The Blind Valiant

THAT LIVES ONE TRAGEDY.

Everyone had a task on Alrudha Feast Day.

It didn’t matter if you were already on the day’s duty rooster for sprucing the atriums; pruning and watering the arid plants, or shoveling dung from dens, or stable cleaning or free from the week’s chores allotment.

 On Alrudha, everyone employed and educated at the Reliquary was hard at work with some cleaning or fixing or cooking. That included the Mortimers as well.

This was Kyrillos’ first Alrudha he would have to spend with his family in years, but he didn’t dare not participate in the preparations. And the Divines help anyone of them if Severa Mortimer caught any of them slacking off.

Kyrillos liked the woman’s impartial attitude which she enforced in giving her children, nephews and other highborn Noirish children chores regardless of the dozens of staff usually at their beck and call.

 He was in the art room, atop a ladder to ‘properly have the frescoes returned’ as the compulsive Mortimer matriarch put it.

Kyrillos coughed as spindles of webs fell on his face as he wiped and brushed lightly at the seven hundred year old pastel face of a horned devil.

It was his thirtieth horned devils. He had been counting and his sore hands heavily stank of turpentine. He had tolerated the first ten because they were artistically inclined to be charming when spotless and free from grime.

 But then he found himself cursing the artist for making the sea realm his point of inspiration for the frescoes, at the tenth when his arms and neck ached. The art told much of the history of Evvoia- its genesis, the Division and the rise of the Echelon. But Kyrillos didn’t care about history.

What he cared about was he just might fall over twenty feet to the ground from exhaustion of his chore and all anyone would care was that he had barely reach half of the ceilings.

He needed to get down and soak himself deep in a scalding bath for the next two hours. Which was why he was yelling down at his chore partner to take his turn and relieve Kyrillos of his.

“Sharur, this isn’t funny! I’ve been at it for hours.” A flaxen strand of hair fell from the makeshift turban he had made of an azure blue scarf.

 The heavy figure of the boy sitting lotus style in front of a floor to ceiling walled mirror, gave a meditative hum that nearly made Kyrillos aim the soiled cloth at his head. But his dark haired cousin cracked open his eyelids and smiled cheekily to himself.

“We had a deal, cousin. You’re almost done any way, just need to get a little farther.” He c****d his head at his reflection.

Kyrillos’ dark eyes narrowed to slits at him and use of the nickname he had never answered since Sharur had fashioned it to taunt him. “I’d be without my arms by then. I swear sometimes I ask why I pray for Alrudha to come sooner than expected.”

 Sharur looked at his exasperated form through the mirror wall and responded. “Because you wouldn’t get the chance to try and best Melek at the parade.”

He laid back onto the leveled platform, his legs dangling on the side and his mind running adrift of the fatigue of his body. He and Sharur and more than half of the residents of the house shared many things as a group of people under the same faith and allegiance would.

 Appearances and blood weren't one though the Noirish race were family needless of whatever bloodline they could trace their name to.

But family didn’t stop Severa from going batshit in time for the festival to wreck untold laborious pains on the bevy of apprentices studying in the Reliquary.

 Kyrillos hadn’t realized how much he missed Louscha till he had seen her a night ago...

He didn’t exactly know why but when he hadn’t gone to the Cihure Square with his cousins yesterday, he’d wistfully thought of how Louscha would look good on his father’s arm at the parade tonight. And he hated to think she would like that.

 “Don’t tell me you’re sleeping up there.” Sharur cracked, climbing the last rung and resting his deft chin on folded arms, wide jade eyes fixed on his dreary face.

Kyrillos sighed and turned towards him.

 If there was any one of the Mortimer children with whom he should've been twins with, it’d be Sharur. But aside from their different shades of hair and tone of eyes.

The same skin which the Marrąkan sun bronzed over its citizens, was darker for Sharur with all the hours he spent out in the yard meditating or at least trying to; pert lower lip and the intelligence of his Mortimer green eyes.

“What’s your guess of your mother’s surprise?” Kyrillos asked, holding his face with the side of his elbow.

Lady Severa had come barging into the baluas yard where everyone assembled in the early hours of the morning for benedictions, and announced she had spectacular news before throwing them all into a cleaning and polishing frenzy.

From her that usually meant some extravagant tea parties she would host at the Reliquary and the rest of them waiting on the hand and foot of her pompous guests.

Sharur shut the lids over his eyes, lashes shadowed over his cheek as he thought. Kyrillos would’ve thought he had gone into one of his meditative states had it been he was still holding onto the ladder fifteen feet up.

“Perhaps we get to go to Amphion for the weekend, after the festival.” He opened his eyes to him.

“I hope not, after all the trouble they’ve gone to dragging us here because of Marcian and Athalia’s murders. Genoa might finally get to use her swine-head spell if it is.”

Sharur chuckled. “I think I could still hear her cursing Melek for leaving her to the stables.” Kyrillos grinned and hoped she hadn’t taken out her frustration on the horses in the stables.

 He remembered when Lady Athalia would send him and Lestair to clean the stables without help for whatever crime they had committed. It was a punishment that made them both more discreet in their pranks.

Being in the household of a Madrigal as rich as the Demezieres once were, meant that horses were bought, bred and groomed by the dozens and yet those stables could scare the most diligent stable boys away.

Sharur climbed up fully and took the rag and brush from Kyrillos’ hand and began to wipe and rub off the grime and dust of decades.

“ ‘Yield not the sea’,” Kyrillos saw the embellished words along the design of vineland rose stalks. The Mortimer family motto, a reminder and a promise of perseverance and strength.

“So what do you have planned after?” He barely had time to think what or how he would enjoy the upcoming festivities but now the first thing his mind went to was Louscha.

Would she leave Father’s side to come again tonight?

 He recalled his father’s wife being carted towards the west wing of the Reliquary with Melek and Genoa.

 And he didn’t even want to think about how many times he had passed his father’s chambers and heard laughter that left him even more moody than he was of late.

 Kyrillos just hadn’t been sleeping well since he came back to the city. His dreams were shattered into indiscernible fragments and his waking moments even worse. It was as if his head wanted to crack open.

And he wanted it to, if only to relieve himself of the splitting aches which troubled almost every morning since he came to Marrąk.

“Nothing. All I can think about now is that hot bath. And some of that roast rabbit I heard Fjordane was cooking today.” He heard Sharur chuckle to himself as he made the emerald tips of the mermaid’s tail shine.

He always had something to say about Kyrillos’ unhealthy addiction to Fjordane’s cooking even when he too found the dish irresistible.

“I do hope Lord Manfri has explained to his new wife about how we do the parade here in Marrąk. Do you think Ruscha would go with me if I asked?” his cousin gave a side look as he cleaned.

Kyrillos arched a brow and wore smirk as he remarked. “I’ve been gone for years, Sharur. I don’t think I’m still an expert on Ruscha.”

To that Sharur snorted. “You’ll always be an expert with her. The two of you have had some kind of eerie connection to each other since we were children. I mean everyone thinks you would marry her one day, I bet even Manfri would want it too.”

Kyrillos pulled his knees to his chest and rested his chin. At the mention of his father, he realized it could be unseemly if he didn’t attend the gala. But he had better ways to spend the festive night than watching Louscha with his father.

“I wanted to ask, how did it happen? Lestair?” He deflected into a topic he had wanted to resolve.

 All Kyrillos had on the news about Lestair’s death seemed to be open to everyone’s opinions of the cause ever since his body had turned up flayed and desiccated.

 Maybe it was because he had been the son of the scrupulous Athalia Demezieres who had only died months before.

“Do you think he was casualty of the revolt?”

Sharur paused his cleaning and glanced down at him, gauging his not so subtle deviation. “I thought the same thing when Manfri told us about what’s been happening. But no, I don’t think he was.”

 He had been hesitant in sharing that theory because he knew that it left much to be questioned and prodded into. Sharur remembered when Lestair’s body had been found in the alleyway a turn away from the Reliquary building.

 He had been the only Mortimer close enough to Marrąk when the revolt happened. The people had crowded to the compound to view the rotting dead of their former Madrigal and his household.

 It had taken him calling for the city's magistrate to organize some guards to send them off and cut off any access to the Reliquary before he sent the reports to Lord Manfri and another to Arsinor.

Some had thought it was some macabre declaration of violence, to which others had misunderstood. But with the information that they’d gotten yesterday, it seemed so likely.

“Why didn’t anyone write to me about it? You, Genoa, even my father... you’d think someone would tell me that my closest friend was murdered. Regardless of how devastated you are.”

Sharur snorted down at him as of also remembering that day. “Speak for yourself, Kyrillos. That boy made a sorry excuse of his Noirish family name.”

Kyrillos shot him a cold look. “Just because you hated him doesn’t give you a reason to say that; have some respect for the dead, Sharur. He didn’t deserve to die like that.”

His cousin shrugged, unremorseful. “No one deserves to die like that, I agree. I heard his corpse is still being held down in the embalming chambers.”

“What about funeral rites?” Kyrillos frowned.

Sharur shook his head, bending to dip the cloth rag into the turpentine mix. “Not till my mother is done with the body. She thinks she can find more than what the Potentates could.”

“She better get it quick before the stench of decomposing cynicism gets to the riadh. I can’t think of waking up smelling Lestair every morning.”

Both young men looked down at the pensive face of Ruscha, her hands at akimbo on her waist. A smile stretched across Kyrillos’ face as he rolled over the edge of the platform and hurtled down the height of the ladder like a spinning top.

He probably wouldn’t have had the strength to execute the maneuver to perfectly cushion his fall without sustaining injuries.

 But he had done the technique countless times during his training years much to the exasperation of the Potentates.

“What in the Lemegeton?” Sharur shrieked from above as Kyrillos let out a relieving laugh as he regained his step from the landing.

“Yes I know. If only he has the same enthusiasm on other days.” Ruscha joked with a roll of her eyes though she wore a broad smile towards Kyrillos.

When he straightened up, grinning from ear to ear and brushed dust off his clothes, Sharur rasped from above.

 “Perhaps you should teach me that before we go sparring off before the festivities.” his accent was becoming more toward.

“You can come down, too Sharur. Your bedeviled mother said we can go clean up for breakfast. Bad odor makes for badly accepted good news, she says.”

 “I don’t think I’ve heard that one before.” Kyrillos replied as the both of them exited the art room.

 Ruscha beamed, “I just made it up. You like?”

                                           ~ ♤ ~

Kyrillos had thought he could wear his favorite djellaba for the Alrudha festival and the gala afterwards.

 Lady Severa had finally disclosed her supposed good news; the Alrudha gala the Mortimers threw annually would be open to any and everyone. His mind had gone to the robes Louscha had gotten off a merchant visiting Erdem a few months ago.

 He had thought Louscha would particularly like the effort he would be putting in selecting this attire. Kyrillos put on the djellaba and marveled at his work as he stood to see his reflection in the frosted glass of his room window.

 It was like he was wrapped in dark wings, from the robes embroidery of midnight feathers done in iridescent stitching. It was the most expensive thing he had ever owned, when Louscha had told him what it had cost her.

It seemed fitting to wear it more for the significance it gave the Feast of Black Suns in honor of a Marrąkan pagan deity of the night than for the attention he clearly wanted to get.

Though it wouldn’t be untoward if she talked to him tonight.

 Kyrillos grinned at the thought and hurriedly wore the last accessories for his costume; dark violet mask of an owl and the coral seeds beaded into a talisman of the Echelon around his neck.

The parade wasn’t yet in full swing. The Echelon took the pride of beginning the festivities with their presence.

It was left to the representing Noirish family to supersede these events, it used to be the Demezieres but now in this case it was the Mortimers.

 The halls and corridors had been superfluously decorated for the occasion and for the gala that would begin afterwards.

 Band and pipe music and boisterous cheering resounded from the streets outside the Reliquary grounds as Kyrillos walked through the great entrance hall, impressed with the decorations.

He turned at the sound of footsteps from above and saw Louscha, his eyes widened at her ostentatious costume, descending from the winding staircase.

A gown of snow white feathers that ruffled and fluttered with every step she made so that she looked like she actually had plumage growing from her body. Her mask was studded with opals and pale crystals on her face.

“You... I...” Kyrillos swallowed his stuttering words and waited for her to climb the stairs.

When she was close enough, he realized that the only spot of color were the painted pale purple on her hood of her eyelids.

Her white dusted lashes fluttered through the mask for those eyes to run up and down his costume, a loose smile of affection and appreciation wrote over her silvery painted lips.

“Don’t we look a pair? You the Owl Prince and I…”

 “The Swan Queen.” The familiar hoarse voice came from behind Louscha. Kyrillos saw his father make his way towards them.

Louscha turned towards her soon-to-be husband and executed a graceful curtsey. “My lord,”

 Lord Manfri smiled and took her hand to bring up to his lips. “You dress to please, my dear.” The Madrigal looked just as pleased with how beautiful his fiancée was and finally looked with the same look of wonder and desire Kyrillos had had on his face only a few seconds ago.

 His father was dressed in armour of overlapping scales of rusted metal with motifs of fishes and waves engraved into them.

 His bronzed mask stretched up into ends of spikes that looked more like a crown, and it was then Kyrillos realized what his costume was. He was a representation of the sea god.

You’re that arrogant that you think yourself a god amongst men, Father.

“I’d like to have a private discussion with you afterwards, son.” Lord Manfri stated with a side glance as he passed Kyrillos as he took Louscha's hand.

 Kyrillos gave a curt nod and waited for them to leave the Reliquary in their decorated chariot that waited outside. His chariot was there behind Melek who shared his with Severa, three places behind the gilded one which his father and Louscha now climbed.

“Would you hurry up already?” Genoa called from his chariot rumbling on wooden wheels pulled over pavement.

“Whose damn idea was it that I share a chariot with you?” Kyrillos mentioned as he climbed the vehicle.

 Genoa grinned, looking menacingly pretty in her harpy costume. “Mine, just now when the hope of riding with the princess was snatched from you. Our costumes match so why not.”

Kyrillos didn’t want ask how she knew his costume would match hers. He’d gotten too used to her spying spells except now he had a few things to hide from everyone especially his family.

The Mortimer family whipped their horses, led by their patriarchy, and their chariots wheeled forward into the streets of waiting city.

 They rode over rose petals, over dark narcissus blossoms and scented lilies.

Over a hundred thousand flowers thrown from the open windows of the stone ziggurats that stood sentinel to either side of the grand Bazaars of the city. Hands flourished in the air.

Arms reached out, faces peered down, beaming smiles, so many. They were on the streets too, surrounding the parade route. Cheering for the things that went before the distinguished Mortimers, the spectacular floats.

The flame dancers. The colorful marching bands. The costumes representing the range demons, effigies and drakes to angels, pagan gods and patrons.

And when Kyrillos pulled his chariot from the grand boulevard into the white-stoned square that stretched before the Cihure grounds, he saw where the murders of crows had settled.

The scores of corpses were crucified, heads stuck to pikes driven into the cobbled ground of the square.

 They were undoubtedly Fells, from their spiral horns, scaly wings, furred and discolored skin; sons, daughters, brothers and sisters of some grieving families.

And the people simply turned their eyes away from the macabre sight and onto the marvel of their leaders. It wasn’t the first execution, Kyrillos had seen the aftermath of.

 No, everywhere Fells gathered to wreck their futile attempts of a revolution resulted in these horrific retaliations from the Echelon.

 Yet the sight of this twitched something benign and cold deep inside Kyrillos.

When had Father done this? Before or after he called us to that meeting? For all Lord Manfri’s personal austerity, he knew the importance of grandeur.

But he knew the importance of brutality too. It was the double edged sword that fueled the Mortimer name.

 Flies buzzed about the heads and the displayed crucified bodies. Kyrillos did what he was expected to do before crowds of the adoring populace, he waved to the crowd, as mania gripped them.

“Couldn’t he have had those cleared out before tonight? The rot spoils the mood, putridly.”

Kyrillos looked to his cousin and questioned. “You knew about this?”

Genoa nodded, her nose wrinkling at the stench of the decomposed dead. “A report was brought to our parents last night of suspected members of the Kinship found in the city.”

“ ‘Suspected’, were the reports investigated thoroughly before these people were obviously tortured and executed.” he cursed tightly, the coldness in his chest rising and spreading.

She looked at him with a raised brow. “Of course there was further evidence of their guilt. Do you think that bad of your father that you’d believe he’d be this cruel?”

It isn’t about what I think of him. And he returned to driving his chariot through the parade before they would be heading back for the gala at the Reliquary.