her reflections turn to her own brother. She cannot help but feel a touch of sadness at the memory of devious, dead Toyokuni. For years, he burned more brightly than any man Arabelle knew, or has known since, and it came as no surprise to her that his passion was built on a foundation of pure instability. She stretches out a hand to catch at the hedge behind her as she thinks about Toyokuni's insanity, the blind, inspiring drive that grips so many of her bloodline. Knowing what she does now, she fancies that only blind chance inflicted it upon him and spared her of most of its wrath. Poor, mad Toyokuni, who killed their mother and showed her who her father really was - some days, she misses him. Others, she thanks Mourn that he is gone. Despite everything, she supposes that she loved him.
It is not an admission that comes easily to her, but it is one she finds herself making more and more often as she grows older. She never expected to love her son, but now she finds she enjoys playing with young Celestin, or nursing him, or even simply holding him in her arms at night. Looking back at her aversion to having a child, she wonders at it: she, of all people, should have anticipated the pleasure a family brings. After all, she chuckles as she realizes, no one will know Celestin as intimately as she does for years and years to come. That thought leads quickly to another: oh, how she will enjoy dealing with the women who come to take her son away. She smiles to herself as a dozen scenarios spring into her mind, and finds herself longing to hold the boy even now.
Outside her verdant sanctuary, she hears cheering. Tohru and the Regent have arrived, the returning heroes of the bloodless battle in the East. She feels a tingle of anticipation as her plan begins in earnest. Though she cannot see it, she imagines it as clearly as if she were watching: Tohru by the Regent's side, crowned in a hero's wreath. Aimee, jubilant, angry, clamors for his attention. He reddens under the court's adulation, and searches for a way to escape. Her servant whispers to him that his wife waits for him in the garden, but that she is not disposed to be presented before the court. He worries about this, wondering at its meaning - it pricks his interest, and he makes his apologies to the Regent and his sister, and goes. Aimee considers following, but she knows enough to sense what is happening, to sense that her involvement will only leave her with more pain. She desists, leaving Tohru to hurry quickly into the hedge maze within the garden. Flawlessly, he follows the servant's directions, until at last she hears the crunch of his boots against the stony path, and closes her eyes to wait.
"Arabelle?" he calls, hesitant. "Are you there?"
Her voice is husky, and it thrills her that it is not all artifice. "I am, my dear. I'm afraid I have a terrible problem."
She can tell by the sound of his footsteps that he is close enough to see her now, and the half-strangled noise he makes confirms this. "Arabelle, your clothes-"
"Are not here, rendering me indisposed to be presented at court. I know. That," she croons to him, eyes still closed, "is not the problem."
"What... is?"
She smiles to herself, and opens her eyes to see him standing above her. "I don't have a daughter yet, my lord, and I've not welcomed you home properly." She reaches up, catches his kimono between her fingers, and pulls him towards her.
Atop and beside a marble bench, surrounded by the verdure of the Royal Garden, Tohru Komaru does what he can to solve both of his wife's problems.
The County of Northtail
It is spring, and the warmth of the sun cannot penetrate the grey clouds that dump rain upon the broad brim of his hat. Theo Bellatrix finds the whole situation as ludicrous as the name of the county it is occurring in. Northtail, northern edge of the southernmost reach of Komaru, lies between the Western Ocean and the Plains of Crystal. It is a rocky, dismal land, resembling the north far more than the pastoral fertility of the south, and though it is held by a Bellatrix count, it is now filled with Touraine troops gathered within the lands of two Touraine barons. There are nearly a thousand of them. Arrayed against them, Theo Bellatrix's forces number scarcely more than two hundred.
Fortunately for Theo, they are being very polite.
He has just returned from meeting with their leader, an extremely courteous woman named Elegance Touraine. Living up to her name, she appeared at the negotiations wearing a flowing blue dress, an intricate silver belt, and a silver-threaded snood trimmed with pearls. Had they not been standing between two armies (or perhaps an army and a fifth, Theo confesses to himself), he would have imagined she was dressed for court. Firmly but eloquently, she explained that her army would be passing through Bellatrix territory to reinforce the Touraine holdings in the south. Politely but with the confidence of explicit orders, Theo explained to her that she would not be passing into the south. She seemed faintly sad, as though Theo had turned down an offer to marry her only daughter. Then, she informed him that he should check with his superiors, because she was indeed going south, and unless he wanted to waste the lives of his men in a pointless battle, he would be unwise to stop her. Then, she thanked him for his tea, complimented him on his charm, and wished him best fortune in his family's attempts to engage him to the Crown Princess.
So, here he sits, watching the Touraine army. Faced with an impasse, he has done the only thing possible: he has sent a message to the Bellatrix at the Castle of the Sea, and asked them to entreat the Touraine there to decide whether his troops will die now, or if death will come for them another day.
In the 225th year of Paraceln's Age, the world is growing smaller and the distant horizons are vanishing. Under the light of a half-blackened sky, the substance of what surrounds and envelops the country will soon be revealed.