Chapter II - Pavoline
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: The royalty of Masor were murdered and Vice-Crown Isolda took up leadership of the kingdom, swearing revenge on the fairies, while her older brother, Crown Madrick II, languished in grief and wine. What will the royalty of Pavoline have to say? Read on!
Past the plains of Masor, across the Gwahanu River, and deep in the heart of the kingdom of Pavoline, King Petrenair gazed into his looking glass and pushed aside a gray curl that had fallen across his eye. A month had now passed since the death of his friends in the House of Oxbien, and the old king felt his own reaper drawing near; still, as the eldest member of the House of Ranzentine, his will to survive kept strong his rule of Pavoline throughout every ailment and attack which had threatened him thus far. He thought of his son, the lone Ranzentine descendant. The young Guiomar, now but a few years off from his thirtieth, had grown strong-willed and stubborn like his mother, Queen Helena. Petrenair smiled, remembering the days his Helena swore there existed no force capable of severing her from his side. Until the fatal night of Guiomar’s birth, nothing could have dissuaded him from this perfect notion. Alas, he sighed, once again entreating his heart to forgive the world its cruelty.
He eased his pain with thought of his son, his beloved’s spirit blazing with life behind the prince’s eyes. It was this spirit that was one day to lift the kingdom of Pavoline from his shoulders, trading its own as support. Guiomar was sure to lead Pavoline towards its greatest prosperity, but the king felt his son had still more to learn. He could see within the boy an excellent warrior and a brilliant statesman, but there was some ineffable side to the prince that gave his father pause. Guiomar’s fearlessness and pride perhaps lacked an anchor in benevolence and patience. His one wish for the eventual day of his departure from Earth was to feel no trepidation at his son’s reign. He sighed once more, bidding his disquietude to take its leave, and shifted his gaze to the chamber window. He looked out over the castle courtyard, the citadel, and the farm country beyond, and saw the small cloud of dust which had grown over the large road directed towards the south and watched the flags of the Masorian procession making their way along it to the castle gate. From his place, he could see his own family banners hung on his castle walls, adorned with the chartreuse sundew plant, its carnivorous tentacles wrapping over and consuming a silver sun, centered within a field of dark green; Percy Ranzentine’s choice for their house, changed from the image of the sun peaking over Ancient Pavoline’s mountaintops during the great war. Looking again at the Oxbien flags as they neared his gate, Petrenair realized the Oleander and Sundew had not been both within his sight for some time. To prepare, he called upon his servant, Byrdon, who proceeded to lay the king’s emerald cape across his broad shoulders. With a final glance in his looking glass, King Petrenair quit the chamber and strode to the grand entrance to greet his guest upon her arrival.
Guiomar joined his father on the magnificent stairway which connected the outer court to the interior of the castle. The royal Masorian carriage was making its final turn and, together, the prince and king waited in anticipation for Princess Isolda to emerge. Petrenair had hoped to speak to the new King Madrick II but was informed that the king had been taken ill and the princess would visit in his stead. Neither Guiomar nor his father had entertained their Masorian allies in many a year, and both were eager to see how the princess had grown. When the carriage came to a halt, the driver, jumping from his post, opened the coach door and offered his hand to the vice-crown who soon stepped onto the cobblestone. The servant, Esta, stepped out from the farther side of the carriage and ran to the back of it where she picked up the large vase of yellow roses that was to be a gift to the king. Vase in hand, she followed Isolda up the steps.
The princess walked slow and proud, her thin hair falling in front of her chest and framing an already stern visage. Prince Guiomar privately noted the self-satisfaction she carried in her raised chin and thrown back shoulders. King Petrenair noticed only that she appeared polite and had grown significantly taller.
“Welcome to Pavoline, my friend,” the king said, taking Isolda’s hand. “I offer you my deepest condolences. One moment with you assures me that the Oxbiens were magnificent parents, just as they were friends.”
Isolda graciously smiled and replied in kind. “Masor is grateful for the friendship of Pavoline, and I am grateful for the gentleness of your soul.”
Guiomar cleared his throat. The king turned. “Isolda, you remember my son.”
“Guiomar, yes; it is a pleasure,” she offered her hand.
Remaining still, hands clasped at his front, he responded slowly, “Isolda, Princess of Masor, the pleasure is mine.”
Isolda allowed her hand to fall, curiously staring toward the prince, wondering at his attitude. “Vice-Crown is perhaps the more proper of my titles to use if we are engaging in official introductions,” she replied.
Guiomar smirked in condescension and stared at her until they were locked in a silent challenge of wits. At length, she turned back to the king, breaking the tension.
“Please accept these yellow roses, grown only in the royal Masorian courts, as a token of our long-living alliance.”
“We shall cherish them,” the king bowed. “Byrdon, take these from the maid and bring them to the main hall. They will decorate our table tonight at the feast!” He gave his arm jovially to Isolda, who accepted it kindly, and the royal three strode into the palace.
Esta climbed the steps to meet Byrdon, who likewise descended towards the maid. As he reached out to collect the flowers, the fingertips of both servants happened upon each other at the side of the vase. Esta and Byrdon both stood still, their eyes holding each other in a trance.
“Byrdon, was it not?” Esta asked.
“Indeed, and what be thy name?”
“Esta, handmaiden to the princess.”
For thy beauty, my mind might have confused thee for the princess herself. Byrdon’s thoughts betrayed him in a small smile, though he said no direct word of his true feelings.
“Welcome to Pavoline,” he said, as the vase completed its journey into his grasp. Esta smiled shyly and, together, they followed their sovereigns inside.
*****
“And for moons after that day, my Helena would not speak but to relish in the memory of your father catching her from the bucking horse.” Petrenair laughed as Byrdon filled the final glass of wine. At a wave from the king, Byrdon bowed and quitted the hall, leaving the royals to their private convivialities. “In truth, there were times I wondered if, but for Fionella, he might have been capable of stealing my queen for his own kingdom, but I knew he would never dream of it. Your father was a good man.”
“He was a good king,” Isolda agreed, and King Petrenair nodded. He then looked down.
“I would that he had not traveled into the Forest,” he said.
“As would we all,” the vice-crown replied.
“Indeed. Perhaps his son will be more cautious.”
Isolda raised her glass to that and sipped at its edge.
“I regret to hear of his illness,” the king continued. “I hope he recovers swiftly.”
Isolda took a breath. “Unfortunately, my brother is prone to fall prey to illness such as this quite often. In fact, the majority of the crown’s duties have been delegated to myself, for precaution’s sake.” As Isolda explained the matter the king’s brow rose involuntarily with his understanding.
“Then it is perhaps for the best we are meeting with the princess instead of the king.”
Isolda smiled politely, taking another sip of her wine. She looked toward Guiomar who returned a scornful gaze. No longer able to suffer his behavior by naming it as simply odd, the princess spoke.
“Guiomar, enlighten me,” she began, “by what misfortune do I happen upon you in a time of such despondency?” ‘Til now the prince had yet to speak so much as a sentence. “If my memory serves, last we met you were spry and delightful. I’faith, after the visit my mother jested our kingdoms might one day align through marriage ‘twixt you and I. I laughed her off, and have not agreed with myself so much then as I do now, but can one’s disposition truly change so drastically over the years, despite how many they may be?”
Guiomar prepared to speak, and his father interrupted.
“Forgive him, Isolda. It is true, he acts not as himself tonight, but I surely expect it has naught to do with you.” He shot his son a cautionary glance.
“Yes, I beg you to forgive me,” Guiomar responded. “I am afraid the occasion of the newly departed has begot me to think of my own memories with my departed parent; or, the memories that would have been had she not been taken from me.”
Isolda nodded. “It is a difficult time for us all. Though I must inquire as to your harsh inflection in the phrase ‘taken’. You would not suggest foul play? I understood your mother’s death to be a tragedy of nature, unlike the murder of mine.”
“Perhaps their deaths were not so different.”
“Son, hold your tongue,” Petrenair whispered through gritted teeth.
Isolda ignored the king. “How can you say this? Did not Queen Helena die giving birth to you?”
“Yes, under the failed aid of a Masorian midwife.”
“Guiomar! Silence!”
Isolda scoffed. “Albain is known throughout both our kingdoms for her skills as a physician as well as a midwife. She was a gift to ease the labor, you surely cannot blame her for what was out of her power to control.”
“‘Tis not her I blame, but the Oxbiens who sent her.”
King Petrenair stood. “Prince Guiomar, do not disgrace yourself this way.”
Isolda held up a forgiving hand to the king. “No, sit, my friend. I wish to hear the full accusation. Pray, Guiomar, elaborate. Explain to me the way in which my recently deceased parents, your longtime allies, facilitated your mother’s death.”
“Isolda, I beg you—” the king tried, but the princess’s determined glare seated him into silence.
Guiomar offered a hesitant glance to his father, then turned his attention to Isolda. “I hardly believe you are ignorant, Isolda Oxbien, but perhaps the telling will remind you, Father, of our true plight. Many years ago I discovered a journal authored by Viridian, my mother’s maid, in which she kept in full detail the story of my mother’s fall. It was she, you see, who had been beside the queen throughout the entirety of her birthing journey, and she witnessed first-hand her postpartum decline.”
“Surely you will not make such accusations on the word of a servant,” Isolda said.
Guiomar rejoined, “A servant who never faltered in her loyalty and whose condition at the time of writing offered naught in reasons to lie. She tells of how the babe, still unborn in Helena’s womb, was prone to violent jolting bursts—”
“The child, of course, being yourself, Guiomar. Do not you find the rightfully accused in your looking glass each morning?”
Petrenair turned to the princess. “Dear Isolda, I beg, do not aggravate him. I would that the subject be dropped, but if you wish to hear of it, let my son speak.”
“Thank you, Father,” Guiomar said, and he turned back to Isolda. “I believed for so long that I held the blame, but I know now it was not so. The truth is swallowed with daggers, Isolda, and you have already lifted the cup. You must accept my words.”
After a breath, she said, “Accept I will not, but I concede I have now sacrificed my ear. Do continue but, by the River and Sky, do so with caution.”
King Petrenair flinched at the princess’s oath, but it only served to strengthen Guiomar’s smile of contempt.
“Indeed, Princess, I shall,” he said. “The queen was in pain from the child’s kicks and, though strong in the face of it, even she could not wholly withstand the effects. Gaxon, our loyal physician, was brought in to ensure the safety of the queen and the babe, and after an examination, he deemed it best for the queen to remain bedridden for the remainder of the gestation. Her pains would continue, but with rest, they would do no harm. A week after this treatment was thus prescribed, the dear Oxbiens sent Albain.” The sounds of the woman’s name dripped from his lips with tangible disgust. “The midwife came with her Masorian medicines and traditions. She brushed aside Viridian and Gaxon, insisting that she alone be allowed access to the queen, and you, Father, granted her such luxuries, despite the impossibility of her loyalty—”
The king shook his head, fury raging within him. “I maintain that our full trust was rightfully placed with the Oxbiens. They meant us no harm,” he insisted.
“I was made to believe we were finished with interruptions.” Guiomar remained calm.
“You cannot sit at my table with the princess of Masor and spit upon our alliance!”
“An alliance with the foundation of betrayal is no alliance at all.”
“To your chambers!” Petrenair boomed. “Guiomar, retire at once.”
The prince smirked. “You would deny our guest her wish?”
He sighed. “Isolda, for the memory of your good father, for your mother, I beg you do not request he continue.”
“For their memory, I must,” she said. “No one can be defended against an accusation left unheard.”
The table fell silent and, after a respectful nod to Isolda, Guiomar went on, leaving the king to simmer in his seat. “With only her queen’s interest at heart, Viridian defied the woman physician and followed my mother everywhere, hidden out of Albain’s sight. The first day of her appointment to the queen’s side, Viridian notes that the Masorian had the queen walking about, pains in full, expressly denying the virtues of Gaxon’s prescription of bed rest. The maid watched, helpless, as her beloved sovereign was paraded around the castle, Albain at her arm, as her pain increased by the day. She braved the king’s reprimand and found Gaxon to tell him of the atrocities – a mother in such stage of expectancy walking about! – and he maintained his method was tested, tried, and true, and what a needless risk the Masorian physician was taking with the life of the queen and her heir. Alas, our king would not hear of it, insisting our friends in Masor could do us no harm, and the midwife was allowed to go about her ways. Under the watch of the Masorian, the queen ate foreign food with foreign potions. They sat together and sang foreign songs to the fetus. Albain would emerge from the queen’s apartment with well-told lies of improvement, but Viridian could see the truth. At night she would listen to the cries of her queen who felt only more pain than before.
“Finally, the day of birth came. Thankfully I emerged in full health, surely in spite of Albain’s efforts; but alas, my mother was not so lucky. The pains in her abdomen increased tenfold and she fell into a dreadful fever. Albain claimed full ignorance as to the cause and Gaxon was brought in again for examination. In accordance with years of experience, he prescribed an urgent bleeding treatment, essential to saving my mother’s life, but as he readied his equipment Albain stopped him. Father, you listened to her appeal as she claimed mad dangers of the treatment, denying its usefulness. You must understand, she manipulated your affected state, causing you to order your own physician against a life-saving treatment for your wife, your queen!, and in doing so achieved the Masorian’s goal. Days after the birth, she put her bags together and quit the castle, leaving you to put together funeral arrangements.
“In your grief, you were unable to take control of newly occurring outbursts in the orchard villages beside the River, so our ‘friends’ in the castle of Masor graciously offered their services once more. They sent their condolences and took our land, extending their border across the water and around the troubled towns. Pavoline has grown strong once again, but the land has not been returned; no, it is left as a gift in thanks of the Oxbiens’ friendship. Petrenair, I swear, if you were not my father and king I would be tempted to name you a fool.”
Isolda nearly laughed in surprise as she saw the king look furiously down at his plate.
“As for you, Isolda,” Guiomar concluded, “you must know by what trickery your parents hatched the wicked plot; by what betrayal they planted my mother’s pains; by what provocation they sparked the town outburst; by what greed they took my mother’s life in exchange for some measly villages. You claim a friendship with Pavoline but act only for yourselves. Viridian went mad with grief after the loss of our queen, but thankfully wrote her testimony before she followed my mother to the grave so that I would be able to later discover it and make known the truth.”
There was silence. Isolda examined Guiomar as he watched her in return. Petrenair looked to his son then slowly dared to observe the princess’s face. It offered him nothing as to the state of her mind.
“A powerful speech, Prince Guiomar. Rehearse it long, did you?” she finally said.
“Do not mock me,” the prince scowled.
“I do not mock you, Guiomar, you mock yourself. I can speak nothing of the physician’s art, but I am without doubt that Albain performed only the treatments she thought to bring wellness, and prevented only those which she thought were sure to cause harm. Have you not considered that Albain’s skill and experience may be superior to that of your ‘Gaxon’? As for the foreign food and potions, I expect you speak of traditional Masorian dishes and medicines derived from native herbs and spices, which perhaps it may benefit you to taste. If not, then I simply beseech you not to speak harshly of that which you have no knowledge. You say your mother’s mad maid knew better than no other, but she knew nothing of the gracious and charitable heart which led my king and queen to their every decision. I regret your grief, Guiomar, but I regret more so that it was your birth which made Queen Helena incapable of providing Pavoline a more fitting heir.”
“You see this, Father! She insults us even now.”
“No, Guiomar, she insults you.” Petrenair shifted in his seat, directing himself to the vice-crown. “Isolda, I do not dream to beg your favor toward my insolent son, but I pray the alliance of kingdoms may hold true in spite of his unforgivable transgressions against your honor. Long have I known his opinions of the past. I ignored them in hopes time would present a day when his opinions would more mirror my own, and I maintain those hopes. All I desire is a continuance of peace between us all.”
Although she maintained a countenance of repressed scorn, within Isolda the flames of anger sank into embers as she took in the kind and penitent manner of the king. She responded dutifully. “King Petrenair, you have proven a loyal ally to Masor.” She considered her next words as she folded her napkin, placed it beside her half-cleaned plate, and stood beside her chair. She spoke only to Petrenair. “Out of respect for the deceased, the friendship between us does not die on this day. I am sure our alliance will live as long as you, but I regret what may occur beyond that. Your majesty.” She bowed and quitted the hall without one glance toward Guiomar.
Petrenair stood to see her go. He steadied himself on the dining table and stared towards his fists, waiting for the heavy door to hide the last crack of light from the hall. Suddenly, he sprang up and smacked the prince across his cheek.
“If ever thou dost dare to endanger our alliance again, I will not hesitate to revoke thy crown.”
Guiomar felt the sting on his face but dared not nurse it. “You have no other heir,” he said.
“Then the Ranzentine dynasty shall die with me.”
The prince’s face fell into submission; but beneath, his heart betrayed the once gentle king, and a canker of hatred slowly encased his soul.
*****
Outside the ominous scene of the feast, the servants had an adventure all their own. After having departed from the great hall in which the royals dined, Byrdon saw the shape of Esta passing the corridor and the sight filled him with an eagerness he dared not explain. Retiring his pitcher to the nearest windowsill, the servant of Pavoline set off after the Masorian maid, his eyes catching her once more as he rounded the bend, breathing to speak, tongue stayed by the sight of her beauteous obsidian hair in a multitude of braids, cascading around a graceful ebony neck. At length, he found his voice.
“Good evening, dear lady.”
Esta stopped and turned, her heart forcing a smile upon her lips at the sight of the wooing man. “I but serve the ladies, good sir,” she said. “I am not one myself, you need not call me such.”
“Admittedly, I might have been fooled. But as both our occupiers occupy themselves tonight, perhaps I could entreat thee with a guided walk about the castle?”
Esta assented, hardly daring to glance in Byrdon’s eyes, as she placed her hand in that of the Pavol, his russet skin appearing golden against the silver tones of her own, foretelling a notion of the splendors that would grow from their affections. Together, the two servants strolled through palace hallways, forgetting throne rooms and royal chambers, passing portraits and tapestries, conversing in so tender a discourse that would raise envy in the bosoms of the Sky’s own stars, each step further securing the knot that was to bind their hearts in everlasting care. Time flew, the servants knew not how long, until they found themselves encircled by the romantic glow of the starlit night, strolling out upon the outstretched balcony that capped the palace’s southern wing.
Byrdon, caught in the ocean of Esta’s eyes, fell silent and pensive. He turned, walking to the edge and resting himself on the parapet, its ivy-strewn stones so familiar. He looked upon the deep green leaves with their bright veins running to and fro, ever connected yet ever each in search of their own path, twisting sharp with pangs of indecision, weakening with each sudden turn. On his first night in service of King Petrenair those years ago, he had discovered the peaceful solemnity of this parapet and had seen wisdom in the same leaves which so troubled him now. Surely a young boy of fifteen able to so impress the king as to obtain a service role by his side could believe he was set on the right path. He then set out to follow on straight, keeping to the center vein, the strongest by its sheer width, so as not to risk a destiny marked by the weak mangled turns on the leaf’s edge. But with him now stood a turn so tempting. There was nothing in all the world greater than her beauty save for her own wisdom, and that wisdom was matched by naught but her own kindness. He already knew of her devotion to Masor and would not dream to bid her betray it, but in thinking of his own loyalties, he surprised himself to find that they endeavored more to follow this maid than they did his king. Looking back to the ivy leaf he noticed the four other veins born at the stem alongside that of the center, all leading to their own point. Though true, the others grew not as tall, they appeared no less content. Could he turn so drastically towards a cause so sentimental? His heart laughed at the question, for it long knew the answer. Decisive glee filled his chest and he turned from his leaves to gaze upon the face of his conclusion.
Just as he would have declared his affections, Esta’s expression turned to one of utter fright! Byrdon hurried to her side, soliciting an explanation, but in following her gaze one was no longer needed, for hovering just behind the parapet was none but a fairy; the very image used to warn every child in the two kingdoms away from the dangers of the Infinite Wood and, now, the very beings charged with the assassination of King Madrick I and Queen Fionella of Masor. Esta and Byrdon made for the inner hall, but the fairy spoke.
“Wait! Run not, I pray, I mean you no harm.” The look of terror in the small being’s eyes, perhaps more extreme than that of Esta and Byrdon together, stayed the servants’ feet as they slowly ventured to listen.
“State thy business here, sprite,” Byrdon said. “Thy kind is not welcome within the borders of the kingdoms.”
“I beg your trust,” the fairy said. “My name is Stoman, I serve in the forces of Queen Okalani of Alquoria— or, ‘The Fairy Nation’, as you call it.” The servants could see the truth of this by the being’s green skin, informed by tales of the fairies which spoke of warriors like the foliage of their Wood, peasants with countenances like the noon-day Sky, and nobility with cheeks like dark orchids. “I have been sent with an urgent message for Princess Isolda of Masor. She is visiting the castle of Pavoline today, is she not?”
Esta came forward. “She is, for I am her maid, but she shall not speak with thee. Grief for the losses thy people have caused her has raised hatred in her like she hath for no other, and unless thy word can exonerate thee, thou wouldst be better to get hence.”
“It is precisely those losses I come in regard of; but, her maid, you say?” The fairy thought. “Forgive me to dream, but you alone may save me from a fate most dreaded. It is no accident I am sent to one who would have my life extinguished, it is punishment for the deeds I come to confess. But if you would suffer me to relay to you my message, so that you may then relay it to her, I may indeed get hence without at all enduring an encounter with the princess herself.”
“To relay the details of how our king and queen were murdered by fairy hands may only cause the princess to increase her anger,” Esta said. “Your kind would only reap more hatred. Why would you risk such a cost?”
“Though I come to confess a small part I played in the event, it is the true hand responsible I come to reveal; for ‘twas neither I nor any of my kind. The fairies have been unjustly accused of acts we do not own and already suffer the undue effects. Masorians now enter our Wood to hunt and return with no stag head but fairy wings to mount. Queen Okalani risks my presence here in hope that the truth will bring about our protection.” Esta and Byrdon stood a moment in shock.
Esta spoke. “Their wounds appeared seared yet slashed, simultaneously cut and burned as though with lightning directed. Weapons of such power exist only in rumors of the Fairy Nation; how can we believe otherwise?”
“Suffer me to tell my tale, and all will be made clear.”
At length, Esta assented. “Make haste and speak true.”
Stoman began. “I had been sent to patrol the southeast Woods, a near insult for the ease of the task, and yet forever the most envied of posts. The area is known for naught but the Forest of Lufian, a destination for none but young fairies in passion. I thought it harmless to bring another, so my beloved Alizren, stationed just north and finding a similar lack of danger in her post as in mine, flew to accompany me in the Forest. When we arrived, the Forest’s serenity nearly overcame us, but we soon felt an odd stillness in the air, and our soldier sensibilities took control. In all the Infinite Wood, there is a hum of liveliness from the beating of wings or the songs of swallows; a buzzing stilled only by the footsteps of one from your two kingdoms. I reached for my bolt-spear, the same one rumored, a fairy warrior’s sacred weapon, capable of harnessing the power of lightning itself towards the wielder’s purpose, but Alizren stayed my hand.
“It was then we saw your king gambol under the long billowing threads of Leaves, your queen in tow, exuberant with bright love and cheerfulness. I caught his eye and they stopped.
“He said earnestly, ‘Pardon us, we mean not to intrude, only to share in the delights of such a beauteous Wood.’
“Understand, we in the order of the Fairy Queen are charged with blanketing protection over all life in the Infinite Wood and are under no direction to deny its glories to harmless visitors. We bid the royal couple well and they graciously returned the tidings before turning away happily to their private endeavors.
“I looked upon my Alizren and she drew me close, our wings ashine with jubilance, as a flood of youth invaded our hearts, unabashedly anticipating the approaching passion, oblivious of this moment being our last of peace. I gazed in horror upon my love, now bright, and now bleeding, as she fell beneath my grasp upon the Forest floor. I felt the Trees weeping as the mystical branches above us descended like rapids, cocooning Alizren, raising her into the bosom of the Trees and holding her above the dreadful scene, protecting her from further pain. In the vines’ retreat, it was revealed to me the visage of he who caused our grief: a predator with eyes squinting toward his prey. I put up my bolt-spear but, now recognizing the man, held my attack lest I risk bringing war, for now the attention of the Oxbiens had been brought upon us as well. In my moment’s hesitation, I gazed upon the man’s poignard, dripping in Alizren’s blood, and felt all my strength fly hence. He demanded my spear and, in fear for my own life, I relinquished it. I cannot deny my crime of cowardice, but I implore you to trust it was not I, nor any of mine, who brought death to your king and queen; it was he! I witnessed it! I watched only a sufficient time to see him wield the spear’s power upon them. I fled, trusting the Lufian Trees to heal and protect Alizren so she could return to me, and reported all to my queen. The fairies maintain to wish no harm upon the kingdoms so long as the kingdoms wish no harm upon us. Do you hear me? By the River and Sky, it is he who is villain to Masor! Not we of the Wood.”
“I hardly believe you lie,” said Esta, “but pray tell who is ‘he’ you speak of?”
“I must have your word that you will believe, for the truth will not come easily to your ears.” Esta gave her word and Byrdon agreed in kind. Stoman took a breath and revealed: “He is the prince, Guiomar of Pavoline.”
“The prince!” Esta exclaimed. “How can it be?” She looked to Byrdon expecting to find shock and confusion in his countenance to mirror her own but instead found a stoic understanding. He explained his thoughts.
“The prince had been traveling during the time of their death; a hunting trip. Alone, as he prefers it. He returned only a week before word arrived that the king and queen had passed.”
“But what cause would bring him to act so? The Oxbiens were friends of the Ranzentines,” Esta said.
“I have heard Petrenair speak of his son’s resentment toward the court of Masor,” Byrdon said. “I know not the cause, but perhaps it indeed had the strength, when aligned with opportunity, to bring about the worst.” The servants fell pensive and, by their silence, Stoman knew they believed the truth.
Addressing Esta, he said, “Share my story, speak for my kind, and know I will be forever in your debt,” and he hastily flew for the Wood.
Just then they heard Isolda calling from inside for Esta to immediately gather herself and the princess’ belongings, for they were to stay in Pavoline not a moment longer. Byrdon began to address Esta, ever fervent now in his intention to follow her away from Pavoline, but she interrupted before he could spell out his purpose.
“You must keep a close watch on the prince,” she said, and Byrdon’s heart sank. “We know not his full designs, and as a trusted presence in his father’s court, your knowledge will be invaluable in the coming times. All of Masor and Pavoline – indeed all of and within the Wood – rely on us now. Prince Guiomar cannot be trusted.”
Byrdon spoke. “If you reveal Guiomar to your princess, she would be sure to seek vengeance. Our kingdoms at war, would I see thee no more? I could bear it not.”
Esta sighed sadly. “I cannot speak for the future, nor is my mind quite decided upon what to reveal, but I know my heart, and it sings for thee alone. Stay true to thy post, and I assure thee this will not be our final meeting.” She began to hurry for the vice-crown, but Byrdon stayed her a moment longer, running to the parapet and tearing a leaf of ivy from the vine. Upon returning to Esta, he placed the leaf in her palm as he kissed her hand affectionately.
“I pray, let this direct thee hither, to me,” he said, and with a final moment of longing the two servants ran to find their royal counterparts.
*****
As she sat in the Masor-bound carriage with Isolda, Esta was fully acquainted with the events of the feast, as Isolda’s ranting spared no detail. For the dreadful circumstances, Esta thought it a miracle the vice-crown had maintained both her composure as well as the peace. She wondered if perhaps Byrdon was mistaken. Could she inform Isolda of the truth without bringing war? The maid, treading carefully, inquired on the strength of the alliance.
Isolda rejoined, “The alliance holds out of kindness for Petrenair alone, and out of honor for the friendship he held with my parents. Nothing more.”
“Surely, your highness, you do not wish for war?”
“No fair ruler would. As of yet, only our honor has been bruised, and though there is temptation in vengeance, I know better than to yield for such a cause; however, if appropriate cause arose, no friendship could stay my sword.”
The wisdom that balanced on Esta’s tongue tore at her mind. She held her ivy leaf and peered out of the carriage toward the castle of Pavoline, thoughts jumping between whom she knew to lie within – a king, a murderer, a love – to thoughts of the fairies, innocents misjudged, until her gaze at last landed on the central vein of the ivy leaf her new love had bestowed upon her. Though her conscious thoughts concerned issues of state, her heart, like that of Byrdon, wept at the notion of infinite separation. Still, she found her central vein pointed not to him, but rather to honor and truth. Fairy cries filled her imagination. She tried to quiet them, she wanted to turn to the next vein; she wanted to turn towards love. She closed her eyes tight and saw the good face of Byrdon, then held them tighter to wish the sight away.
“He killed them,” she blurted.
“Pardon?” Isolda inquired.
Esta unclosed her eyes and sighed. “There is no doubt that he despised our king and queen and now they are gone, killed at a time when no one can account for Prince Guiomar’s whereabouts. While you learned of his true ideas, your highness, I learned of his true actions. Forgive me for entertaining it in the first, but while you were inside a warrior of the fairies approached me and told me the truth. It was the prince. He killed them.”
The vice-crown watched the maid. “Their scars were magical. Only the fairies would have access to such a weapon.”
“But it was only they whom Guiomar stole it from, not they who shot the blow.”
“Careful what thou sayest, maid.”
Esta looked her in the eye. “Would I risk saying so if I did not believe it?”
The princess flinched at the servant’s tone but let it rest, searching and yet finding no sign of dishonesty. “I know thou dost believe, and I thank thee for it, but see the truth. The fairy lied, Esta. They are beings of wickedness.”
“And, your highness, Prince Guiomar is not?” she replied.
“There is no reliable witness. With only this, I must assume thou art mistaken.”
“I know what I am,” the servant said. “I know you cannot attack based on my word. Still, your highness, I have been loyal all my life and would never lead you astray. Will you not at least begin an inquiry?”
“An inquiry into a false accusation would be an insult. In that realm, the court of Pavoline owes Masor a debt, and I will not risk making us even on that footing before they have paid it.”
“But if the fairies are innocent—!”
“They are not,” the vice-crown held fast. “Thou shalt speak no more of this, to me or to anyone. Dost thou understand?”
Esta, shocked at the princess’s unwillingness to question her own presumptions, replied “Yes, your highness,” and dropped her gaze into submission. She again looked now upon the ivy in her hand and lost all certainty as to which of the leaf’s strong veins pointed in the direction of loyalty, and which to love. In the next instant, the two seemed blended into one. If the sovereigns would not listen to reason, the entirety of the World Within the Woods might depend upon two servants and a fairy to defend it against treachery. Riding alone with Isolda, Esta was helpless and weak, but she looked into the ivy leaf and, seeing Byrdon within, now felt strong. She wanted to shout to the world the truth, make them believe, make them act, but if war did come she knew this source of her strength would be gone from her forever. The cries of fairies filled her thoughts again as she considered the many who would die at the hands of Masorians she failed to convince. Still, she knew with an ineffable certainty now that she could make no impact if not attempting so with Byrdon by her side. This chance at love which crossed the River; that was her path to loyalty now. She studied the dark outdoors beyond the candlelit carriage and wondered how much of the truth she could reveal before Isolda silenced her with force. Shaking the thought from her head, she swore by the River and Sky that, come what may, she would find herself with Byrdon again. For as long as was necessary, she determined to hold her peace.
****
