The Blind Valiant

A LINE NOT TO BE SEEN.

Louscha was no longer a princess of the blood, an unnamed heiress whose right had been seized and extinguished by her uncle. And she didn’t care for it.

 She was happy, her father and brother were safe. A sister she had not seen for near a decade was safe, and she would keep them all that way by continuity to sacrifice.

Louscha stood by the fireplace of the private rooms rented out by the subscripted alias on the letter she bad received. She had had to leave the Reliquary soon after the sleeping scent had taken Manfri into deep slumber.

 She waited, her hair let down her shoulders in tousled curls and shining in the flames of the fireplace, staring into the hearth distantly as she heard the doors open and felt the presence of a man she both loved and despised.

 He was still an imposing man with fine aristocratic charm and looks.

 With a look at them both, one could tell they were related; from the shape and color of their eyes to their severe cheekbones which was more delicate for Louscha and brutish for her uncle.

 “So,” the husky voice echoed down to her with his slight footsteps. “How is my old friend, the Madrigal?”

 She did not turn about as she answered. “He’s restless and agitated. The gala attack has upended his reputation amongst the nobility. He wishes to rectify that.”

 “And does he have the power to do so?”

“I’m not sure... maybe. Especially when his son’s life is at stake.” Louscha turned her head slightly to catch where her uncle stood by the window. “You said there would be no casualties, that the Kinship were only supposed to get in and steal something-”

 Her uncle chuckled as he approached her. “And they did. Marrąk is rife with civil unrest and Manfri has lost his son.”

 Her hands clenched on each other at the mention of Kyrillos. “You realize he will not concede with such threats to his family and power. The Mortimers are a lot more resilient than you think.”

 Her uncle, the king of Halgiers so far from home, reached out a hand to run through her hair. Louscha felt his breath ruffle the curls at her neck but she refrained from shivering.

 “Which is why I placed you here. You must think me a  cruel man, turning my own niece into a w***e and a spy.” King Aksel moved to stand in front of her, the glow of the fireplace illuminating him like an aura.

 “But we all must endure a little unpleasantness for the sake of the greater good.”

 For a moment all Louscha could think was throwing forth her hands and pushing her uncle into the hearth and watch him burn to death.

 She could do it for her safety and that of her family. And for Kyrillos. She could do it to end her uncle’s wild machinations against the great powers of the continent.

 But she also knew doing it would only put all that she wanted to protect in jeopardy.

 “You took a gamble by allying with the Kinship. Kyrillos is not dead, only taken as a hostage.”

 “I am aware of the tenuous nature of my relationship with them. Either way Manfri is deprived of one heir, all you have to worry about is working to eliminate the rest.” And the king leaned in and placed a kiss on his niece’s cheek.

 It lasted a little longer than necessary before he stepped back, brushing the curls from her face and walked out of the room.

Louscha waited an hour in the rented room before she took up her cloak and left for the second half of her night outing.

 She hid most of herself under the cloak and meandered down the streets of Old Bazaar.

 With guilty conscience on the seeing the residents trying to reassemble whatever they could from the damages the rousting had made on their properties.

 Only a few hours ago, Louscha had been in these streets with Melek and a squad of soldiers; tearing through stalls and homes as they interrogated and arrested some of the locals.

 She had ridden by Melek’s side and watched him give orders to vandalize, burn and beat up those who tried to fight back. And apprehend any with reason to be part of the Kinship rebellion.

 And she didn’t even want to remember the crucifixions on the night of the Alrudha. It had left a bad taste in her mouth and still did.

 Louscha clutched the hems of her hood closer over her face and walked on, passing stalls and homeowners cursing the Noirish lords up in their ivory towers and grieving the arrest of one relative or the other.

 She made her way to a two storied inn with the sign Singing Gorgons, loose from its hanging because someone had tried knocking it off.

Though the inn itself seemed to have barely survived a burning attempt, it was teeming with men who had come to drink away their angst and discontent for the Echelon.

 The air was clogged with stale air, vapid aroma of soup spices and the occasional pipe smoke. Yet Louscha entered nonetheless. The Bazaars were a bad place for a princess to be found at such an hour.

 Some lords and wealthy ladies had been seen gutted and lying in ditches of these parts of the city, their jewels and purse picked clean, only because they had flashed their wealth too openly.

 Louscha had taken precautions against that. The only thing of value on her person was the brooch in her hair which was hidden under the hood of her cloak.

 It was a disreputable place but when Louscha found a seat at the farthest end of the bar aisle, it wasn’t men of questionable characters she saw but an aggrieved people- grieving, frustrated and angry.

 “The nerve those blasted Mortimers have running through our streets like they own it.” A middle aged man cursed.

 “Oh shut up, you know they very well do. They be the butchers of the Echelon, don’t let their parade of goodwill of that sham of a gala fool you.”

 “Ruthless bunch!” another spat, chugging his ale like a thirsty man from a desert.

“I heard one of them, the Madrigal’s eldest niece was married twice. That she kills her husbands on the night of their wedding for a ritual to make her irresistible for the next husband.”

Genoa? They can’t possibly believe that? She hasn’t even married at all. Louscha was flummoxed at the insane things they believed of the Mortimers.

 True they weren't the most friendly to strangers and their inferiors but they weren't exactly monsters. That is to say I wasn’t made to marry a monster.

 It would be easy for her to correct them of their foul misconceptions but that would be to the detriment of her purpose here.

After the mayhem they'd gone through today, they wouldn’t treat kindly to a Mortimer even if she was only married to one.

 “Oi, Vivendi! Give us a song, will ya?” a boisterous large man with a thick berth of a blacksmith called to the slender barkeep.

 “Find yourself another form of entertainment tonight, Trig. Tonight’s no good for me.” The woman, Vivendi shook her turban covered head dismissively as she cleaned the aisle counter where a trio of men sat gloomily at.

 Trig, not taking no for an answer marched up to the aisle and said.

“Tis no good for us all too. Most of our homes have been invaded by those sorcerous bastards, some of our sons and brothers have been arrested and we don’t know when they be coming back to us.”

 Almost the entire bar was quiet and facing towards the exchange with an imploring look.

“We came here believing a bowl of your special crawfish soup, you and your sisters’ singing would lift some gloom from our hearts. Ain’t that right?”

 “Aye.” They called out in unison.

“Soothe our hearts, blessed Vivendi.” A man nursing a jug of ale pleaded.

“Sing us something of the Old Ages. Of the Infernals and their blessed hearts.” Another badgered. Vivendi dropped the cloth she had to the table and raised a hand to silence them.

 Louscha thought the woman would be irritated by the ambush of her customers.

 But then Vivendi raised her face fully to the light and Louscha saw the discoloration of her face; patches of cinnamon brown with milk white across her lips and dashes on her forehead.

Yet when Vivendi opened her mouth to sing, her voice flowed into a deep sighing melody that could best the finest performer at Louscha’s mother’s favorite theatre.

 The large blacksmith beamed blissfully and settled in a chair as the barkeep streamed her rhythm to a sonorous cadence that took the entire room.

 Louscha didn’t have to listen close to the lyrics to know the song.

She had heard it many times before from the lips of her governess back in Halgiers, from her brother’s art tutor when he’d thought no one was listening as he painted in the gardens, from a dead friend from her time at the Grand Theatres.

 It was a song telling of a time before the Deluge; it told of a slumbering deity buried and half forgotten by those who had sworn to remember him.

 It spoke of his great goodness and the even greater evil he was predisposed to. Yet his kin feared the imbalance of his natures and envied his power for which the people praised above theirs.

 So they cursed both halves of his nature- his aiyar -and split them apart so they could never meet. So that he could never be whole again.

 One half was asleep while the other awake but enslaved under a curse, trying to regain that which it had lost; rising and falling like with the turn of winter and summer, never to see its other half awake.

 They were two halves of a whole with an unfortunate future. But those who remembered the great god kept his tale alive so they named them for the two Polar stars in night skies. The Sleeping Savior and the Lost Valiant.

Louscha didn’t realize three things till after the song. One, it wasn’t only Vivendi singing but one other woman with the same discolored skin as her and by the end of the song the entire inn had joined in for the popular chorus.

 Two, she and a few other customers had hurriedly wiped at their cheeks from the somber tale of betrayal and lost hope. And the third thing was that one of the sisters; slenderer than Vivendi was standing right in front of her.

 Louscha blinked hard and swallowed a sip of her drink before looking up to meet the woman’s cross eyed stare.

 “We don’t get much of your sort here. Not after what went down today.”

 “I... uh, I’m not looking for trouble.”

The woman raised a brow, “Then what you looking for, princess?” she had leaned down close to draw out that last word into a well chilling hiss.

 “If we could talk privately-”

She chuckled without a hint of humor or delight in the sound. “Nah, I’m not going anywhere with the likes of you. I think it’d be better if some of these nice men here knew who you were and took you for a private talk of their own.”

 At that Louscha shot her hand forward to grab the sister’s forearm, halting her from outing her to the potential mob in the inn.

 “Please don’t. I’m only here to see your sister about a spell.” With her other hand she loosened the coin purse from her hip and dropped on the table. “I’ll pay very well.”

 She screwed her eyes at Louscha and down at the purse before she shook her grip off and took the money.

 “Only because there’s some repairs to be done around here. Take that door-” she jerked her pointed chin to the door to the kitchens. “you’ll be asking for our youngest, Conseyna.”

 Louscha gave her a most grateful smile which the sister sneered at and went about refilling mugs and chatting up some of the men who now had more jolly after the song.

 Louscha followed the directions and came to the kitchen where pleasant smelling aroma of well spiced soup clouded the air.

 There was a counter littered with spice cans, a board of minced meat and vegetables, pots and bowls mounting in the sink.

  But the most eye-catching thing in the room was the rust iron cauldron big enough to hold three grown men, seated atop a hearth of blistering red-hot stones and firewood.

 She heard the humming tunes of the Valiant and Dreamer song coming from the pantry of spilling food supplies.

 “Conseyna?”

The tunes stopped and so did the ruffling noises and when Louscha turned to the corner of the pantry to meet the last of the Gorgon sisters, she found no one.

 She glanced around and saw only kitchen tools. But the she heard giggling from behind her and spun around to see a woman much older than the other two sisters outside.

 Yet she’s the youngest?

Louscha’s eyes fell to the figure in front of her; short enough to reach her own knees and wizened with round head of hair hidden underneath a dirty turban.

She was dressed in a tattered and stained apron with deep pockets, with a hooked nose and blind eyes. She looked worse than the beggar peddling barefoot up and down Bazaar streets.

 “You’re Conseyna?”

“Who’s asking?” her pale eyes roved the place Louscha was standing.

 “Someone who needs your expert knowledge. Your sister said you can help with a spell.”

 Conseyna huffed and hobbled towards the large cauldron, her wrinkled hand placed flat against its body and a red hot glow spread.

 “I’m not in the habit of helping the Noirish with sorceries. You cause nothing but chaos and destruction with its secrets.”

 Louscha ambled forward to where she stood by the counter and began chopping vegetables. “No, this is to help a friend of mine. No destruction will come of it, I swear.”

 “By what?”

Louscha blinked, “Pardon?”

“You swear by what, princess? Noirish have little faith to the ancient forces that conspire from the beyond. So what do you swear by that is most sacred to you?” she asked, leering in an unnerving way.

 My life... the laws of my country... my love for Kyrillos...

“I swear by the love of my heart.”

Conseyna made a disgruntled noise and talked. “Your oath of love means nothing to me. But you can give me something for my help.”

 “I already gave your sister all my money to meet with you.” Louscha gaped at the elderly woman with the filmy eyes.

 “Bah! I have no need for money. How about a string of your hair?”

Louscha screwed a confused look at her, taking a step back from her twiggy fingers. “Why?” She had heard grim stories of hag witches stealing the youth of maidens from such a request.

“Little things have great power, mortal princess. Give me the hair and we will see what sort of enchantment you want done for your... friend.” She opened her wrinkled hand to Louscha, revealing rotting teeth when she smiled.

 Anxiously, she pulled a string of dark auburn hair from her head and placed it in Conseyna’s grasp.

 Conseyna mused a sound, rubbing the strand in between wrinkled thumb and index finger. “Fine hair, fine tapestries... you are a daughter of kings and sister of kings to come. With an Infernal blessing in your mother’s line; yes, this will do well for some of my brews.” And she started to turn around.

 Louscha grabbed the woman’s frail arm but the cold clamminess of its texture made her drop it immediately. “Wait. You said you would help me.”

 “Yes, yes... what is it then?” she still waddled towards the cauldron and stirred its boiling contents with a metal ladle.

 “It is not something I want done. I just want to know what the enchantment does. My friend might have accidentally placed it on himself and he wants to know how to break it.”

 “Is it a love spell? I tell you only the light of the third moon which shone upon the toadstool of a two headed toad can change that. He has to eat the toadstool thrice a day till next moon.”

 Louscha fought not to reveal her apparent disgust at the thought of such a remedy. “No... it isn’t a love spell. He called it Miasma.”

 Conseyna immediately stumbled from where she had climbed to stir the cauldron and Louscha rushed to catch her but the old woman croaked a curse as she steadied herself.

 “Did you just say Miasma, girl?”

Louscha nodded, meeting Conseyna’s rheumy eyes. “What sort of death wish does your friend have that he accidentally puts such a curse on himself?”

 “Curse?”

Conseyna nodded. “The Miasma is nothing but the wickedest curse on the aiyar. You heard the song my sisters sang just now, yes?”

“Of the Sleeping Savior and the Lost Valiant, yes I did. What does that have to do with...”

 “It is a similar situation. When you take a basilisk egg and have it hatched, you groom it like a faithful puppy soon enough it begins to think and live like a puppy. Not knowing it’s own deadly venom of stare, it licks your hand and sleeps in your embrace. But put it back in the nest of its own kind and it will poison you without a second thought.”

 Louscha blinked. “So the Miasma is a curse that changes a person’s life?”

 Conseyna turned on her and waved her stubby hands around. “It changes everything; cuts apart, warps and imprisons the very true nature of a person giving him a totally different life and memories. It’d have been easier, less fatal for your friend to just kill himself than suffer such a thing.”

 “But if he has a different life than the one he was born into, how is that suffering? His old life might have been too terrible for him to want to still live it.”

 “Perhaps if that old life of his did not still remain beneath the curse. It is just locked up inside him. And do you know what happens when you cage a wild animal for too long. One of two things; either the animal becomes a fevered shell of itself or...”

 Louscha reasoned. “It becomes even more rabid, dangerous and bitter.” And she got an affirming nod from the hag.

 Is that what is happening to Kyrillos? If Manfri put him under a Miasma, his old self might be coming back...

It only begged to asked the question of who Kyrillos was before the enchantment was cast on him. And why Manfri had even cast such a thing on his son.

“The Miasma is really powerful, really wicked sorcery. The darkest ever dictated in the Lemegeton... Wonder where he saw such a spell or the power to cast it? But he should be safe if a trigger hasn’t gone off to wake the older life.”

Louscha swallowed a breath, anxiety and despair for the boy she had grown to love suffering such a fate. “And if it has gone off already?”

 Conseyna gave a mirthless laugh before replying her. “Two lives, two memories clashing against each other for dominance in one mind. It will tear your friend apart, insanity is the least of his worries. And it is only made worse by how much time has passed since the Miasma was cast.”