An Irony of the Eye, Ch. 1
Prologue
- 14th of May, 18**
He is man and that, for him and many, is tragedy enough.
-J. R. R. Tolkien
Astir had ascended to the throne of Zarksi years previously to the peasants’ cries of “Long may the King reign!” He’d taken the role graciously, promising to rule as a servant of the masses. He yet meant it. Now, those very same peasants cried yet again, with only their words, and intentions, different.
“Down with him! Down with the bloodletter!” The shouts rang from outside, the words carrying over the palace walls and into his study. A woman who was also in the room with Astir, Mali, gave a start at the sound, then settled. An advisor in his court, her perspective had often saved Astir from difficult situations in the past. At that moment, however, there was nothing to be said.
Astir ignored her reaction and focused on his own, wincing at their moniker for him, then steeling himself. He was the Surias, the incarnation of justice upon the lowly earth! He was High-King of Zarksi, despot of the Western Sea, and monarch of the greatest country to have ever graced the land of Ioris! Who were they, those commoners crawling in the muck, to cast him down?
“No one,” muttered Astir, almost desperately trying to convince himself of the falsehood.
Mali, having heard what Astir said and able to ascertain his thoughts, gave her own answer to the question, though she kept it below even a whisper. “They’re everyone, Lord Astir…”
Chapter One
- 26th of January, 1788
“An Acceptable Loss”
Ricard, the only man capable of bending the ear of the High-Queen, had been found dead, strangulated while bathing at his private villa. The local branch of the Yarrow Guild, a volunteer group of citizens dedicated to aiding those who suffer needlessly, administered by the Physicians, estimated that he had died two weeks earlier, assuring their master that any assassin would be long gone.
Their master, for her part, had just arrived at the villa, a beautiful home situated on an equally beautiful coastline, facing north towards the empty ocean. She was accompanied by her advisors and her young son, who’d been great friends with Ricard. He’d begged his mother, High-Queen Lakis, to let him go and she’d acquiesced, hoping that the whole ordeal might strengthen her heir-to-be.
For the High-Queen was often worried about her son, worried about his future. He wasn’t a disappointment, not quite, but he lacked spine. In the world they lived in, a world full of cunning rivals, rebellious vassals, and ambitious neighbours, that trait often resulted in an early downfall for any would-be monarch. Particularly on the throne of Zarksi, wherein each issue occurred more often than not and exacerbated the others.
A bit of death might serve Astir well, Lakis had thought. And she continued to think that as she stepped out of the carriage with him, stretching from the pains of the journey, which had taken them a week by ship and a few days overland in a compartment of Duchess Hilte’s private caravan. She’d welcomed them gracefully, though she seemed irritated that they had been unable to provide word of their arrival beforehand.
Lakis shrugged internally. They had boarded the fastest ship almost immediately after the knowledge of Ricard’s demise reached her ears; her need to see the body as quickly as possible had been hinted at in an additional message given personally to her. There hadn’t been much of a way to forewarn her vassal.
She then gave a heavy sigh, attracting the attention of those who accompanied her. She was unsurprised at the death of Ricard, as he’d always acted much too arrogantly for his own good, but she missed him all the same. He’d been a good companion after the death of her husband, Prince-Consort Hadriot, but there had always been whispers. Whispers that theorised that Ricard was too close of a companion.
It was not as though they had been wrong, Lakis conceded, but she was incensed that her detractors made that fact even a point of contention. She was widowed and barren, traits that exempted her from any shame or scandal.
“Mother?” Lakis turned to face Astir, who had already exited the cabin. He seemed to be waiting on her and, with a heavy sigh of resignation, she delicately stepped out onto the stony soil that the villa was built upon. The sun, its heat countered by a lightly blowing salt breeze, provided a pleasant sensation that danced upon the bare skin of Lakis’ forearms. However, noting that it hung low on the horizon, Lakis stooped back within the caravan, pulling out a fine felt jacket to wrap around her shoulders.
After a nod to the rest of those that accompanied her, she led the walk towards the manor. Its facade, most beautiful on the side by which it was entered, was composed of a myriad of marble pillars, their bases carved with repeating patterns and the visages of ancient monarchs and fantastical beasts. The eastern side of this repeating pattern had a swath of cultivated vines climbing it, purposefully grown there to provide a mysterious appearance to the rather large gardens that closed off the villa from the outside. That particular portion of it held a small hedge maze, with several pathways that dead-ended into secluded courtyards and beautiful fountains. Lakis remembered them well, as well as the one who first led her through them. And yet, she decided against walking them again, as it would only perturb her carefully composed body language.
Passing through a main entrance that carved through the gardens, the Queen’s party was greeted by a butler who, though unprepared for it, had clearly expected their arrival.
The maître d’hôtel, Eras, gave a deep bow to each of the party arrayed in front of him. After a few words to a servant who led a group of workers in the midst of tending to the gardens, Eras greeted his betters gracefully. “Welcome, my lady. It’s a pleasure to welcome you to the late Sir Ricard’s residence. Welcome to you as well, Prince Astir. And… Lord Calios?” His question was posed to the only other major noble that had come to the manor with Lakis.
Calios, for it was he, gave a nod with a thin smile. “That I am. How do you know me?”
Eras bowed yet again, though lower than he had originally. “Many know of you, my lord, but I recall your appearance from when you first purchased this property with your son. I was one of the few of the remaining original staff who greeted Sir Ricard and introduced him to the grounds.”
Calios’ smile grew thinner. “Well, at least he was capable of recognizing skill in others. That’s more than I expected of him. I regret any pains he might have caused you.”
Eras gave a slight nod, not knowing what else to frame his response with. “Sir Ricard was certainly a handful at times, if I do not overstep my bounds in saying that. Even so, he was kind to those who worked for him, and a generous host to his guests.”
Calios gave a side glance to his Queen. “I’m certain he was… but, so be it. Bring me to his corpse. I’d rather get this done quickly. If it weren’t tradition, I wouldn’t have bothered to come at all.”
Lakis frowned at Calios. “Guard your tongue, Calios. Hold respect for the dead, especially for a child of yours. Even if he was your disappointment.” She fully agreed with Calios’ assessment of his dead son, but a fragment of sentiment, particularly when remembering the support Ricard had provided to her during a time of sorrow, made her think worse of Calios for his harshness.
Not one to disagree with the one he’d pledged his allegiance to decades earlier, Calios gave a curt, but deferential, nod. A mildly humorous thought forced its way into his mind in reaction to her words. I suppose Ricard succeeded at one thing. Hmph.
Eras had watched the exchange with mild anxiety, knowing full well the importance of the two figures before him. One was the High-Queen, Empress of Zarksi, the other, an immediate vassal of hers. Though he was theoretically subservient to her whims, his position in the southeast of the nation meant that he constantly had to defend himself from the forays of foreign militaries that interested themselves in his territory. This martial autonomy granted him a large degree of political independence, as his mighty army and militant people were just as capable of rebelling against his Queen as defending her.
Lakis, however, felt little fear at the prospect. Calios was loyal to her, and even if he or his people ever betrayed her, it would take little effort to cut off the food and iron shipments that Cerossa needed to import from afar. It was the weakness of his position, an army without a natural state capable of supporting its existence.
It once had been, but a previous Grand-Duke’s failed rebellion was punished with the removal of Cerossa’s fertile farmlands and port cities, forming from them two prosperous vassal counties, called Upper Cerossa and Lower Cerossa respectively.
With more than half of the remaining population in some way serving in the armed forces, either as cooks, smiths, soldiers, doctors, or any such invaluable role, it took a sizeable portion of the Imperial Treasury of Zarksi to maintain the dozens of bastions and hundreds of lesser forts that dotted the grassy plains and hills of Cerossa, as the Cerossan state itself could not.
This preoccupation with war, and with defence against those who brought it, had instilled a spirit of honour, communal service, and individual diligence with time. The nobility was justly expected to follow in their people’s ways, centuries-long traditions naming them as the ones to lead the Cerossan armies. As such, those like Ricard were left to be their family’s shame.
Eras knew that that was why Sir Ricard had found himself on the northwestern coast, across the entire country from his homeland, and one of the farthest places he could be from his disgusted family without leaving the nation of Zarksi itself.
“If I could, my lady, my lord? We’ve done our best to disturb as little of the scene as we could, though of course the body was removed so it could be prepared for transport and burial.” Eras, finding that the silence had lasted a few seconds too long, brought the attention of those before them back to the task at hand.
Lakis waved a hand, breaking the moment. “Of course, Eras, please do. Though, if I understood correctly, there was something I should see? Else I doubt I would’ve come personally.”
Eras paused, his gaze lingering on Calios and the others, then giving a nervous nod. “Yes, my lady. It has to do with your… friendliness with Ricard.”
Lakis, before responding, turned to the others that had accompanied her and Calios. “Dame Milia, Sir Roris. If you would wait with the carriage? Astir, go join them.”
Though their purpose, as knight protectors of the High-Queen, entailed protecting Lakis at all costs, they were used to leaving her alone each time she’d visited Ricard. Though the purpose was different, Milia and Roris knew that refusal would only rouse their mistress’ ire. With a bowed head from each, they retreated with Astir, leaving Lakis free to continue speaking.
“Elaborate, Eras. Calios already knows of my close relationship with Ricard, so as long as it isn’t linked to a state secret, I’ll keep him with me.”
Calios sniffed, miffed. “I never gave permission for you to court him, Queen. What if I’d not known, and disapproved?”
His reference to one of the older traditions of Zarksi, one that hadn’t been in widespread use for decades, brought a smile to Lakis’ face. “Then I would have ignored you, dear Duke. Now, Eras. Speak.”
“Very well.” Eras, unsurprised at the sordidness of the nobility, heeded the High-Queen’s command. “Whoever murdered Sir Ricard left a few words for you. Left them in his blood on a scrap of paper found near his body. It seemed to be from some religious types, as the message referenced The Neglected.”
“I see…” Lakis stood straight, cracking her back slightly to relieve pressure. “What was the exact wording?”
Eras nodded. “We left the paper itself where we found it, but I recorded its contents in case something happened. Here…”
He drew a notebook from within his jacket, flipping to a page near the end, and handed it to Lakis. Noticing that the other pages had more personal notes on both Eras’ thoughts and work, Lakis focused on the words themselves.
High-Queen Lakis, you are not deserving of that title. It is honourable, and prestigious. Your actions, particularly regarding your, now late, lover are the opposite. And though the great spirit of The Neglected has condemned you, it is not enough punishment. Change your sinful ways, or we shall end them for you.
Do not tarry, for we know not how.
Lakis, once she had shown the text to Calios, handed it back to Eras. Calios, troubled, wished to clarify something. “I can’t say I’m particularly surprised by most of this. However, The Neglected? Did you not marry Hadriot in the customary way?”
Lakis huffed. “Of course I did. I’m no fool. However, this means that whoever wrote this is unaware of our exception to the rule. Some form of lowborn, I’d imagine. Though it’s rather well-written…”
Calios, having an idea from that assessment, chimed in. “Perhaps the writer was a graduate from Tyneris? If that university is still running.”
Lakis considered that for a moment. “It is. Haven’t had a good reason to crack down on it just yet. And it would make sense. Those students always seem to have the strangest opinions, they’re just lucky they don’t act on them.”
Calios shrugged. “Perhaps this is your opportunity? Though it might cause some resentment against you if you don’t paint it the right way.”
Lakis rubbed her arms. “I do quite like the idea of knocking two birds out with one stone. If the writer is indeed from Tyneris. Even if not…” She gave a huff. “I don’t know. A little too risky, for too little.”
“I understand. Though, remember, this is a death threat. If we’re assuming that ‘change your sinful ways, or we shall end them for you’ isn’t meant to be supportive.” Calios chuckled slightly, then grew more serious. “Consider it, Lakis. I’m willing to occupy the capital for you, if your people become troublesome. Just call on me before you do anything rash, so I can prepare.”
Lakis smiled, glad that, even at her exalted position, she could still have friends to rely upon. “I appreciate that greatly, Calios. Well, I think I’ve learned enough.” She called up to Astir and her guards for them to rejoin the rest of the group. As they approached, she stared piercingly at Eras. “Eras. I expect you to keep your mouth shut about this whole situation. Unless I need to ensure that you do?”
Ignoring the thinly veiled threat, Eras kneeled before Lakis. “As always, my lady, I can be and will be discreet.”
“Good.” Knowing what she would need to do so that he wouldn’t break that promise, Lakis continued. “I’m willing to continue paying for the upkeep of this estate, including your salary, for as long as you remain so.” Calios, pleased that he would not need to waste more of his duchy’s strained budget on his son’s debauchery, approved.
Eras, rising from his kneeling position after offering his deepest thanks, turned to lead the delegation into the villa, wherein Ricard waited.
- 24th of February, 1788
Astir had sat up in his bed, breathing deeply. A pulsing headache clouded his already turbulent thoughts. He’d woken up two hours previously, but despite his need to sleep, he half wished not to return to it. The dreams it gave him were of Ricard and the mangled corpse, putrid flesh that was supposedly his. Strangulation had clearly only been the cause of death, not the sole injury he’d suffered.
A thin ray of sunshine passed through the closed shutters of his room, dimly shining on the foot of his bed. It was morning.
Rising from his reclined position, Astir went through the motions, dressing and cleaning himself. Approaching the window, Astir gave a smile, thinned by the pain he still felt, and threw open the windows. It was his favourite part of the day, and one of the few he looked forward to. His room, placed near the top of the central palatial tower, formally known as The Eye of Zarksi, overlooked the slumbering city, slowly waking with the dawn. From off in the distance, a salty ocean breeze soothed Astir.
The city was beautiful, at least from on high. The few times that Astir had walked along the streets themselves, protected by guards, it had been filthy. But his perch, all that could be seen were the scattered great buildings that rose above the others. Among them, the Scintillating Cathedral, the seat of Zarksi’s greatest priests, the Grand Opera, also known as the House of Yukia, Parliament of the First Estate, wherein the highest nobility would meet and suggest legislation to the monarch, and, though the morning fog often obscured it, The Pharos, the second-largest lighthouse in all the lands of Ioris.
All of these brilliant works resided within the city of Zassolis, the capital of Zarksi. The city had first been known as Taliston, but Naris, the second High-Queen, had found it fit to build a capital upon its bones.
Interrupted from his musings, Astir’s faint smile grew wider as a street musician below began their trade, their soulful work wafting up and towards the Eye. It was certainly not the most exquisite music he’d heard in his life, as his family often visited the Grand Opera for enjoyment, but it was lively. A tune that brought to mind the harvest festivals of autumn, though it was spring.
Astir’s more horrific thoughts faded somewhat. He remembered Ricard taking him to the streets, where the two of them had thrown money to mendicants, tipped performers, and, when they were invariably mugged, showered their mugger with wealth. It had probably given the wrong idea to the underbelly of the city, but Ricard had not cared. And neither had Astir.
When, on the way back to Zassolis from Ricard’s villa, Astir had begun having nightmares, Calios had immediately offered advice. He’d told Astir to remember Ricard as he had been in life, not as the half-rotting body his mother had made him look at, had made him memorise. Though Calios’ personal disgust of Ricard was clear, he was rather used to seeing the mangled bodies of those he loved and respected, and so wanted to help Astir work through the pain he’d dealt with decades earlier.
Being able to talk to Calios had reassured Astir, though when the Grand-Duke had departed for his own lands, the nightmares had returned in full. Astir was exhausted from them, emotionally, mentally, and physically.
Perhaps honouring his memory in a more literal way would help? Desperate to try anything, and interested in finding the musician that had improved his countenance, Astir left his room and exited the palace’s walls, something he’d been dreading for nearly a month.
