My Latest and Greatest

ONE

 

I OPEN MY EYES AT THE CHIME OF SEVENTH BELL. Six other bells have rung out before, on each hour, but it is the seventh one that wakes me. Always. One would think that a servant girl in the East High Courts University need rise early, before everyone else, to scrub the stone floors and turn back the clocks, prepare the first of the day’s meals, brush away snow in the winters and open the awnings in the summers, so that those supping out of doors won’t need to squint in the sunlight. But while my Naomi and the other girls work from fourth bell until twelfth, I begin at sixteenth and go until second, with the older maids, in their fifties and sixties. A special allowance, the deal struck by a few clever words from Naomi’s father.

The circles under my eyes, I believe, are permanent at this point. But I cannot help it. Seventh hour, no matter how exhausted I am, my eyes snap open, and there I am, unable to get back to sleep. This has plagued me my entire life, so far as Nusk has told me. There’s nothing to be done for it, and my paranoia as a Khashtani does not help.

I rise, throwing my blanket off without folding it, and leaping down from the loft where Naomi and I sleep when we are too tired to go back to our own shared room in the servant’s quarters. I know it annoys Taris to find me or his sister here, but Nusk and Korvaan don’t mind. Even if they did, they’d never say so; I am a Khashtani and they are my khashak. Nusk may have taught me and his children all he knows, but now, he is in his sixties. He must depend on us for everything his mouth can’t convince others to give him.

Must be nice, having the fluke of a charmed mouth.

It is good for us that Nusk is no monster, or else we’d be in for a world of trouble, trying to obey his every whim.

I find my clothes and pull them over my head: short underdress that covers my chest up to my collarbones, soft trousers, a thin and long robe that will keep my arms covered and help me carry things in its fluttering tail, and headscarf to keep my locks from my face while working. Gloves, as so many wear, to conceal the fluke I don’t have from potential fluke readers: pointless in terms of effect, perhaps, but at least this keeps me from standing out. To finish, soft servant’s boots are strapped to my feet, knives strapped to my legs, just above the bottom of my skirt, and another in a sheath that hangs between my breasts. I load several small dart knives in pressure chambers wrapped around my wrists, and poison needles in a safety container pressed on the inside of my boot.

Not that I’m concerned about this poison; Nusk had me acclimate to its effects when I was a child. It was horrendously painful, and left me with dotted scars on my arms, chest, and my shoulders, but it was worth it.

“If that’s you, Soleil, you’d better come in quick! There won’t be any hot water left!” Korvaan calls to me from the other room.

“Half a minute!” I complain, and rush to the bathroom to splash water on my face and brush my teeth. My hair would be a mess, without a comb pulled through it, but I slept with it in a thick braid, and though it’s a bit frizzy, no one will notice much, so long as it stays tucked neatly under my headscarf.

I’m systematically checking myself over, making certain I have absolutely everything necessary, when I realize I don’t. There’s a naked patch on my wrist where usually my fingers find cool metal.

My watch—I need it; a necessary component when it comes to looking after my principal, and contacting my khashak. And though I’ve tightened the damn thing until it bites into my skin, and sometimes grab for my wrist in the middle of the night to make sure it’s still there, its fallen off and lost itself somewhere in the room.

The options for my search are hardly plentiful, and I know the usual suspects for its location. Of all the things I could make a mistake with, this is one of the least egregious, yet it annoys me to be anything less than a perfect Khashtani. I look after the boy who became the man who is meant to be the next true king. I cannot be afforded mistakes.

My search for the watch takes perhaps half a minute. I find it fell off the loft sometime during the night, down onto the wide bed below, where Korvaan and Taris slept since we came here as children. Naturally, I scowl at the damned thing, strap it back to my wrist, and quickly test the buttons to make sure it doesn’t require charging out in the sun. The noise of irritation I hear from Taris, in the next room, lets me know he can still receive messages from me perfectly fine, and our proximity whilst testing it has caused static feedback for both of us. It’s directly in our ears, too, due to the connective hearing pieces pierced there, disguised as earrings. I don’t mind the static, and little bothers me anymore that way, but it drives Taris crazy.   

Good. Better an irate Taris than a broken watch any day of the week.

As I throw myself out of the bed again, I nearly smack my head on the bars Nusk had mounted on the outer edge of the loft, so that we children could compete with one another when we were younger, forcing ourselves to do pull-up after pull-up.

Taris always won. Naomi and I were seemingly rather hopeless in comparison, with our skinny arms and pitiful muscles. To this day, this is the one thing I dread the most, out of all my exercises. Oh, I can manage a decent performance now, of course, but I still loathe them, and the ease with which grown men like Taris and Korvaan can perform. It’s a simpler matter of biology that Naomi’s brothers will always be stronger than either of us, and I accept that. But that doesn’t mean I can’t be jealous.

My job would, admittedly, be a lot easier if I were a man.

I hasten to the adjoining room and am half-assaulted by the aroma of Korvaan’s coffee. He’s sitting at the table, drowsy and blinking, waiting for his caffeine hit of the day. With both men here, this tells me Naomi has used one of her time-off stamps, and volunteered to keep a close eye on Rian while the rest of us sort ourselves out. She wouldn’t need to, if I were fully operational, but such is the aftermath of my taking a knife to the shoulder: allowances need be made.

We try not to ever leave the task of watching Rian only to Naomi, as she is the best at patching the rest of us up when we’re injured, but on days when Rian’s bodyguards have little to do besides escort him around the University, and I’ve been ordered to rest myself for more dangerous occasions, we allow Naomi to step in. Today, I know, I will be doing very little around Rian. Taris and Korvaan will look to him, instead, as today is the last day I’m meant to hold myself back while my injuries heal.

Naomi will be displeased when she looks at them, as she always is. She’ll say something about me never having enough time to heal properly. She’ll lecture about infection and torn stitches and the like, but simply do her duty and send me out again. Though not without some sort of complaint about my stupidity. After all, she’d claim, I’d had no idea if the assassin who’d crept onto the grounds a little over a week ago intended to make Rian his target.

But as the Comust Day approaches in the coming year, I grow nervous, and wary. If Comust Day passes without incident, and without anyone claiming that Rian is the Lost Heir, I’ll have succeeded. Someone else will be claimed for it, and will be crowned king. A false king, perhaps, though I find this does not concern me much. Proving themselves to the Isaaria people and keeping the throne will be their problem, not mine. I’ll be busy with other things.

I realized a long time ago that as his Khashtani, part of my job is to avoid danger on Rian’s behalf whenever possible. I don’t care if he’s the Lost Heir. I don’t care if he would make a good king or not—that is not my business. My life’s work, my purpose, is to keep him alive whatever the cost, and if he becomes king in this day and age, I’m sure his life will be forfeit. That’s what I’ve been told, that’s what I’ve been taught, that’s what I believe. And that’s all.

“What’s set you in such a foul mood already?” Korvaan asks me with a yawn as I hunt in the cupboards for a clean mug. If there is still leftover hot water from their coffee, I need herbal tea. Naomi will absolutely pitch a fit if I don’t.

“I’m not,” I say. I think I’ve found a mug clean enough.

“You’ve that twisted scowl on your face again you always get when Rian does something stupid,” he says.

“If he’s awake, likely he is doing something stupid,” I mutter.

It’s an incredible exaggeration, and a bit unfair, but the man does drive me crazy with his antics.

One would think he had no idea there could ever be a threat on his life, which, given his fluke, he must be aware of. I’m sure his father has told him to be wary, until Comust Day passes, but Rian must not think it’s possible others might discover who he is. Or what he can do.

“Taris, tell the girl to lighten up,” Korvaan complains. “She never observes waking hour properly—that’s why she’s so bitter. And it’ll put off the rest of us.”

I roll my eyes. As if I have time to sit an hour in meditation in the morning. I know it’s a custom many Isaarian’s observe, taken from old Kachin tradition, and my khashak have adopted it as well, but I have other things to see to that don’t require me being in my own head. What would there be to meditate on?

“Let her be, or you’ll make her worse,” Taris grunts. Likely he simply knows better to lecture me on such things—he’d be one to talk. I’ve never known of someone so disagreeable in my life; I’ve killed assassins with lighter dispositions than his.

Taris stands before the mirror on the sideboard, cropping his beard close to his face and taming his shiny black curls. I would call him vain, but I know he will not appreciate my teasing the way Korvaan or Naomi might. For some reason, Taris doesn’t like me—not as a sort of sister and certainly not as his Khashtani. I can’t remember a time when he’s chosen to speak with me, outside of when it is necessary, and even then, he is so curt and cold, one might think I’d murdered his lover.

It’s almost a shame Korvaan and Naomi both shave their heads clean; I’ve no one’s curls to pluck and tease. My own hair waves slightly in the heat, but is hardly half as voluminous as theirs. When I was still part girl, finishing my training while Nusk did most of the work looking after Rian, I used to beg Naomi to keep her hair after she turned eighteen, though I knew it was custom where Nusk comes from for unwed folk of that age to keep their heads shaved. But, of course, Naomi kept to the custom of her father’s people, which, as an adult, I understood far better than when it happened.

My khashak are far from home, after all. And they likely all know they will never return. In Korvaan and Naomi’s case, they have never even seen their homeland, and for Taris, I doubt he remembers it. Milash is as foreign a country to them as it is to me, and though I try to acknowledge this sacrifice to Nusk, he insists time and time again that regardless of present circumstances, he’d always planned to move to Isaaria, for his first wife’s sake.

I doubt, back then, that he knew Crown Prince Rian’s mother would take interest in Nusk’s old job in Milash, as a Khashtani, and desire one to protect her son. There was no way Nusk could know that he’d one day be training me as a Khashtani in the custom of his own people, either.

But Nusk has carried his traditions here with him, and passed them on to me and his children as well. He claims that is enough for him, and I must  believe him, as he often appears happy with his life here, simple as it may be. Naomi always shrugs when I ask her whether she would return to Milash if released from her position in my khashak, and Korvaan insists he would like to visit, but calls Isaaria his home. They are citizens here as much as anyone else is, and have known no other life. They practice the same things they would if Nusk raised them in Milash, only with me as their odd, pale sister, and a smiling, idiot crown prince to protect.

The only one who refuses to follow Milash traditions, or adapt to the observances of Isaarian folk, is Taris. He has his own reasons, I suppose, for accepting neither end of his dual heritage.

I join Korvaan at the table bench, the tea steeping between my hands, warming them. From the back room, I hear a heavy rolling, and soon Nusk joins us, in his wheeled chair. Taris has oiled it recently, I note, because it glides smoothly and without jerking, screeches, or squeals.

“Mmm, something burning?” Nusk poses in that old, croaking voice of his. When I was little, I used to think his voice was that of an owl. Or a bullfrog. Wildly different creatures, perhaps, but I’ve been told I once had an imagination of sorts. In my much younger years.   

“The coffee!” Korvaan cries, and leaps to rescue his brewing pot before it can burn.

I snort, and sip at my tea. Much better than bean-juice, I think.

I have no taste for the stuff, and must force myself to drink it when necessary, but I sometimes think my khashak would rather die than go without their coffee.

Korvaan must have managed to save the bean sludge, because in a matter of seconds, he has procured cups of it for himself, his father, and Taris. Nusk, of course, thanks his second-born son formally, carefully, as if in a passive chiding towards Taris’ mere grunt. He shouldn’t try so hard; there are more difficult things to do than teach Taris manners, but I haven’t been able to think of any.

At least he joins us at the table, instead of drinking whilst standing, like a barbarian.

We cradle our warmed drinks in silence. Us younger folk on one side of the table, on the bench, Nusk on the other, in his chair. We have long-since become fully grown, but when Nusk looks at us with his pleased eyes wrinkling that old, pruned brown face, I know he still sees the three of us as small children.  

Sitting there, all next to each other, we look like an artist’s shading palette: Korvaan so dark, me so light, and Taris in between us. I find his skin beautiful, but he hates it. It acts as a reminder that he came from Nusk’s first wife. A Native Isaarian woman, like me.

It’s difficult to tell if Taris hates all native-born Isaarians on principle, or if he simply hates everyone. Were someone to ask me, I don’t think I could even guess as to his thoughts and feelings about his late mother, and I’ve known Taris all my life. It’s lucky for him he has Naomi and Korvaan, or else I’m sure he would have absolutely no one in the world who enjoys his company.

I’m certainly not partial.

Korvaan and Naomi, though: if not for Rian, I would happily die for them. The only thing I’ve to hold against them is that damned penchant for steeped beans.  

Korvaan has added things to the coffee. Cloves and cinnamon and honey, I smell, just barely conceal the acrid natural scent. Nusk used to say it was my sensitivity to smell that causes my dislike of coffee, but I’m more inclined to believe it’s a flaw in my genes. Defective taste buds. If only I could inject some form of caffeine directly into my bloodstream: then I could reap the benefits without the musty flavor.

“Soleil—you move better today,” Nusk notes. I’m hardly wriggling on the bench, here, but he can easily tell, even just through gesture, when I’m healing well. “Naomi has done good work…” he adds in a mutter, as if making a note to himself to praise her, later.

“She wants me to meet her,” I say, rotating my shoulder, feeling it out for myself. It truly has healed fast—thankfully. “She wants me in the infirmary, so she can take a good look at it with the proper materials.”

Traditionally, in Milash where each royal is protected by a Living Shield, or Khashtani, one’s khashak would obey their Khashtani’s every order, and never make suggestions, but that will hardly do, in our case. Naomi is too bossy when it comes to my health, and Taris too brittle. And I see them too much as my siblings to treat them the way Nusk had his khashak.

“Taris will take you,” Nusk reassures me. “When he goes to take her place with the young prince.”

Taris looks like he would rather be bitten by a black adler spider than go anywhere with me, but he won’t argue with his life giver any more than I would dare to.

In fact, he stands and hastily gulps down the last few swallows of coffee before placing the mug in the sink basin, for washing later.

“We’ll go now,” he says. Wanting to get rid of me as soon as possible, I’d wager.

Korvaan flashes their father a look, his eyes wide: as my khashak, they should be taking directions from my cues. And though Nusk trained me, I have a hold even on him now. They are meant to help me fulfill my life’s work, and protect Crown Prince Rian. Nothing more.

Nusk refrains from chiding his son this time, however. Lately, he’s wanted me to take charge of them more. I’m certainly old enough to have done so long ago. Unbeknownst to him, Taris and I have been participating in a passive-aggressive war for years, now, in which he does his job dutifully, though curtly and with a disrespectful tongue, and I work him until just before he’s ready to drop. Never more than that, for Rian’s sake, but I know there’s no point in trying to chide him, or lecture him, into obedience. Taris decided long ago he’d never respect me.

The two of us head out into the heat of a new summer day, Taris in his silver-trimmed guard’s uniform, me in my maid’s. The paths between the buildings on campus are covered, and surrounded by greenery, gardens, common spaces, and the like. Plenty of space for everyone here, from the very young entertaining their primary schooling, to our oldest scholars, researching philosophy, science, recording history and maintaining art.

This university has kept us well for years, and I feel what I can only assume is a pang of regret when I consider these are the last few week’s we’ll live here. When Comus Day arrives, Rian will go to the capital, and we will follow him, as he presents himself along with the rest of the crown princes and the princess, to see which of them is deserving of the throne. Our country needs its heir now more than ever, after all, and since it has been nearly twenty-five years since the Carsans family delivered their last prophecy, an heir will need to step forward regardless of Fate’s original intent.

Rian’s parents should have presented him to the Carsans when the Prophecy was first given. After all, I’m told Rian indicated his fluke young, and I know for a fact that he is the true heir to our country. But back then, there were whispers of traitors and assassins, and those who might try to kill Rian and usurp him, because of what that prophecy foretold.

So they kept him quiet and ordered Nusk as well to do so, until a time their son could rule and live safely. Rian does not remember Nusk at all, I should think, nor is he aware of me or my duties to him. But it is undoubtedly for the best.

Time will tell if I have made the right decision in wanting to keep Rian from the throne completely. He is meant to be waiting for a sign to step forward, or so his father told him. If I do not allow that to pass, Rian will never be crowned king.

But I will have him safe.

And one of the others can take up the position that otherwise would have been his.

There are currently seven crown princes, and one crown princess, from the eight different royal families of Isaaria. Any one of them aside from the crown prince of the Carsans family could be the fabled heir, so far as anyone in Isaaria knows. And as far as I  know, none of the royals are aware of Prince Rian’s identity as the true heir. Well, and I would assume Rian and his parents know. Or knew, since his parents both died last spring. Tragedy, but an accident, as far as I have been able to uncover.

The rest of the heirs, I’m sure, have all but convinced themselves that they still have a chance. Either they plan to lie and cheat, or they otherwise believe that the last prophecy for the heir was being highly metaphorical when it said the true heir was born in fire and would have control over air and time. Given their variety of flukes, it’s possible some of them truly believe that. Especially given the rumor that Rian’s fluke has something to do with sensing auras, and that it’s not particularly strong.

I’ve never seen Rian use his fluke myself but, then again, as I know that he is the Lost Heir with the power to control the passage of time, I suppose it’s possible he has used his fluke, and none of us have noticed.

Taris and I make our way to the lecture halls: large, dome-like buildings made of glass and muted sandstone, with many rooms available, and many windows, to let in the sunlight. We Isaarians do so love our sun and moon and, during the summer at least, it’s quite lovely to have the natural light whilst trapped indoors. We love our architecture equally, and have done our best to design them in the directions nature dictates. After all, those with flukes must stand in nature and feel the earth with their bare hands and feet under the sun or moon’s light in order to rejuvenate their abilities. It is only logical to erect our buildings and arrange our cities in a way that reflect these ancient yet highly relevant practices.

There are many times I have found Naomi standing in the morning sun, bare feet dug into the dirt, her arms outstretched to the sun, feeling its rising warmth. Likewise, I have seen others stand before the moon, and feel themselves connect to the energy that exists within all living things. For Nusk, as he no longer has use of his legs, the practice is of a different sort. Now and again, his sons take turns carrying him outside, and helping him stand in bare feet.

As  Korvaan, Taris, and I have no flukes of our own, none of us need participate in such a routine the way many inhabitants of our world do, but even so, I occasionally cannot help but allow the sun to glow on my face, and feel a rare peace.

There is no such peace to be found this morning, walking with Taris. His usual disposition of disdain and irritation grates on my own nerves, and we both know better than to try and engage in casual conversation. Such things usually only stoke the flames between us. Instead, I try to focus on my surroundings, meditating through observation, as Nusk has instructed me to since I was a child. As there is no hope in getting me to observe morning meditation and relaxation the way he would prefer, Nusk has attempted to adapt the practice, in hopes of helping me make the best decisions necessary for Rian and mykhashak both.

I am well-aware of my weaknesses, as I am a powerful, stubborn wood-type who can occasionally become hot-tempered and aggressive. Peace of mind is what Nusk subscribes to as a method of success, but I’m afraid most others likely come by such a thing much easier than I. 

I attempt to count the clicks of Taris’ heels on the cobblestone path, to keep my mind busy, but the futile nature of such a task easily frustrates me, and for some reason makes me even more vexed with him. It’s not as if he can help it: the boots are a part of his uniform, and all he’s doing is walking. But for some reason, even his footsteps sound condescending to me.

When Taris suddenly veers off our course to take the path towards the campus housing instead of to the lecture halls, it’s all I can do to keep my temper in check. I go with him, naturally, because I must know what he’s up to, but I won’t be happy about it.

“I thought you were taking me straight to Naomi,” I say. I attempt not to sound critical, but I tend to delve in one extreme or the other when it comes to separating my ‘plain and mousey maid’ act from my true nature: meek and childish, or critical and shrewd. Needless to say, I’m inclined to the latter.

“We left early. And she enjoys watching Rian’s classes with the children. No point in interrupting. Time for a detour,” Taris says.

I’ve mastered my face enough to keep from scowling, but I’m certain Taris can feel my displeasure with him. If he were more like his siblings, I could have ordered him to do as I wanted, and he would. More importantly, if he were Korvaan or Naomi, he would never have suggested a detour at all. But I have learned there’s no point in arguing with Taris.

He’s almost as stubborn as I am.

“Why a detour,” I ask with clenched teeth. I really need to stop doing that: I’ve already ground one of my incisors down so it no longer has a point.

“Because Crown Prince Mercer sent Rian a belated gift for his birthday yesterday and I volunteered to deliver it to Rian’s rooms, so I’d have a chance to look the package over first.”

I can’t be mad at him for that sort of prudence, but even so: he should have told me Rian’s best friend sent him a gift. I need to be aware of all this, too. Mercer’s in the west, now, traveling for personal enjoyment, and who knows what sort of odd thing he might have seen there and plucked up as a gift for Rian.

“I’m praying it’s completely safe and mundane?” I muse, digging.

It’s not that I expect Mercer of treachery, but last time he sent Rian a foreign gift, it was an Ishtaki sunblood dragon. Rian named the damn thing “Mango” and lets it sleep at the foot of his bed.

It caused me agonizing anxiety for the first few weeks of its presence.

“It’s a book,” Taris says. “Rian’s sort of interest. An old one, recently restored, with illustrated letters done by some prodigy Alarkian girl. Very pretty, completely safe. I left it with one of the laundry girls, to rewrap it as it was.”

“Did she ask any questions?”

“She won’t,” Taris says, so shortly, that I know he either threatened the girl, flirted with her, or is already sleeping with her. So long as it doesn’t interfere with our business, I don’t care.

“Where is it now?”

“She left it for me behind the statue of the Queen of Heaven,” Taris claims. “Rian will never know.”

“Mmm,” I say, but I’m pleased.

I know that, at this point, I should be able to trust Mercer, at least, as he’s honestly done his best to look after our absent-minded Rian, but I don’t want to trust any of the crown princes, or the crown princess. Even if some of them are Rian’s closest friends.

Though I want nothing more than to see this job done quickly and continue with today’s business, I force myself to keep Taris’ steady pace as he makes his way towards the servant’s wash rooms and the campus kitchens. The Queen of Heaven and King of Earth statues stand carved of stone by the entrance to the school gardens, not far from there, and I’m sure his aforementioned laundry maid had no trouble in slipping away for a few minutes to place the parcel there. In fact, this entire gift exchange between Mercer and Rian is so dull, I almost wish there was something suspicious about it, just so that I’d have something to occupy my mind if Naomi doesn’t clear me for my usual obligations soon.

It’s after Taris has retrieved the package, and as we’re making our way to the building where visiting nobility house their quarters (where Rian’s rooms are), that something even mildly exciting occurs. Taris has the gift tucked under his left arm, partially hidden by his cloak folded over it, which is natural, as this is how most guards wear their uniforms while strolling about, to keep from getting tangled up. As we head up around the staircase, encased by stone on both sides, I hear voices and footsteps approaching from above us, coming down the opposite side. I recognize the voices as two of the Crown Princes—Crispin Carsans, who is not in the running to be king anyway and is therefore essentially harmless, and Magnus Oram, whose own mother probably didn’t even trust him as a newborn.

Taris is to the left of me, in the middle of the staircase. I’m near the stone. As the princes approach from the opposite direction, winding towards us, I expect Taris to stop and press himself against the wall, bowing slightly until they pass. But he doesn’t.

I curse him, his stubborn pride, and whichever one of his parents gave it to him. I suspect his mother.

Just before the princes arrive, I force my way past Taris, turn, and shove him against the wall before nuzzling up against him, as if we’re a pair of lovers caught unawares. Almost immediately, I can feel him instinctually try to flinch away from me, but I hold fast. By the time the Crown Princes have arrived to pass by us, I know that had I not acted, Taris would have bumped shoulders with Magnus, and that would have ended poorly to say the least.

The princes’ conversation falls quiet as they see us. Crispin Carsans passes by without looking twice,as he cares very little about the affairs of those beneath him, neither disgusted by our false display, nor interested. But Magnus Oram seems to take it as a personal affront: how dare we allow ourselves to be seen as human, with our own complex lives and emotions, instead of simply servants. Members of the staff. Meant only to serve and have no thoughts of our own.

“As you were,” Crown Prince Magnus says haughtily, clearly looking down on us both with a contemptuous curl of his lip. He’s clearly irritated we did not bow, but I’m worried that Taris will do something brash if I let him go.

Magnus waits a beat, as if giving us a second chance to remedy this, then scoffs, rolls his eyes, and continues his conversation with Crispin Carsans as they descend the stairs.

We are so far beneath Magnus Oram, in his eyes, that I assume he would react with similar disgust to see a pair of dogs humping. We could walk past him a hundred times in a day, and remain completely invisible. Taris could be a member of Oram’s personal guard, and still, this particular crown prince would not be bothered to learn his name.

The moment they’re gone, Taris shoves me away from him.

“You’re impossible,” he mutters.

“You’re lucky,”  I snap, straightening my clothes again. I know Taris would have smacked right into the Crown Prince if possible, and he knows I’m aware of this. “Oram could have had you hanged for not showing him the respect he thinks he deserves.”

“The University wouldn’t let him,” Taris mutters gruffly.

“Do you really want to bet your life on that? Or Rian’s?”

He doesn’t answer, but continues up the stairs, clearly eager to be rid of me as soon as possible.

I observe him with a degree of shrewdness. “Do you not approve of Crown Prince Oram?” I ask, wondering why Taris had insisted on doing something so thoughtless in the first place.

“…No one should approve of men like him,” Taris grumbles, but offers me little else.

Magnus Oram may be rude and egocentric, but most of the Crown Princes are, so that’s not something that would usually warrant such a comment from Taris. Not on its own. I make note to delve into Magnus’ political career at some point, to see what has bothered Taris so. We may not be the best of friends, but we know how to do our duty to Rian; if Magnus Oram possesses any margin of ill will towards our crown prince, I must know.

Luckily for us, we don’t run into anyone else for Taris to insult. We deliver Rian’s package to his rooms, where his own bodyguards will unwrap it and check it over before allowing him anywhere near it, and head back out of these more fanciful quarters, before someone can ask what we’re doing or check to see that Taris, in fact, was not assigned the task of delivering the gift.

We’re careful so that we can get away with much, here, and in worst-case scenarios, Nusk will use his charmed tongue to our advantage, but even Nusk would be hard pressed to get us out of that sort of debacle.

Neither of us mention our run-in with two of the Crown Princes again, and I know that there is an unspoken agreement between us: we will not mention this to Nusk. Taris will continue to do his job, and me, mine.

 

WE WORDLESSLY HEAD TO the lecture halls once more, picking out the building I know Rian is housed in at this point of his schedule. Taris takes off his cloak and hides it in a nearby bush, to be retrieved shortly, and we take care to make sure no one is about, and that we act in such a way that, even if there was someone taking a morning stroll across campus, they would not spot us. Together, we climb carefully up the side of the building, our hands and feet having long since memorized the best paths to take. I’m not sure where Naomi is observing Rian from, but she knows where to look for me, and where I prefer to perch amongst the open ceiling scaffolding in this particular room. Taris waits until I slip in through a window near the top of the room, where decorative carvings on the inside make for excellent vantage points. Then, I assume, he climbs back down, his task completed in its entirety. He’ll wait until Naomi and I part ways with Rian, then take up the task of watching our Crown Prince, and keeping him safe while Naomi tends to my shoulder.

Normally, Nusk wouldn’t make one of his children escort me about: it’s pointless, and I can look after myself. But Naomi has been worried about my shoulder, and I suspect Nusk didn’t want to risk having me try scaling the buildings on my own, only to break my neck.

I’m relieved to part ways with Taris, as our clashing auras tend to make us both less than perfect at our jobs, and instead focus instead on hiding out until Rian’s lesson has ended, and I can find Naomi.

During the weekdays, Rian teaches children’s classes on behalf of the University, which houses students aged six to sixty. Rian spent his own years of learning here, instead of taking private tutors as one might expect, and loves this place like it’s his own home. He’s at least made the most of his education, I’ll give him that, but I’m not sure why he lingers here. Granted, at least he enjoys giving his lessons on history and literature. He is good with the children, too, I suppose, which I’d found surprising, at first. But that sort of congenial talent will do him good; I’d like to image fewer people will want to kill him so long as he gets the chance to open his mouth. And his surrounding himself with small children only adds to his innocently charming résumé.

 Today, it’s a history class at this early hour, and Rian is just winding down a lesson with his class on the roots of our own country, Isaaria. Or New Isaaria, as some call it. His teaching style, I’ll admit, is much more child-friendly than Nusk’s ever was, but I am probably more learned now than most of these children will ever grow to be. Not because of intellect per se, but due to necessity.

None of these children will become what I am, now. None of them need worry about their life’s purpose to act as a Living Shield for another.

Rian stands at the front of the classroom, so filled with energy that I can feel it from up on my perch. I find Naomi quickly enough, in a position similar to my own as she watches the class and Rian both. We’ll wait until the end of his lesson to meet up, and leave his caretaking to Taris. Naomi does find great enjoyment in listening in to Rian’s teaching, and I won’t begrudge her an extra few minutes, as the class is already coming to a close.

“Who wants to continue?” Rian is saying, and then supposedly changes his mind. “Or…A-ha—I’ll call randomly on you instead! Best hope you’ve studied…” he adds mischievously, and some of the children giggle because it’s easy for them to remember what Rian teaches. He phrases everything like a story.

I can see, on the board behind him, that he’s drawn a map in chalk: a decent likeness of Isaaria and the surrounding countries, with dotted lines marked across them. I instantly know what lesson he’s taught today, and almost wish I was there to hear it myself. I’m clearly not the only person who thinks so, as, in addition to myself and Naomi, I note that Rian has another audience member who is not here for lessons.

In the corner, in a spare desk, sits a woman with her head rested on a hand. She’s watching Rian, but is too far away for me to read what is in her eyes. It hardly matters; I already suspect what I’ll find there, and the rest of her appearance gives away her identity regardless of distance. Her hair is dark and reaches about her elbows, and her eyes are dark as well. Her smooth skin has brown freckles down the backs of her arms, and a smattering of them color her snub nose cheeks as well. Her full, plump smile is a pale pink, and her lashes naturally dark. Lady Asmer al’Yibna, the half-Isaarian half-Ishtak, “little flower of Isaaria”.

She has loved Rian since they were both children, and I know she watches him now with both admiration and dreaming in her eyes. Tuning back in, Rian has called on one of his students, who now stands and continues the story of how Old Isaaria fell and New Isaaria was birthed, from the religious refugees who fled invaders in hopes of creating new country for themselves. These meek but hearty travelers picked up others along the way, from the regions they passed through, and invited any who shared their faith to join in creating a new country of the one lost. Though this was many hundreds of years ago, it at least explains a little of why there is so much racial diversity in New Isaaria today, and why many citizens are of mixed heritage.

In the student’s storytelling now, the Old Isaarian refugees have just made a pact with travelers from Tourran and Kacha, who’d also left their own lands in search of a more peaceful place to call their own.

“And then…Lerri!” Rian calls on another student to continue the tale.

The children stand and sit accordingly, when giving their answers.

“And then they came together and decided to call the new country Isaaria, like the old Isaaria they lost!”

“And what do we Isaarian’s say, about our pasts? Of how we were each driven out of our old countries to form this new one?” Rian prompts. “Everyone?”

“‘Never forget, try to forgive’,” the children chorus. It’s just two simple words, but I’ve seen them bear their weight before.

“Exactly. And so, are we all Isaarians, Lerri?” Rian asks, challenging and prompting.

“Yes, sir,” the child answers proudly. “We are all Isaarians, all with different heritages depending on where our families originally came from. But we stand together against our enemies, and let people live peacefully, with or without flukes.”

“Very good,” Rian says, and it’s a sign for the child to sit. “And what do we call the people who are genetically from Old Isaaria? Mika?”

The child, Kachin in heritage like Rian himself, stands. “They’re Native Isaarians, but only so we can distinguish the difference,” she continues knowledgably. “Everyone is equal as new Isaarian citizens. They just…look different, because they came from somewhere else.”

“And sometimes that’s the way it is,” Rian goes on, motioning for her to sit down. He’ll speak, now that he’s realized the poor girl’s touched upon a much deeper topic. “Not all of us look the same…Even Mika and I look different, and we both have Kachin blood. Mika is Kachin and Native Isaarian, isn’t that right, Mika?” he clarifies, remembering from a project he gave the children in researching their own histories and heritages.

Mika nods, and Rian grins widely as he continues.

“And does anyone remember where my two family sides originally came from?” he asks mischievously.

His students compete heartily to be the ones called to answer.

“Kacha and Tourran!”

“Correct!” Rian says proudly, just before another child says: “Like Lord Aiko’s children!”, and mention of the Tourranese ambassador draws Rian off on a tangent.

He cannot help himself. He is a silly little scholar, easily excited by knowledge for its own sake, and greatly enjoys knowing he can share that knowledge with those thirstiest for it: our nation’s youth. He sits on his desk at the front of the room, before the board, clasping his hands together and crossing his ankles. The bell to end class has rung, but it was drowned out by the children’s answers, and I doubt Rian would have heard it, regardless.

He’s often too caught up in what he’s doing to bother with the University’s schedule, and his students often find themselves in similar situations. Naturally, because Rian is the institute’s darling, he can do no wrong, and his students are never marked late for the next classes, even if they’re a few minutes behind.

“Interesting you mention the Aiko family, Cyrus,” Rian says, nodding. “True: Lord Aiko married the Kachin princess, and therefore, their children all share a similar heritage as I do genetically speaking. But both Tourran and Kacha are very homogeneous countries on the whole. Now, does anyone know what homogeneous means?...Ayla?”

Ayla, Naomi and I both know, is one of Rian’s favorite students. She’s only eight, like her peers, but she’s taller than most of them, smart, and strives to excel at everything she does—likely because she’s one of the orphans the University houses, sponsored here by a charitable organization of the Church of the Holy Three. She looks nothing like Rian, with her long yellow hair and round eyes, but he tends to treat her like his daughter.

“In context, it means that there are not many, many different types of people, with all different types of looks. The opposite of how things are here.”

“Very good. And so, what country would you all say is the most heterogeneous?”  Rian poses, using Ayla’s helpful definition and context clues to let the children puzzle out the meaning of the word on their own. “Out of the entire world?”

“Isaaria!” some children suggest eagerly with childish patriotism.

Rian chuckles lightly. “We’re definitely up there, yes,” he agrees. “But consider countries with republics…Yes, Mika. You think you have it?”

“…Alarkia?” Mika poses uncertainly.

“The Republic of Alarkia, correct!” Rian says, and Mika is pleased to have answered, even if it as uncertainly.

“We are the third most diverse country in the world,” Rian continues. “Statistically speaking. Now, next week: we’ll talk about why you all think that is, and how our different backgrounds have all contributed to a culture that is clearly Isaarian, though we may not look the same.”

One of the students raises his hand, and gets a nod from Rian to speak. “Is that our homework, then, sir?”

“Mmm. Homework,” Rian muses, tapping his chin. “Well, since you’ve all clearly already done your reading, I suppose I’d simply like you to enjoy your day off tomorrow, and make note of anything in your lives that you think is a part of Isaarian culture. We’ll talk about it next week as a part of our discussion.”

He is at least trying to dismiss them only a few minutes late, but the children have questions for him, too, and don’t want to leave quite yet.

“Mr. Rian,” one of the children asks. He’s long ago asked them not to call him “crown prince” here. “Are you going to win Comus Day? And be king?”

“An excellent question,” Rian says, sitting back on his desk and lacing his fingers together. “What do you think?” he poses in turn to the class. “Should I be king?”

They all hastily talk over each other to answer, but amidst twenty-five students, the answer is a resounding, clear, “yes”. Every one of these children are routing for Rian, amongst the other Crown Princes and the Crown Princess, and hope that when Comus Day comes, it is him that they’ll hear crowned king over the radio.

I almost feel bad, knowing how let down they’ll be, but Rian cannot become king if I hope to keep him alive.

Rian laughs at the children’s endearing mirth; they do so love him, as he loves them. “Well, I suppose we’ll have to see,” he says.

There is something almost suspicious, to me, about how simply he says this. There is no shrewdness, no playfulness, no hint of knowing. And yet it is a matter of fact that Rian knows he is the Lost Heir. I have to be careful to remember that, fool as he may seem, he at least is a good actor.

Just as he’s about to dismiss them, Ayla raises her arm as high as she can stretch it, clearly begging to be called on, and Rian, curious, acquiesces.

“Mr. Rian: what if the Carsans’ prophecy is wrong?” she asks, rather innocently, but clearly still concerned. “What happens then?”

“Interesting…Very interesting,” Rian muses. He crosses his arms. “Well, the Carsans have never been wrong, Ayla. That’s why they have the position they do. Their family’s inherited fluke of prophecy allows us to properly pick the next heir of the country, if there’s to be a change from the current royal family.”

“But if they’re not wrong, why hasn’t the heir just stepped forward?” she points out. “Why do we have to have a Comus Day at all?”

Though I was previously anxious to meet with Naomi and get our business done quickly, I’m now intrigued to hear how Rian plans to answer. It’s true that every generation, the noble Carsan house’s eldest son inherits the fluke of prophecy, and foretells the next heir of the country. It has been this way since New Isaaria’s founding, and has kept our country prosperous and out of foreign wars. Granted, sometimes the prophecy simply allows the current ruling family to pass the torch father-to-eldest child, but not this past generation.

By nature of the prophecies, it’s usually rather obvious who the next heir should be. If not obvious, there’s always the Currian Council to help sort things out. And, if no heir steps forward claiming they fulfil the obligations, the current king continues to rule until they do. If, by some chance, the rightful heir does not step forward in the twenty-five years after the prophecy is given: Comus Day. Where the current crown princes or princesses attempt to either prove they fit the prophecies’ requirements, or that, regardless of the prophecy, they are the best suited to rule.

In hundreds of years, we’ve never once had a Comus Day.

The entire country has known for some time now that we’re about to have the first.

Rian clearly doesn’t have a proper answer for Ayla. Not that I blame him: he and I both know he’s the heir that was meant to step forward, and never did. He was only four when the prophecy was foretold, after all, so waiting a few years isn’t uncommon…But Rian’s parents were highly concerned for their son, given the nature of the prophecy, and the assassins that would surely be sent out after him.

They did not desire him to be king, and went to Nusk for help. They created a Khashtani for their son—me—and instructed Rian to keep himself hidden and secret. Rian’s obeyed them these near twenty-five years, and after his parent’s deaths, does not appear to want to rebel against their greatest wish for him.

This is good for me: it will hopefully make my job much easier, once another one of the crown princes takes the throne.

Still, Rian is not one to leave his class entirely disappointed.

“What makes you think the Carsans’ prophecy is wrong?” he asks. “After all, their reports have always been vague, never a word-for-world presentation of the entire prophecy. Perhaps, for some reason or another, we are simply meant to have a Comus Day, this time around.”

None of the class answers his questions, but now Lerri has taken up Ayla’s torch, determined to find some answers.

“But what if the wrong person becomes king?”

The class of twenty-five eight and nine-year-olds all stare at Rian anxiously, expecting an answer.

“Well…” he starts, and hesitates, I realize, because he doesn’t want to have to admit to them that he doesn’t know. I see his eyes flick towards Asmer, as if begging for her help but, obviously, she doesn’t know, either.

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--END OF EXCERPT--

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