An Irony of the Eye, Ch. 2
Chapter Two
- 13th of June, 1788
“Tradition Favours The Firstborn”
Our High-Queen, the Imperial Lakis, reigned over the nation of Zarksi for forty-two years. Her brilliant intellect, unmatched wit, and benevolence have been missed dearly, her death on the 14th of August, 1788, bringing tears to the eyes of all. Even the sky mourned her passing. May a worthy successor continue to honour her lineage, that of which the gods hold a deep respect. Tsoros gave a pleased yawn, laying down the quill he’d been using to write his lady’s eulogy. She wasn’t yet dead, but hopefully the weather should still prove accurate. The meteorologists had assured him so.
In his capacity as the Minister of Culture, Tsoros was supposedly attending a play within the Opera, its stage used to host a band of Ukrisian actors. They were the greatest of their kind and had been sent to show the other citizens of Zarksi the heritage of a small mountain county to the south.
Tsoros, however, felt them to be barbarous and, once he’d grown bored with their strange language and dress, he’d retreated to the office he worked in. It was within the Opera, and as such adorned with beautiful artwork. It was also well insulated, and provided the quiet with which to write.
And, in the midst of writing, Tsoros paused and bit his cheek. The date was coming up quickly, quicker than he’d hoped. His compatriots had assured him that they would be ready, but the political situation wasn’t exactly what he wanted.
Tok! Tok! A pair of knocks sounded at the door, leaving Tsoros only a few moments to clear his desk of any damning papers. Once he was ready, Tsoros composed himself, then spoke. “Enter!”
A young woman, of twenty-five years of age and dressed in finery, pushed open the door, shutting it behind her. Tsoros, recognizing her, gave a sigh of relief before gesturing for her to sit. “Oh, welcome. I thought you were someone else, Elana.”
Elana shrugged. “No worries, Tsoros.” Taking a seat before him, she rested her elbows on Tsoros’ desk before speaking. “Didn’t appreciate the play? I noticed you ran off in the middle of it.”
Tsoros bit his lip. “Can’t say I was particularly impressed. Honestly, I found those hooligans to be a stain to the Opera’s distinguished history. However, the Queen wanted it, so…”
Elana pursed her lips. “Hooligans? Aren’t you a bit of a lowborn yourself?”
Tsoros scoffed. “I raised myself to be above that, to be better. Those who are proud of their crass ways, however…”
Keen on changing the topic to something she found more valuable to discuss, Elana glanced towards Tsoros’ fresh inkwell. “Right. Well, I suppose I wouldn’t know. On the matter of the Queen, how’s it been progressing?”
Tsoros tapped his desk with a finger, a quiet, but satisfying, thack sounding from the point of contact. “Reasonably well, though yet another student ally of ours disappeared yesterday. Not one that knows too much, thankfully, but still worrisome.”
“The Queen’s still arresting students at Tyneris?” Elana wondered, having heard only little fresh news on the subject.
Tsoros grimaced. “According to someone I know in the guard, the story they’ve been telling the public is that a serial killer has been picking off students. What a fantastic coincidence that almost all of them have been working with us, and that the investigative forces have found no evidence leading to the killer. I imagine they’ve been breaking them in the palatial dungeons, trying to get information.”
Elana’s expression soured. “How is that everything going ‘reasonably well?’”
Tsoros gave a half-smile. “Each one of them only really knows two things. The name of the student who recruited them, and that there’s going to be a mass protest against the monarchy on the 14th of August. Other than somewhat thinning the crowd on the fateful day, there’s nothing really to be worried about.” Pausing for a few moments, Tsoros then continued on a different tack. “However, I fear for what will happen afterwards. Did you speak with Duchess Hilte and Count Tyrias?” The two vassals of the High-Queen were known to be outspoken critics of her ways, though they had never actually defied her will.
Elana nodded. “They’ve accepted to vote for me in the Council of the Twenty, for as long as there is no One. With them, we’re up to eleven.” She fixed her gaze on Tsoros. “Do you think that’ll be enough?”
“It technically should be. Unfortunately, no matter what the Regna Lex says, some vassals are more equal than the others. And the majority of those we’ve got aren’t.”
Elana rolled her eyes. “Well, it’s to be expected. Only the weak want to change the order of the things. The handful of free cities, the minor counts, and the snubbed dukes that have rallied to us only did it with promises of power in exchange.” A tentative smile appeared on her face. “I think we can do the same with some of the others. Some of those that are in support of the High-Queen, but perhaps not her son. After all, he has no greater birthright than I.”
Tsoros raised his eyebrows. “As you often say… However, tradition, no matter how recently formed, does favour the firstborn child, not their cousin.” Breaking from Elana’s gaze, and glancing towards her resting hands, Tsoros momentarily examined an agate ring that Elana had worn for many years. It lacked any imagery, but clearly held value, as the silver was scrupulously cleaned so as not to tarnish.
Flicking his eyes away before the moment grew uncomfortable, Tsoros questioned, “Though… who? The few lesser powers that haven’t thrown in with us won’t change the balance, so long as Grand-Duke Calios serves the High-Queen’s wishes.”
“Precisely. You always seem to cut to the meat of the matter.” Elana smiled lightly at her own bit of humour, as Tsoros was well known as the only true vegetarian in Zassolis’ government. Rather than being due to any rarity of the diet, other officials often, and willingly, broke their customary flesh fast at Lakis’ fests, supposedly in the name of respecting the hospitality of the Crown.
Tsoros’ expression, which had transitioned into a stony silence the moment that Elana had spoken, was clearly waiting for Elana to conclude her point. Her chuckle faded. “Right, right… Anyhow, I know how we can have Calios join us. With him, everyone else will fall into place, no matter any reservations they might have.”
His face first twisted by surprise, Tsoros’ thin smile returned. “With what would you offer him? Ah. I see. Unless I’ve gone mad, you’re suggesting returning to him the fields of Cerossa? Interesting. Beyond the uncertainty that he would accept such an offer, is that really a worthwhile trade? There was good reason for your grandfather, the venerable Lord Rituln, to take them from Calios’ grandmother.”
Elana lifted her arms from the table, crossing them instead. “Ah, yes. Do you remember anything about that? I’ve never heard of any of the specifics, and you’re fairly… long lived.”
Having been called old, Tsoros sighed. “I’m only in my sixties, Elana. You’ll come to see how short of a time that truly is… In regards to your question, all I remember about him are from my late mother’s stories. Lord Rituln himself passed away when I was a mere child. Apparently a decent monarch, if heavy handed with political dissenters. Case in point, his division of an innocent people for their leader’s sins. If you could even call them as such, considering that she rebelled in protest of the conquest of the Otmarch, something that Rituln had promised, with oath and treaty, to never do.”
“She risked her own position? In the name of morality?” Elana appeared to be astonished.
“Well, and to maintain the balance of power. Additional vassals would have reduced the weight of her vote in the Council of the Twenty. Though, I suppose, it would have been the Council of the Seventeen back then. Ended up with the inverse of what she wanted.” Tsoros locked eyes with Elana. “Knowing that, are you certain in this?”
Elana spoke carefully, yet with conviction. “Yes. The future is a concern, I grant you, but if I am not High-Queen, then what does it matter? I’ll break the Cerossans if they rebel, just as grandfather did.”
Tsoros frowned, then shrugged. “Very well, my lady Elana.”
- 31st of July, 1788
Astir made a light pirouette as he skipped down the street, dancing to music that could not be heard. A few passersby gave him odd looks, then, once they realised his regal identity, odder ones. Astir was mildly irritated by their glances, having been told once by a servant that his dances were sometimes perceived by the peasants as madness. He’d thanked the servant for his honesty, but it had hurt nonetheless.
After all, it wasn’t as though he danced to the voices of spirits. He danced to music, music that, though it did not really exist, felt as real as the tunes of the musicians. He’d begun to try and write it down, but it never seemed to be quite the same. Even so, the movements brought him calm, as well as a feeling of individual revelry, something that he did not often otherwise experience.
And, with the beginning of Utali’s piece of the day, Astir shifted his dance to match the music of his favourite performer. He arrived at Utali’s habitual site, a corner of the large market to the east of the Eye, and was greeted by a warm smile.
A vibrant melody emanated from Utali’s cello, the throaty instrument bringing to life the stall workers who set up the market before the arrival of any customers. A few coins of appreciation had already been tossed into his case.
Astir knew that Utali didn’t draw in enough revenue from the early mornings to warrant playing during them, as it was the perusers of the market that had the loosest coin purses, not the vendors, but Utali didn’t mind. For him, the music itself deserved to be played, and the people deserved to be able to listen.
With a final, powerful, stroke, Utali completed the new song he’d composed. It was his wont to write one each day, changing genres to keep the work interesting.
Astir, taking advantage of the short pause, walked up to Utali to greet him. “Pleasant morning, Utali! I see that you were in the mood for a jig last night?”
Utali grinned. “I’m impressed that you could recognize such a thing, my Prince. And, yes, quite. I got to see the performing band from Ukrisia just before they left the other day, so I took some inspiration from one of their routines. Their people are neighbours to the Falo, and it was a breath of, well, very stale air to hear something similar to what I was first trained in.” He paused, then asked his habitual question. “So…? What did you think?”
Ever since Astir had become an almost daily visitor, coming each morning to hear his unique performances, Utali had wanted his opinion. Very few had such an extensive knowledge of his style, and it let him get an impartial perspective on his musical growth.
Astir, for his part, cocked his head, considering what could be his response for the day. “It matches the audience much better than the waltz you wrote yesterday, I must say.” Seeing that his quip had elicited a mild chuckle, Astir continued more confidently. “I felt that the solo variation was a little too repetitive, too similar to the rest of the song, if you know what I mean? It made the melody get stale quicker than it should’ve. Otherwise, excellent. I especially liked the glissando after each melodic switchup.”
Utali bowed deeply to Astir, then placed his instrument back in its case. “As always, thank you. I appreciate the criticism. And the compliment, of course.” Narrowing his eyes at Astir, Utali sensed something worrisome. “Are you feeling alright, my Prince? You seem to be trying to forget about something.”
Astir smiled nervously. “It, well, it has to do with something fairly secret. It’s, well… I haven’t even told my mother.”
Utali pulled Astir to sit in his performing chair, then crouched beside him. “Don’t feel forced, if it is something I cannot know, but I do promise not to tell anyone.”
Astir sighed. “My cousin, Elana, pulled me aside yesterday night when she visited the Eye. Her offer… Well, it was remarkable. Something I’d never considered. She asked me if I wanted to be the next High-King.”
Utali felt a mild surprise, muddled with some suspicion at the motives of this cousin. “And? Do you not?”
Astir shrugged, staring off into the bustling street. “It was never presented as a choice to me. I’m my mother’s only child, and my mother is High-Queen Lakis of Zarksi. It seemed natural, nevermind my personal wishes.”
Utali’s eyes bored into those of Astir, trying to elucidate the motivations of a young man he’d come to appreciate. “My Prince? Would you like to, well, no longer be one? I would understand, fully.”
Astir looked away after a few moments, growing ever more uncertain of himself. “Well, then, who would I be? A commoner?”
Utali nodded, but accompanied it with a shrug. “I suppose you would be. More importantly, you’d be you. To an extent, you already are, but I imagine that meeting the wishes of your family is something that keeps you caged.”
Astir rose and stretched, noting the appearance of the rising sun coming over the rooftops. “So… what do you suggest? That I accept? Slip off into the night?”
Utali shook his head. “No. It’s never the right decision to run. Not until you’ve sorted out what you leave behind.” Utali considered the situation, finding this cousin’s interest to be far stranger than Astir’s trepidation in taking the throne. “My Prince, please tell me, is your mother in good health?”
Astir frowned. “Yes? Is there some issue?”
Utali waved a hand in a noncommittal gesture, then went to pick up his instrument once more. “No, no, ignore me. Just the paranoia of an old man.”
Watching Utali preparing his next piece, Astir said a farewell, knowing that he would need to return to the palace soon. “Well, I suppose I should leave you to work. I’ll see you tomorrow, Utali.”
Utali lowered his bow, Astir’s final comment making him remember something of pertinence. “Oh, before you go, I must mention… I won’t be playing here tomorrow. The guard and some workers will be preparing the market square for that student protest on the 14th. Why they need two weeks, I haven’t a clue, but I’ll be across town, near the harbour until it ends.”
Astir, though made mildly downcast, smiled his understanding. “I’ll see you afterwards then. Enjoy your fortnight of relaxation, free of my hovering presence.”
Utali gave a toothy grin. “I imagine I will…” Turning his attention from the young man before him, Utali began one of his daily pieces, a self-composed song given a glowing review by Astir several weeks earlier. Its lyrics held messages of new beginnings, while mourning the end of the old.
