Chapter XIV - Byrdon, The Father
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: A drought has overtaken Masor, Guiomar keeps control of the Jewel, Leanna is powerless against it, and Byrdon has made no amends for his crime. Will someone be able to save Masor from Guiomar’s power? Will Leanna see her family together again? What will Byrdon do alone in Pavoline? Read on.
The days that followed offered no relief from the dry heat in Masor, and it was becoming clear that a drought was settling over the land. Atop it all, those in and around the city were learning to abstain from treading outdoors if possible in order to lessen the inhalation of the air, which was filthy with heavy smoke that refused to dissipate. The conditions continued on a full fortnight, then another. Before long, villagers who had but recently migrated to the outlying land of Masor were retreating to their Pavol homeland where, at least, there was food enough to eat and cool air to walk in. Many in the northern cities of Agoshany and Ritahest began to make the migration to Lake Masor in hopes of surviving off its natural reserves, but before even arriving most were informed by the inhabitants of Norkeif and Northlake – as these then began journeying toward Pavoline – that such volumes of the lake were evaporating in the heat that all which remained was too saturated with lake matter to be potable. Pavoline, with its happy Skies and new tax-paying villagers, saw a wave of great health – greater than many a year past – while Masor fell into its deepest moral and economic depression. After the first week, Isolda closed the castle gates to hungry beggars and reserved the remaining grain store for rationing to royals and knights necessary to governmental functions. Madrick took to starving himself so he might give out his meals to local villagers, but he soon fell ill and was unable to maintain the charity. Even Leif could not prevent him from eventually returning to his drink as his source of political passion was depleted and the state of the kingdom became only more dire. Leanna wished to encourage him toward something, anything, but even she fell prey to the great haze of inaction that settled upon the citadel as more and more it seemed there was nothing anyone could do to ease the catastrophe.
On the other end of the world, a light mist showered down on the courtyard at Pavoline castle. Byrdon noted a cool breeze late one morn and thought of the hardships his dear Esta and Leanna would be facing in the same moment. He had not expected any correspondence from them, but it was agony to have seen none, nonetheless. Guiomar had not raised the subject of Byrdon’s reward for his great act of loyalty, and as of yet Byrdon had hesitated to remind the prince, fearful of appearing impatient; however, impatient he was, and today, a full month after leaving Masor to their doom, the man’s reserve of the virtue was entirely spent. He would discuss it, Byrdon decided, over the prince’s breakfast.
“A lordship!” Guiomar scoffed, nearly choking on a fresh grape. “And how would I offer that to thee?”
Byrdon fell firmly stoic. “That was your promise, your majesty.”
“I merely meant thou wouldst have my gratitude,” said the prince, returning focus to his meal.
“How am I meant to feed my family with your gratitude?”
“Thou hast family?”
The father steamed. “Yes, your highness.”
The prince’s features stretched to intake the curious fact, then swiftly relaxed into relative disinterest. “Surely they are well, as are all in Pavoline now. What need thee of a title?”
Byrdon stumbled over the facts of his situation, then resorted to pure principle. “The promise of it is the entire reason I brought you the weapon. It is what I am owed!”
Guiomar frowned. “I thought thy loyalty brought me my Jewel.”
The servant let out a slow, controlled breath. “Yes, sire, all the same.”
“Rest, fool.” The prince returned to his meal. “Thou hast heard my apologies for the misunderstanding. Couldst thou have any other meaningless oaths to disturb my meal with? Byrdon?”
But the servant had already stormed out the chamber doors. Without thinking, Byrdon found himself in the throne room, kneeling before a startled King Petrenair.
“I beg your forgiveness at my intrusion, your highness, but I have a grave confession to set forth before you,” quoth he, and the king sat back to allow it. “One month past, just outside Masor, Prince Guiomar asked my assistance in acquiring a method to destroy the Oxbiens. To my deepest regret, I remembered a Jewel that gave one the power to command the Skies. I acquired it for him, at his demand, and he now dispatches its power daily to wreak havoc on the Masorian people.”
The king stood from his throne, towering over the kneeling servant. “This is the second of such base accusations thou hast made against my son. Is it a jest to thee? Tell me why I should not have thee executed hither?”
“I would not risk my life on an inaccuracy, my liege. I swear it is the truth.”
Petrenair stepped nearer and stood high above the kneeling man. “What house dost thou imagine thyself to serve? We are Ranzentines! None of my name would dare trifle with such powers.”
“Then your son should be revoked of your name,” quoth he. If he were wiser, Byrdon might have cowered before the king, but on this day he could not. “Prince Guiomar is not the Ranzentine you would have him be, and with this fact I know you are well acquainted. He is undiluted wickedness, your highness, and so long as you are intent to be blind to it, you are no better than he.”
“I could have thee broken; beheaded; burned.”
“Or, once, you could take the word of an honest man! I have spent too long cowering under the pretense that your son contains some quality worth redemption, but I can stand it no longer. I swear, whether by desertion or death, I shall serve him not one more day.”
The king maintained an unwavering stare at the servant, absorbing the intensity of his genuine oaths, and it brought a flickering remembrance to his mind of the odd Masorian page who had seemed, for a moment, so certain that the destruction of her home had been formed by human will.
“If thou art deceiving me—"
“I am beyond deception,” Byrdon swore. “The jewel is secured to the prince’s hand with a gauntlet of vines which he hides beneath his sleeve. He wears it day and night. I implore you, your highness, check his arm. You will see it in truth resides there.”
And then he remembered the gloves. Petrenair bounded from the room, Byrdon scrambling to his feet to follow closely behind, neither of them speaking a word of their endless thoughts, the king at last pounding upon the entrance to Guiomar’s chambers, and discovering instantly upon his opening them that the servant had spoken true.
“Byrdon, thither thou art,” the prince barked. “What happened to the remainder of breakfast?” No one replied. “What is this?” he asked his father.
“Son, what is that on your hand?” the king spoke low.
Guiomar looked instantly to Byrdon with a snarl and pulled his palm into his sleeve. He then looked to his father with an attempt at innocence. “I found it amongst Mother’s old things.”
“A foolish lie,” Petrenair hissed. “I remember thy mother too well. She had nothing of the kind. Does Byrdon speak the truth? Hast thou so doomed our friends in Masor?” A cry crept into Petrenair’s throat.
“Masor will never be our friend, Father.”
“O! But the magics of the River and Sky, they thou shalt take as thy fellows.” The king flung his arm wildly, stepping back and forth in furious indecision. “Thou darest call me mad?”
Guiomar was still. “The magics are not to be feared, Father, they are to be controlled.”
“They are to be left untouched!”
“I disagree.”
“O! Thou art still a fool; worse!” The king turned to the servant who had remained steadfast in the hall. “Byrdon, take the ring box from the dresser and bring it hither. Son, thou shalt place the Jewel within, and relinquish all use of it.” Petrenair spoke without breaking his stare at the prince. Byrdon hastened to obey the order of the king, but when pushing past Guiomar, the prince extended his heel and toppled the servant to the ground. Petrenair thrust his own heel into the prince, forcing him to stumble into the casement beside his bed. As the prince regained his footing, his father strode toward him, the king’s right hand taking up an iron poker as he passed the mantle and placing the point of it at the prince’s throat. “Give me the Jewel, or I shall confine thee in the dungeon to rot with the rats.”
Byrdon had now remembered his purpose and brought the small, decorative box to the king who held it open expectantly.
Guiomar’s icy stare bore into Petrenair’s soul as he tore the Jewel from his fist and placed it in the container. Byrdon marveled at the vines which now withered off the prince’s arm, but he refocused his attentions at the snapping of the box’s lid. Jewel contained and in hand, Petrenair turned from his son, threw the poker in the hearth, and started towards the door.
“King, what shall you have me do?” Byrdon stood at attention, full of a passion for his position he had not felt in many a year.
The king looked at him with complete apathy, verging on a hint of disgust. “Thou? His accomplice? I have nothing left for thee.”
“But sire—”
“Enough!” Upon seeing the shock in the servant’s countenance, Petrenair began to soften, but it only turned his apathy to grief. “I beg thee, Byrdon. Thou hast caused me enough pain. I do not wish to see thee more.”
The king bristled off down the hall to engross himself in deep deliberation.
Byrdon, disbelieving, started to follow the king but was halted by Guiomar’s call who remained in the casement. The servant, recoiling, returned and faced the prince.
“Close the door, Byrdon.”
Byrdon’s arm followed the instruction, and his feet pointed him again in the direction of Prince Guiomar. In the next breath, Byrdon found himself pinned to the wood, Guiomar’s hand securely around his throat.
“Thou hast betrayed me,” Guiomar snarled.
Struggling for breath, Byrdon managed, “Following you, I have betrayed my family, and I have betrayed my world. At last, betraying you, I have done right.”
“Thou shouldst have ensured that family of thine said their final farewells to thee.” A grin crept onto Guiomar’s lips as he tightened his hold on the servant’s neck.
“They know of thee,” Byrdon croaked.
Guiomar loosened his grip.
“My family knows everything you have done. They know well of the Jewel. Their silence is to preserve my safety. If you kill me, you will never become king.”
“Where are they?” Guiomar demanded.
Byrdon laughed. “Nowhere you would find them.”
Guiomar threw Byrdon to the floor with a thundering shout. Byrdon nursed his bruised neck, and smiled. Considering carefully, Guiomar stood with the still of death, his rising and falling breast the only sign of life beside his raging eyes. Then, jolting to motion, he took hold of Byrdon by the arm and charged him to the dungeon below the castle. Tossing the servant to the floor of an empty cell and locking the door behind, Guiomar looked dead into Byrdon’s eyes and swore, “Thou wilt not see the light of day until thy familial traitors are made known to me.”
Contented, Byrdon replied, “Then I shall nevermore see the light of day,” and watched as the prince fumed away, leaving the simple serving man to a newfound peace.
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