The Blind Valiant

WHOSE VIRTUE IS SONG.

Since the Alrudha gala, Louscha could feel the atmosphere of the Reliquary household drop considerable.

 There had been casualties, deaths and injuries that struck the ambience of post-festivities tragically.

 The servants were busy cleaning up the evidences of battle in the great hall and all Louscha could think of was Kyrillos lying still in a puddle of blood while Melek proclaimed him dead.

 No one seemed to saying anything about him. It felt a little odd that the death of the only son of the Madrigal had been hushed up.

 And what had Manfri meant that he would take care of it? Why had he ordered Kyrillos be taken to his private suites instead of the infirmary or the embalmer?

She hadn’t slept that night nor the night after and she had caught herself crying soundlessly at the thought of Kyrillos lying cold and still somewhere.

 She had tried getting into Manfri’s secured riadh, risked it to see Kyrillos one last time but she had failed seeing as she had not found any such secret room in the entire Reliquary.

 So when Lord Manfri had said he would be entertaining the Marrąkan nobility concerning the attack a few nights ago, she had not thought a welcome change to the somber inactivity that had dropped over the Mortimer family. Also it would mean an extravagant display of power. Or rather who held the power.

 Louscha knew that Marrąk was still one of the densely Fell populated cities and still harbored strong opposition to the Echelon regardless that they knelt to the Echelon.

 The history pages had called it a survivalist resolution. Instead of risking getting expunged, the cities of the southern Expanses had relinquished their independent rule in exchange for survival.

 After a night and a morning of undergoing the mandatory interrogations the Madrigal had issued for every household staff concerning the attack, Ymira had returned and helped Louscha into a silvery blue dress that draped over her body like satin sheets.

 The clasp lay at her throat, above an opening that bared most of her breasts, making her cleavage the center of attention.

 With a simple flick, the entire thing would be free to slide from her body. Not a usual style for her but this was what the noble women of this region wore for the tropical climate.

 “I think silver and blue suits you very well, my lady.” The Marrąkan woman said with a smile as Louscha appraised herself in the triptych full length mirror.

 “I think so too.” The princess glanced at the spot behind her in the mirror’s reflection to see the overbearing figure of the Madrigal.

 Ymira immediately shied away. The Madrigal stepped into the room and like everything about him, he drained everything with his presence. His steps were heavy but silent as they advanced.

  Louscha pasted on a smile. “I could get used to the color.” Lord Manfri took her hand and spun her lightly, the flimsy material of the dress wisped in the air as it fluttered around her like a cloud, before catching her.

 “I already introduced you as my bride-to-be. The nobles will be expecting a wedding soon and no doubt so will the Echelon who want to tie the allegiance with your uncle even faster now.”

 She let his hand hold hers a bit longer and looked directly at him as she asked. Her tone hiding what apprehension she felt about the topic. “Do you have a date in mind? Whatever is fine by me?”

 The Madrigal’s piercingly green eyes bore down on her. “Is it? I’m sure you never imagined your future being with an old detestable man such as myself.”

 Louscha shrugged, “I admit it is not an ideal marriage dream of any girl my age, princess or not. But I always knew that I would do anything to protect the interests of my country and for as long as I could remember I cherished the idea that I could give that sacrifice for Halgiers.”

 Lord Manfri c****d his head, crossing his brows together as he stared at the young girl before him. “Your uncle said you were a realist but I never expected anything Aksel says to be true.”

 You still shouldn’t. “I am more surprised that you’re permitting my attendance to your affairs of state.”

 “You made quite the impression on the nobles at the gala and with the disaster it turned out to be, I’d like you to be my buffer of sorts. My tenure is new and already there’s been an attack on my house, it will make them doubtful and bold.”

 Louscha stepped away from him to the vanity table which was bedecked with jewelry boxes, cosmetic materials and perfume bottles. She opened a velvet red box to retrieve a necklace.

 “So what do you expect me to do? Surely your sister and brother are better choices to diffuse the tension between the nobles.”

 The Madrigal moved up behind her to help fasten the clasp around her neck. He brushed aside her curled hair and Louscha refrained from shivering at his cold touch where his fingers brushed her skin.

 “Severa would rather gut every last one of them than let any stranger inside this Reliquary again and Melek is brutally straightforward. They are not the weapons I would use at first.”

 Weapons. That’s what I am to every one. “Usually I’d have Kyrillos or Genoa with me but...”

 Louscha turned around to stare up at the man. His eyelids shuttered down in an expression of what she figured was his version of grief. Her heart constricted. He’s really dead.

 She raised her hand to press her palm to the side of his bearded face and Lord Manfri’s eyes opened again to reveal those eyes that were similar in shape and color to the one she really missed being stared at.

 “I cannot imagine how much pain you are feeling... losing your son in such a way. Has Sharur and Ruscha found any leads to who the murderer might be?”

 His eyebrows screwed together, confused and taken aback by the question. “Murderer?”

 Louscha nodded, “Yes, the man in the diluvian era knight costume. I believe he’s also the one who led the attack with the dead at the gala.”

 “Yes, yes but Kyrillos was not killed.”

The breath hitched in her throat at the revelation and Louscha tried to stop herself from looking relieved perhaps even joyful as she heard it. Not killed. Not killed. Not killed.

She blinked at her fiancé, “What... we saw him getting stabbed. And Melek said...”

 Manfri grazed the back of his callused hand over her cheek and replied. “Don’t worry about what Melek said. My son is alive but he is not safe; which is the main purpose of my summoning the nobles today.”

 He stepped a few paces back and offered his arm. “Come, my dear, they await us.”

  What do you mean he is alive bit not safe? How could he be alive... Kyrillos. But she could not press him any further without rousing his own questions about her curiosity.

 So she wrapped her hand around his forearm, her fingers brushing hard metal hidden under the folds of his silk clothes.

“What I want your help in, princess, is finagling the nobles who seem to be less agitated by the attack on us. Those who seem to have something to gain from the unrest and anxiety of the others.”

 Louscha nodded as Manfri led her out of her rooms and they strutted down the hallway, passing courtiers who lived and studied the sorcerous arts and servants.

All parted and bowed as they approached.

 “Do you suspect them of something, my lord?” she asked.

“This year’s invitation to the gala was made open to the masses because of the insistence of the nobles. Healthy public relations, they argued and all I have to show for it is an entire city torn by fear and doubt in their new Madrigal.”

 The great hall was where Lord Manfri was receiving the nobles and Louscha was sure it was also a statement he was giving by not shying away from the room.

 There was single chair in the whole room, placed up at the dais where the orchestra had played two nights ago. High backed and gilded arms and feet, with fine blue velvet cushions.

There were the standards of the Echelon placed at either side of the chair.

 A scribe sat at the foot of the steps with parchment and inkwell ready to pen all the proceedings of the Madrigal and the Marrąkan lords and ladies. At the corners were guards and two sorcerers robed in the Mortimer colors.

 When they entered, the nobles tipped their heads and muttered their respect for the Madrigal as he headed to his throne.

But Louscha also did not miss that some of them glanced at her with askance and none other held a stronger gaze than Melek Mortimer.

 “My lord, the esteemed nobles of Marrąk.” One of the sorcerers, dark skinned and bald headed, moved to stand at the Madrigal’s side and declared.

 “My lords, ladies.” Manfri acknowledged with tight glare through the dozen individuals before him, searching their faces

 The retaliation was expected since the crucifixions that had happened in lieu of the Demezieres’ deaths.

 One of the men, a skinny man in flowing night blue robes and solemn but hard eyes relayed his thoughts of the Echelon’s extreme measures against the Kinship.

“We advised your predecessor, Lord Marcian Demezieres from responding to the Monger’s baits, which is much like this one.” The man she soon realized was the Archon of the city’s Temple. “Whether by treating with her or retaliation, it will only end one way.”

 Louscha moved behind the line, toward him, then stepped to his side. She waited for a sign of what the Madrigal wanted. One of the lords turned to her with a pasted-on smile.

 “And what way is that, Your Eminence?” Melek asked as he neared his brother.

 “Blood, violence that will trek into the streets and homes of the innocent people of this city. Either by a Cleansing or an Excommunication.”

 “No need to fear, Your Eminence. Marrąk has a very cherished history to my family, we will not see it destroyed in either way. But we cannot afford to not respond to the attacks laid in our home and on our people.” Lord Manfri was stiff faced, an expression he’d worn for days now, on the throne.

 “The attack on Alrudha was clearly unjustified and taken to disastrous proportions. We’ve come to believe that it was a tact to deviate our attention to the real mission.”

 “Which was what?”

“The kidnap of my son, Kyrillos.” Manfri stated with a dark expression that froze them all in dread and apprehension. “He fought to protect the guests and sustained severe injuries from fighting one of the Kinship agents. It was only later when a physician was brought to him, was it discovered he was taken.”

 “Was he now?” Countess Adora, a stern faced middle aged woman Louscha recalled was also the ambassador to Narnet snorted. “After seizing the channel which supplies trade to the west, what else did you expect from them? Goya suffers so they wish to buy their salvation with your boy.”

 All that Louscha could hear was the words from her fiancée’s mouth. So that’s what he had meant. Kyrillos is the Kinship’s hostage.

 Even Melek seemed surprised by that news as he tried to catch his brother’s eyes with questions but the Madrigal was fixated on the nobles.

 “The matter concerning Goya is none of your concern, only that of the wellbeing of my son and his safe return to this Reliquary, but should a ransom be offered then I will be attentive to their demands. The support of the nobles handling their sector of the province is also appreciated. We would not want riots and violence streaming into the streets.”

“The latter we can try to aspire but as for the first. How do we help in the matter of your son?”

 “Oh don’t be modest, Lord Wyom. More than half of you present have a history of dealing with agents of the Kinship. This city is well known for its ties with its Fell heritages and we would have you exploit them to getting us whatever information that maybe helpful.”

 Lord Wyom swallowed noisily, “Those have always been rumors we have disproved countless times, my lord...”

  “The laws of the Echelon will all be upheld, but local issues must be addressed as well. Curfew will be placed, a total lockdown in and out of the city will be instituted and enforced by my potentates. You will not have to worry about trade and supplies, we will make sure of that. But in all intent and purpose, Marrąk is locked from the rest of Evvoia.”

 “Until when?”

“Till the disturbing question of the Kinship’s presence within this city is answered and purged.”

  “And the rest of us who have duties relegated outside this province?” Countess Adora demanded calmly, or at least she tried to.

  The Madrigal looked them all over before he answered, weighing each one with a look that gave them insight of whom they were standing before. A ruthless sorcerer lord who was known to offer the sweetened carrot first but if provoked would result to the rod mercilessly.

 “Countess, are you aware of the authority I have under the Pontiff concerning this city?”

  “Not completely, my lord.” The Madrigal nodded at the woman’s words.

 “So long as this city sends ten percent of its monthly income to Arsinor then I am permitted full autocratic power for whatever whim I desire. And what I desire is to accomplish something no other Madrigal has ever done. But first I must quell every notion that Marrąk is in the complete manipulation of my enemies.”

 Louscha’s ears pricked at Manfri’s words. ‘What I desire is to accomplish something no other Madrigal has ever done.’ Which is what exactly?

 Lord Manfri rose from the throne and stepped down to stand before the nobles. But Louscha felt the sudden tension in the air, like a pressure dropping and a distant rumble of thunder could be heard outside.

 “Every province of the south does the same thing. You smile at me, you bow to me, and you plot behind my back. You think you can overthrow me with little more than a coup. I’ll make you this deal. The man who brings word of rebellion will be rewarded. Gold, jewels, titles. Do whatever you need to do, pay whatever it offered. Any worthy information and help will be rewarded in kind a dozen fold. We Mortimers are known to be generous with our wealth.”

Louscha could feel the apprehension growing in the room. They weren’t immune to the Madrigal’s frivolous promise.

She could tell they were each already dreaming of the opportunity to prove themselves worthy of Manfri’s favor.

 They eyed each other for competition, even the sanctimonious Archon licked his lips.

 But then Manfri’s lips curled into the most threateningly cold smile that Louscha saw turned his face into Melek’s, except a few decades older.

“And if this city does rebel and show its true colors? Well, you know what my family is also known to give in return to that.”

“We will call on you when our decision is made.” Melek seemed impatient to be rid of the nobles so he could confront his brother.

Countess Adora and the entire court bowed before the Madrigal. And Manfri did not give him the chance to do that because then a guard stepped up to whisper something into his ear which made him storm out.

“That went well.” Louscha whispered to no one as the nobles dispersed out of the hall, some muttering their opinions on everything that Manfri had said and Melek’s abrupt dismissal.

 It was clear they had no affections for the younger brother of the Madrigal.

“The nobles are not particularly fond of you, are they?”

 Melek looked up at her, deviating from door his brother had disappeared through. “They are not fond of any of us. We are all foreigners and it doesn’t do us much credit with how careless we were at the gala.”

Louscha shook her head. “I don’t believe that Lord Manfri did not tell us that Kyrillos survived but was kidnapped.”

“So you believe it then?”

Louscha gazed at the albino Mortimer. “I have a feeling you don’t want to believe that he could be alive.”

 Melek closed the space between them, he leaned forward until their faces were mere inches apart, then purred, “And I have the feeling you would give the sea, sun and moon to believe that he was.” And he dipped his finger down her cleavage.

Louscha started to move back as she snarled out, “Melek!” Then she realized he had lifted up her necklace and her mind tracked back to what he had said.

Is he that perceptive? He cannot know...

 His fingers let the filigree jewelry go and strayed his pale eyes up to her face.

“If Kyrillos is alive then I’m relieved I was wrong.” He remarked solemnly. “But I know what I felt that night; something broke- died in him. I don’t know what to call that something, but I can tell you that the living have it. And wherever he is now, Kyrillos doesn’t possess it anymore.”

                                               ~♤~

Kyrillos felt the heat of a fire and the whistling tunes of a folk song flattened with gloom, when he woke in clear morning.

 He tried to move but realized he was bound again, this time with what he realized were adamant cuffs; the metal impervious to sorcery except for the one who had placed it.

 Where had he gotten them? How long have I been out?

The world around him was out of focus, just swathes of colors, and his body throbbed in the most horrible way.

Why does everything hurt? 

 Around Kyrillos, the colors began to sharpen enough for him to make out his surroundings- a clearing in the woods.

 His hands were numbed and chaffed by the chains behind his back as he worked to raise himself upright beside a makeshift hearth of stones.

 He thought all that he could remember were a bevy of hallucinations, till he glimpsed the silhouette back of the man carrying an armful of sticks for the guttering fire. It took another second for Kyrillos to process why exactly that filled him with blinding fury.

  Fleeing the cottage and the rebel. Daggers to the back. Tied to his steed and forced to run. Falling. Dragging. Pain. Dying.  

 He gasped at the memory, and now the full force of his agony surfaced.  

  “I’m... alive.” It seemed impossible in light of everything he had gone through. It felt as though he was being torn apart and fused back together but under much excruciating conditions.

Kyrillos couldn’t tell whether this scenario utterly terrified him, or whether it took the edge off his fear.

   He didn’t let me die. He intends to let me heal. Only so that I can suffer more.  

He pushed himself up from the ground, biting back a yelp at the intense pain that flared across his back.  

 “Why am I still here?” Kyrillos asked tightly.

 “I won’t let you die.” He retorted as he dropped the pile of sticks, stooping low to tend to the flames. Again, he didn't know whether him saving him was a kindness or a curse.

  “You nearly impaled me, then tied me up and dragged me through the rain.” Just saying those words forced a shiver through Kyrillos.

 His azure eyes were steady on Kyrillos. “I did.”

 He rolled a shoulder, the joint achingly sore. “My arm was pulled out of its socket,” Kyrillos mentioned, remembering the excruciating sensation of the dislocation and cursed.

 Anduin gazed at him for a long moment, looking every inch the damnable devil his Noirish beliefs preached that he was, then nodded. Kyrillos glanced down at himself.

His clothes- the uniform he had stolen days ago, replaced by what he surmised were simple farmer’s clothes; worn breech pants and patched linen shirt that was bigger than his build.

 Someone saw me naked. His eyes slid to the Fell, who was staring at him passively. Kyrillos sighed and slowly twisted half about and reached a hand to feel his back.

 The effort constrained but he found strips of cloth tied from where the wounds were.

 Had he tended to me? Kyrillos remembered the vicious way he had yanked the knives out of his back.  

 There’s no way... His attention was distracted by the horrible throb of his back. He sat forward, to take some of the pressure off, and felt cloth dig into the skin of his stomach.  

 Lifting up the edge of the shirt, Kyrillos stared at his torso, which was wrapped in layer upon layer of bandages.  

 He ran his palm over the linen. “Who did this?” 

 Anduin leveled him an unreadable look. “You?” Kyrillos finally asked.

 He felt his blood burning beneath his skin with horror and embarrassment and... something else at the thought of the fugitive insurgent ripping away his clothes and mending him.

 Kyrillos tried to imagine him cleaning and dressing his wounds, and he found he couldn’t. He didn’t want to.  

 His lips thinned. “Remember my kindness.” 

“Your kindness?” Kyrillos sneered back in disbelief. “You are the one who gave me these wounds!”

His upper lip ticked, like he was fighting a grimace, before he stood, his large frame looming over him. “Don’t try to escape again, lordling,” he warned but before he could leave for the dark woods again.

 Kyrillos called out, “If we’re to be of any degree of civility, at least use my name. I’m Kyrillos, thank you for not letting me die.”

 “I don’t need to be civil nor do I need the name of my hostage.” He cut back and continued into the night.

 They left not an hour later after he had given Kyrillos time to eat, not taking a morsel of roasted meat he had given him.

Then he led Kyrillos out with a hand on his shoulder, after packing up and throwing water onto the flames.

  His steed waited for them, its reins not tied to anything, just standing there like the creature had nothing better to do than wait on its master.

 Anduin grabbed the rope that had been shoved into one of the saddlebags. Unwinding it, he wrapped one end around Kyrillos’ wrists.

  All his aches and pains came roaring back at the sight of his bound hands. 

  Running again. I should’ve known. But instead of tying the other end to the back of his saddle, Anduin threaded it through one of his belt loops.   

   Kyrillos raised my eyebrows. That’s unexpected.  

 The Fell made careful work of avoiding his eyes as he turned to his hostage, grabbed either side of his torso to hoist him onto the horse and climbed up behind him.

 The leather creaked as he settled himself in the saddle. Kyrillos hissed out a breath at the pain that flared up as he was pressed against his leather.

His left hand looped around Kyrillos, his hand splayed across my lower stomach. His other hand took the reins.

  He leaned in close. “If you jump,” he warned, his breath hot against his ear, “and I’ll make you run behind me again.” 

 Kyrillos didn’t doubt him, but right now, all he could think about was how repulsive and intimate it was having him this close.

  But it seemed he was the only one of the two of them reading meaning into their positions as he heard the Fell click his tongue, and his horse was off.