Prologue
- **th of *****, 1799
In the final year of the 18th century, few recognised what its tortured twilight would illuminate upon the surface of the earth. In each land, disaster rocked the peoples of the world.
In Marovis, after a near half-millenium of decline, the Cernian Empire entered yet another period of violent civil war. This time, however, no figure arose in defence of the ancient state of the great Tarquin, shaking its foundations to the brink.
In Wyr, a widespread dual blight of wheat and potato crop spread famine’s emaciated grip to the vast majority of the population, causing the ruin of dozens of millions.
In Rakih, another war between the belligerent powers and their eternal rivals loomed eagerly although, due to recent advances in warfare, the death toll would be catapulted to levels unexpected and unprecedented.
And in Ioris…
Chapter 1
- 26th of January, 1799
“Fate saw the jewel in me, and pawed the heart apart to have it…”
-Baki, “Ah My Dear”
Under the blossoms of the cherry tree sat a comfortable quintet, an older figure, a boy become a man, upon a gnarled tree root, with his middle child upon his knee. At his two sides were three, his eldest on the right and his wife, still bearing his youngest, at his left. Brightness washed over them, casting shadow in the creases of the man’s face, though the glow glinting on his cheeks left them unnoticed.
Separate, although lingering within view, was another woman, a bittersweet smile playing with her lips.
But she ensured that the sanctity of the moment went undisturbed.
“Tell it again! That story you did last week, I want to hear it again!” cried the seven year-old Niall, sat on his father’s haunches, oblivious to his older sister’s frustrations.
Dalfi sighed, though she did not comment, rolling her eyes, nine years of age and certain of her place in the world.
Astir, radiant, beamed as he stroked Niall’s hair, setting a stray lock of chestnut back in its place. “Of course, pumpkin.”
He drew in a mighty breath.
“Many years ago, in a distant land, there was a boy named Kappi. His father a sailor, his mother the seamstress who mended his sails. Together, there was harmony, for neither could prosper, or even exist, without the other. One day, Kappi went on a trip with his father with tears in his eyes, seemingly troubled. His father noticed and asked him, ‘Son, what grieves you so?’
Kappi shook his head and dried his tears, and the two went on, leaving harbour to collect ice blocks from the floes by where they lived.
Arriving at an iceberg, they disembarked and chiselled pieces of the water-rock, and the cold caused the son’s eyes to water once more.
His father noticed and asked him, ‘Son, what grieves you so?’
And again, Kappi shook his head and dried his tears. Having collected the best of the ice, they returned on their hunt, travelling many hours before sighting, through the ocean mists, the largest iceberg they’d ever seen — truly the size of a mountain, its crags disappearing into the clouds. Circling the base of the sea-mount, the father and son found a dock, carven from clear ice, massive icicles on stilts and slabs of frost its boards.
The two moored their craft and disembarked again, ice picks in hand, and ventured onto the great ‘berg. They walked many kilometres, gathering the best of the ice as they went, before discovering a hole in the mountain, out of which escaped a wisp of pale grey smoke.
The smoke leapt up and stung Kappi’s eyes, causing them to water once more. His father, this time, did not notice, so fixated on the hole was he, and they crept up to its entrance. Within, tending to the offending fire, was the back of a lovely young woman, about to place a rack of three filleted fish to cook.
Kappi, approaching, slipped slightly, drawing the attention of the woman, whose back straightened before speaking in a crisp tone.
‘Visitors, welcome. Speak your names!’
Kappi’s father, enthralled by the fish, stepped through the doorway, announcing himself as he went. ‘My name is Kapfathir. Who are you?’
At that, she turned around, and a twist in the world took place. Her skin shrivelled, turning dark and spotty, her teeth fell out, and, if he hadn’t watched it, Kappi would have sworn she had vanished and been replaced by an old crone.
At the sight, The boy’s father stopped his motion, struck dumb, while Kappi, his eyes not yet dried, had them birth more tears.
The woman spoke, distracted by the child still beyond her threshold. ‘Boy, what grieves you so?’
Kappi tried to shake his head and dry his tears, but his neck and hands refused to obey his will. She pointed a finger at him.
‘Tell me, or I’ll take your hand.’
Kappi refused to speak, and so she took his hand.
‘Tell me, or I’ll take your legs.’
Kappi refused to speak, and so she took his legs.
‘Tell me, or I’ll marry you.’
Kappi refused to speak, and she took him for her own.
‘Tell me, or I’ll kill your father.’
And here, Kappi hesitated, staring ashamedly at his father. ‘I must speak, so speak I shall. My mother loves my father no longer, and harmony is broken forever.’
The woman looked with askance. ‘And why, boy, did you resist so?’
Kappi responded with, ‘Because I would rather lose myself than lose my world.’
She was pleased with the young boy, and so turned to the father. ‘A good, if foolish child you have raised, father of Kappi. He was acting wrongly, yet remained in the right, and so to him I shall return his unwilling gifts. The fish you desired shall be yours, and each time one is eaten, something lost shall be returned.’
And so she served the now-grilled fish to the father and his son and, as they ate, Kappi had what he had lost returned to him. First, a hand flew from the crone’s billowing skirts. Then, his legs. And lastly, his free will. The father, shaken by what his son had told him, mustered the strength to thank their host and beckoned Kappi to leave at his side.
Kappi, about to follow, stopped, smelling a fourth fish on the platter, invisible, small and hidden below the carcasses of the others. This one, he also gulped down, and from the skirts came a less identifiable lost thing, yet no less important, returning to him. Though he could hardly perceive it, he knew it to be his mother’s love.
And as he and his father returned home to her awaiting arms, he knew it to be ‘harmony.’”
Astir sat back, breathless, studying the faces of his listeners. Niall had snuggled into him, burrowing his brow into his father’s lapel, while Illis, distracted by her son’s angelic expression, smiled at him with a visible maternal glow. And Dalfi, so recently spell-bound, sprang up with a question.
“Wait, but… what happened with the crone? She was a witch, right?”
Astir thought for a moment. “Not necessarily.”
“Then who was she?” She was adamant to know.
“Well,” began he, “what do you think? She wasn’t a crone at first, not before she turned around.”
“Didn’t you say that the young woman was replaced?”
He shook his head, but Niall beat him to the punch, head upturned from the collar. “No, Dalfi, Papa only said that that was what Kappi would have thought!”
Illis chided her son. “Be still, love, be nice to your sister…”
Dalfi stuck her tongue out, then continued. “Then she just got suddenly… old? But…” She had a flash of brilliance. “OH! Is she Lady Time, like from that other story?”
Astir gave a nod. “I think that would make sense. But why? Why is she time, and how does that tie into the rest of the tale?”
“Maybe… time… well, people say it mends all things? Like the harmony at the end?”
“Not a bad point, sweetie, but what else do people say about time?” chimed in Illis, an intrigued look on her face.
“Hm… That it also destroys everything?”
Astir gave his wife a side glance, but nodded his agreement.
“It does. And, like in the tale, time takes things from people. Like their body parts, like their freedom from marriage: be that for good or ill. And…” he grew slightly solemn. “Like their loved ones.”
Dalfi shook her head. “But we’ll never lose you or Mama, right Papa?”
Astir gave her a smile. “Never.”
Niall balled the edges of his shirt into his fist. “You’ll be here forever and ever and ever!”
Astir chuckled. “I love you two, my pumpernickels. Yes, forever.” They really can’t imagine a world without me in it. Who could, at that age? I remember asking my mother once, telling her that, since she was immortal, why did I have to train to be King? She had given me one of her rare smiles, and given one of her rarer hugs, telling me that I was right, and that one day, I would rule at her side, till the end of time. And the world would be perfect. But that was before my father died, back when he tempered her, and brought her laughter.
He shook away the memory. He was here. And he would stay here.
“And besides, according to the story, if you’re good, you’ll regain anything time ever takes from you, right?”
His children nodded their agreement.
“So..?” He led them on.
“We’ll be good,” they chanted in unison. A little chastised, Niall mumbled to his sister a “sorry,” and she gave a gracious yet haughty huff in response.
“I’ll accept your apology, brother, as a Queen should. And,” she twisted her earlobe as her father raised an eyebrow at her, “I’m sorry for sticking my tongue out at you.”
Astir nodded approvingly, letting out a sigh of contentment, before gently heaving Niall from his breast. He had noticed Nerio hovering at the edge of the courtyard, a part of the now-expanded castle gardens.
It had been a necessary modification Astir had ordered many years previously to draw the massive cherry tree within the walls, away from the curious eyes of the public.
“Papa has to work now, ducklings. Go ahead and play, Illis, love, keep an eye on them?”
