Chapter I - Masor

The Legend of Leanna Page: Vol. I

You’re reading The Legend of Leanna Page, the page-turning mythopoetic queer literary fantasy. *Click here for the Table of Contents and start of Volume I*

Previously: Cedar Flyte introduced us to the history and importance of the legend. How will it all play out? Read on!

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[AUDIO CHAPTER] Ch 1 - Masor

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It was a morning in early Spring. The chill left behind by winter nipped at the air, but only enough to make one shiver with excitement and forget any idea of wrapping themselves in a shawl. The castle at Masor stretched its towers of elegant gray stone into the bluing Sky and relaxed its base into the ground beneath, content to never see the sunrise from behind the gargantuan Trees of the Infinite Wood – a forest seemingly infinite in both height and area, for none have returned from attempting to discover otherwise – upon whose edge the castle resided. Masor’s queen, the good Fionella Oxbien, stood atop the tallest bastion of her castle taking in the magnificent sight of the Wood. A northwestward wind blew from the Forest and seduced her with the scent of sweet herbs and fresh mystery. She tilted her head back, lifting her gaze to its furthest extent, and sighed at the impossible task of discovering the Treetops, even from the great height of the bastion. Turning to look beneath her toward the north, she studied the topmost leaves of the Masorian woods within her borders. These, miniature in comparison, were known for their game and adventurers; yet, they held none of the mysterious magic that danced constantly around each of the infinite Trees.

Fionella had never traversed a step beyond Masor into the Infinite Wood, for it was well understood in both kingdoms that no royal was ever to attempt it. Still, on this day in particular, the aged queen could not help but remember one of the sweet stories of the Wood her king, Madrick, had whispered to her on their wedding night.

“Are you thinking of the Forest?” His voice arose from behind her as he joined the landing. She turned and smiled at the recently reignited spark in his eye.

“So you recall it as well?” she teased, returning her gaze to the Wood.

“The grove at Lufian is said to be charmed with the most endearing of magics, making an act of love underneath it unbearably divine.” He stepped to her, encircling her waist within his arms and resting his chin on her shoulder. Whispering, he confessed, “I remember tales of it every year on this day.”

Fionella chuckled, disengaging slightly from her husband and facing him. “How did you hear of it in the first, oh careful King?”

Madrick shrugged. “Rumors come and go. Moreover, I was not always a wise king but once a reckless prince, far more prone to fraternizing with the local charlatans who would venture into the Wood against better advice.”

“‘Tis a shame our son takes after your younger half,” Fionella thought aloud.

“He shall grow.”

“I suppose.”

King Madrick took hold of his beloved’s hands and returned to their romantic musings. “Come, Queen, what say you? I think our fortieth anniversary of betrothment is a splendid time for an adventure.”

“To the Wood? Oh, think truthfully, love, we cannot enter it. What would the Ranzentines say?”

“The Ranzentines need never know! There has been so little communication between our castles the past decade, how would they ever discover it?”

“Rumors come and go,” she reminded him.

Madrick stepped back in a playful huff. “So if we were discovered by the royals of Pavoline, what of it? We will have committed no crime.”

“You know the Ranzentines are more superstitious about the Woods than are we. They may view our entering it as a risk to the truce.”

“King Petrenair is gentle, he never leads with the sword. We would send him a small billet of good intent, he would invite us to share a weekend in his castle, and we would share a laugh over it all.”

The queen smirked as he removed her arguments but could not yet accept he would have an answer to them all. “And of the fairies that give the Woods their magic and protect it from invasion with violent force? Are we not to be concerned from them?”

“I do not pretend the journey is free of risk; therein lies half the fun. Still, I cannot imagine fairies, even, are so cruel as to prevent the entrance of two old fools looking to share an evening of bliss.”

Fionella smiled. The two royals watched each other’s eyes deeply and found agreement in their glance.

“Isolda will be furious,” Fionella remarked with a knowing grin.

“Then upon our return she shall observe our joy and take a much-needed lesson in the acquisition of gaiety.”

The king and queen laughed until Fionella’s countenance began to fall somber.

“Is it not unwise to venture so, aging as we are?”

Madrick tucked a wisp of gray behind the queen’s ear and held a finger under her chin. “What better decade to fulfill your fantasies than one which might be your last?”

*****

“Have they gone mad?” Princess Isolda, daughter to the king and queen, was indeed in a bewildered frenzy at the news of her parents’ flight. She stood at her writing desk, fists upon the face of it, and focused her fury towards Fionella’s young maid, Esta, who had come with the message.

“Mad in love, it might be,” Esta explained with a contained giggle. “It seems the arrival of their anniversary has rekindled certain flames.”

“Dost thou find this funny?”

Straight-lipped, Esta replied, “No, your highness.”

“What if they perish? What do they expect my brother to do, become King?” Isolda scowled at the thought of it.

“O dear, I daren’t think on their demise,” said the maid.

“Well, someone must!”

“I am certain the prince would sober for his coronation.”

Isolda huffed, fell back into her chair, and shook her head. “Send me instant word upon their return.”

“Of course, your highness.” Esta congeed and took her leave.

The princess’ gaze fell and returned to the book of Masorian histories which lay open atop her desk, holding tales of their kingdom’s heroes and records of every lagif who had helped govern in service to the crown. What had been but a light morning’s pleasure read now turned her thoughts to ones of a more severe gravity. She sat forward in an instant and flipped to a familiar chapter early in the volume, offering particular care to the extremely well-read pages. The story of the first Oxbien to rule over Masor had especially interested her as a child, her being second born just as Emmrand Oxbien was. She scanned the paragraphs, recalling every sentence without requiring to read them in full, angering at the thought that her extensive adolescent efforts to bound ahead in her education had done naught to change her older sibling’s birthright to the crown, and calming as she found herself at the climax of the old tale.

In the days before kingdoms, Emmrand was nothing more than the second child of Lagif Admist Oxbien who presided over a small hamlet just half a day north of the Gwahanu River. It was the first province to carry the name Masor. As dictated by family tradition, Emmrand’s oldest sister, Rouge, was set to inherit their father’s lagifship. Tradition dictated further that, while his younger siblings might lead lives as varied as merchants to nobility by marriage, Emmrand would serve his life as vice-lagif to his sister so long as she lived, a position holding more letters in half its title than responsibilities of import. Such was the duty of the second-born; and it was a great honor, the book said.

The Ranzentines across the River held the city of Pavoline. With its sandstone architecture and vast natural reserves of precious metals, the southern city soared high above the flat farmlands of Masor. Emmrand made frequent visits to the city, crossing the wide Gwahanu at the strait at Its center where was constructed the only bridge between North and South. The book stated his motive was always to obtain stronger material for new farm tools, but Isolda thought a certain silent interest might have been a much stronger motivation. In Pavoline, he would have been witness to a different way of life. There they had no lagifs, but lords and ladies, each with a stated purpose designated by sex. If he had been born in Pavoline, then that Emmrand was the second child would have been incidental, for being the First-Born Son would have granted him rights to his father’s title. The histories spoke of this with disdain, and Isolda naturally thought it absurd; still, she understood the desire to circumvent the rule of birth order and even admired the first ancient Pavols who managed to do so through whatever means they could.

At the time, the city of Pavoline had been ruled by Lord Drume Ranzentine, a title set to be inherited by his son Percy. However, there was an unusually small age difference between father and son, and the lord’s strong figure and sprightly demeanor meant Percy was likely not to see his inheritance until he himself was an old man.

None of the writings were clear on how or wherefore the war began, the implication in Masor always being that Pavoline had attacked unprovoked. What was known was that, within a year, Pavol forces – led by Percy Ranzentine – had left their city, traveled north, and overtaken Masor, leaving Pavoline undefended against the near simultaneous movement of Masorian forces – led by Emmrand Oxbien – into Pavoline.

What intrigued Isolda was how long Oxbien and Ranzentine spent fighting, and yet how little they really fought one another. The battling continued for many a year past the conquering of each city with most so-called battles consisting of nothing more than each army traveling further north or south respectively and overtaking unprepared villages in their wake, ever increasing their stronghold. When all land encircled by the Wood belonged to one family or the other, and in order to conquer more they would either have to fight each other or the fairies of the Forest, the fighting ceased, and the sovereignties of Masor and Pavoline were bordered and agreed upon, everything north of the Gwahanu becoming the Kingdom of Pavoline, and all to the south Isolda’s homeland of Masor.

Under the chaos of war, both Lord Drume Ranzentine and Lagif-Heir Rouge Oxbien separately fell ill and died. They were grieved and counted among the lost, and when the Truce of the Two Kingdoms was struck and the war was ended, it was Percy Ranzentine and Emmrand Oxbien who were set to rule. Of these two mythic kings, the stories tell of lifelong enemies who found peace and respect through matched military might. Still, between the lines, Isolda could not help but read of two young allies who desired more than they were promised and found a way to achieve it.

Isolda closed the volume and sat back in her chair. She considered her parents, by now sure to be frolicking in uncharted Forest, and she interrogated possibilities of what royal life might be after the sudden disappearance of the king and queen. If her brother, Prince Madrick Oxbien II, was unprepared to govern – as surely he was – would she as Vice-Crown be able to assume every right and responsibility of the throne in his stead? A smile began to creep up her countenance but wave of guilt washed it away; for, although the idea interested her, she could not covet in earnest the early loss of parents who, though ridiculous at times and childish, had loved her too dearly. She shook all thought of it from her mind and wished her parents a speedy return.

Alas, the day passed into night and morning rose again, and still, the king and queen remained unseen by the palace guards keeping watch. Days passed and all in the castle grew increasingly uneasy, no one more so than Princess Isolda who desperately wished her musings had not led her to so accurate a prediction. As the sun began its descent on the fourth day of their absence, Isolda battled contradicting senses of excitement and shame, grief, and determination until she at last accepted the oncoming responsibility she felt hovering inevitably over her shoulders. She approached her brother in his bed chambers.

“Madrick,” she called, rapping the tall door with the back of her fist, cream-colored against the dark wood. There was no answer. She tried again. “Brother, we must speak, I implore you.” After a moment, a sloppy voice finally came booming from the chamber.

“Hark! I am king hither, and I decree thou shalt not pass.”

“You are not King of Masor yet,” Isolda rejoined.

“You misunderstand. I mean not of Masor, but of these bed chambers. I am king here, and I am dressed not, and I desirous not to speak to thee.”

“Nor I to thee, Brother, but alas, Mother and Father are gone now four days and the kingdom may well fall upon our shoulders within the four following. It is an issue, as she who’ll be thy Vice-Crown, I beg thee to grant the utmost importance and urgency, so please pull up a pair of trousers and open this forsaken door.” After her speech, Isolda knew she had won, so she waited silently, listening to her brother rummage about in search of trousers. At length, the door unclosed, revealing her brother, the prince, hair knotted, trousers backward, and chest lacking a shirt. The siblings each stared into the other’s familial disapproving gaze.

“May I enter?” Isolda inquired. Madrick responded with a sly smirk as he side-stepped, bowing low, allowing the princess to pass. Once she had entered sufficiently, he retired to his desk where he kept his wine. Propping his heels on the edge of the wood, he leaned back and sipped from the bottle.

“How may I assist thee, your highness?” the prince jested.

Holding her breath against the stench of alcohol, Isolda responded, “We must discuss thy kingship.”

Madrick whined, “I cannot be king, I am but of two and twenty. Is there no fairness? Father had twelve years more, at least!, to make himself ready.”

“If thou hadst studied, like I, thou might feelest differently. For years now I have felt I could assume the duties of the crown.”

“Then be Crown, Isolda.”

She sucked in a breath. “As much as it pains me, you know – as the younger of us – I cannot.”

Madrick sighed at her formality. “Then why come here to flaunt your intelligence when you know it can be of no use?”

“I mean not to flaunt, for I believe it can be of great use. As your Vice-Crown, I am bound to serve, and while the title of Crown may be required to fall upon you, the duties could, in theory, be appointed elsewhere.” Madrick stared at his sister with understanding while she awaited his response.

“You want them, Isolda, the duties of the crown?”

 “I would be honored to hold them.” She chose her words with care.

Madrick closed his eyes and pressed a hand against the ache in the space between them. “I fear you are trying to take something from me that I should hesitate to release,” he said.

Isolda pushed, “I mean only to ensure the prosperity of Masor.”

Unclosing his eyes, he looked to her a moment and saw a determination – a passion – in her glare that he wondered now if his heart would ever have the capacity to grant him. He took another swig of wine.

“Very well,” he decided. Then he rose the bottle in a toast and nodded. “For Masor,” he said.

“Well chosen, Brother.” Isolda, having achieved her aim, began to exit.

“It will matter not,” the prince blurted. “Mother and Father will return. The knights will find them.”

With an honest sisterly sympathy for the drunken, optimistic, fool, Isolda responded, “I am afraid it will lessen the pain if we begin the grieving now.”

“Then you believe they are dead true?” Madrick held back a sob. Isolda nodded and quit the chamber, leaving the prince to let his tears fall in peace.

*****

The young knight, Kn. Grilliot, whose weary heart and fatigued legs had led the royal search of the surrounding Woods for now seven days, began to give in to his fear that the king and queen were not to be found. Even after a week, neither he nor his fellow knights had quite overcome their apprehension at walking and sleeping amidst the infinite Trees, and all were ever on edge in anxious wait of their first encounter with a fairy. Grilliot knew from the tales that the creatures were far too skilled to have let even their small military contingent go unnoticed. The fairy warriors – known for visages as verdant as the leaves – would surely be hidden and observing from the Trees. Though they spoke not of it, all in the group were aware of the circumstance. Morale amongst them was dreadfully low.

Grilliot lifted his canteen, hoping to revive his spent strength, but stilled at the sudden call of Kn. Pouray. Racing past the others, he strode to Kn. Pouray’s side, hope refilling his chest, but he deflated again as he witnessed the unpleasant cause of her call. The once fearless king lay lifeless on the Forest floor. The Oxbien family’s Golden Oleander, which was once sewn into the king’s elegant purple cloak, was torn off and thrown across his chest, all of it now ensanguined and stained in red. Beside him lay the queen, in a no more delightful position.

The next morning, cries were heard throughout Masor as the knights returned to the castle, king and queen stiff in their arms. Isolda received them in the Great Hall, standing proud in the face of tragedy. Madrick stood beside her until the doors unclosed, for upon seeing a hint of the bodies he gripped Isolda’s shoulder, steadying himself, then stumbled out of the room. Isolda did not once remove her glance from her mother’s hair, matted and unclean like she had never seen it before. Upon Madrick’s exit, the new vice-crown merely stood taller as her parents' bodies were laid atop death tables in the center of the hall. She stepped down from the raised throne to stand beside them, staring expressionless for a time at one and then the other, the surrounding knights growing uneasy with every passing breath, unsure how to read the princess’s thoughts. At long last, she spoke softly:

“This was no accident of the Woods.”

Kn. Pouray, after a glance to her other knights, took it upon herself to respond for the group. “Their wounds do not appear to be made by any animal or weapon known to exist in the kingdoms. Shall we conduct an investigation into the cause of death?”

“When a king and queen are found dead in the heart of fairy territory, the question of the cause begs no answer.”

“Shall we prepare a retaliation, your highness?”

Isolda shook her head. “The Fairy Nation is too powerful, and Masor now far too weak in spirit to risk waging a fruitless attack. We cannot retaliate with military force, but retaliate still we must. Spread word amongst the civilry: Fairies have proven a menace to our kingdom. Any brave Masorian with the courage to enter the Infinite Wood shall be greatly rewarded if they can destroy a member of the Fairy Nation and gift their severed wings to this castle. They may have pretended friendship with us long ago, but there is no returning from this. I shall have it known, forever forth, the fairy folk will find no friend in the House of Oxbien.” Isolda stormed from the Great Hall, purple cloak waving royally being her, leaving a chill in her wake.

The coronation of King Madrick II took place the same afternoon, as with the swearing-in of Vice-Crown Isolda Oxbien. Only slightly worse than was to be expected, the new king spent the evening wasting away in the castle wine cellar. None dared enter to see the young man turned in on himself, crouching in a corner, nursing a strong bottle to completion, though several servants who passed by could hear his sorrowful singing. The old cook stood by to hear the song. It was muddled through the king’s tears, but could still be recognized as the favorite tune the recently lost monarchs used to sing with their children. Even the cook could not help but cry now at its final verse.

THE FAVORITE OF THE SKY

Take heed, for I shall tell a tale 
Which peeves the people that fly.
It tells of how we humans were made,
And made the favorite of the Sky.

At first, our world was naught but Trees;
Just trees and dirt and Sky.
The Trees grew tall, grew very tall – 
Became the meaning of “high.”

Although the Trees were beauteous,
They were also dull and dry.
The Sky desired more than them,
So the Sky began to cry.

The tears that fell were many and
The tears that fell were strong.
So strong a massive pool remained
Aft’ the Sky’s saddened song.

Numerous years the pool stayed full,
Encircled by Trees around,
But then the pool began to sink;
The tears embraced into the ground.

When last the water ran all but dry,
The Sky saw what It had done.
Where once was only massive Trees,
Now a new terrain had won. 

There were deserts, valleys, grasses,
And mountains made of stone.
Some forest did remain, but so much smaller
Than those the Sky had known.

Across the center of this new clearing,
The strongest tears refused to sink.
There the great Gwahanu River emerged,
Beginning, on Its own, to think.

The Sky paid the River no heed,
Only gloried in Its new world.
The River simply simmered below,
As Its waves rippled and curled. 

The Sky thought Its new world beauteous,
But thought It too was a sight to see.
It wished for one who could admire It,
Someone like you and me. 

It first made fish, then dear and ram,
And best of all, the bird,
But none of them admired the Sky,
Such as the Sky would have preferred. 

A human, last, bore from tear-soaked ground,
And looked up to the Sky.
“Oh, what a beauty there is!” said they,
And It gave a contented sigh.

More of us were born from earth,
Then more from our own powers.
Without long, the World Within the Woods
Had become completely ours.

The River though grew jealous,
And wanted one its own.
It tossed and tossed earth above its waves,
Until it sparked, shimmered, and shown.

Thus It made the fairies of the Wood,
Much like us, if we could fly.
These beasts contested our right to home,
And angered, much, the Sky.

The Sky used Its wind to hold them back,
Trapping them in the Wood
Until they conceded the World Within,
Letting alone, as they should.

Children, now, fear not the fairy folk.
Leave them to their Woods to cry.
Their River powers can harm us not,
For we are the favorite of the Sky.

*****

During this time, Vice-Crown Isolda took charge of sorting the king’s affairs. She gave orders to the knights, dictated official notices to be sent to Masor’s lagifs, and informed the collectors to report to her directly. No one raised any argument to her assumption of the post. The one action she was incapable of was to sign the crown’s papers, for it had to be done with the royal seal, and, despite her wishes, the ring on which it was engraved remained on the hand of the king.

At last, night fell on this, Isolda’s longest day, and she sat somber at her chamber window, pondering. There was a soft knock at the door and she bid the person enter. Isolda was at once surprised and relieved to see Esta, her mother’s maid, standing in the doorway.

Esta spoke. “Your highness, as you know, my family has been in the service of yours for longer than either can remember. With the queen gone, I request to be maintained in your service, if you will have me.”

“Of course, Esta. Gramercy.” Isolda smiled sadly. The maid bowed and watched the princess’s smile fade from her lips.

“Is there anything I can do for you now, your highness?”

Isolda paused in thought and, at length, said, “Dost thou recall the color of my mother’s eyes?”

“Green, your grace.”

With a sigh, she said, “Yes. My thanks, I’d forgotten. That will be all.”

Esta made to depart, but the moon’s glare betrayed a wetness in the vice-crown’s eye. She approached and knelt before Isolda.

“You needn’t always wear a mask of strength, Princess. To cry can do good for the spirit.”

Isolda looked into the eyes of the wise maid, just barely younger than herself, and within them found a comforting sanctuary. She thought to throw her arms around her and release the tears of her grief into the maid’s shoulder, but she sat taller and feigned a content smile. “That will be all, Esta,” she said. The maid nodded, congeed, and took leave of the chamber, catching one final glance at Isolda as the stoic vice-crown returned her faraway gaze to the window.

****

Chapter II - Pavoline