Chapter One
It seems like it's a common thing for people to pick a place and declare, determinedly, "I'll go there someday." Currently, the place most people are referring to when they say this is Madahn'dre.
Madahn'dre is a city webbed with canals and pierced by domed buildings of sculpted metal, colored glass and semi-precious stone. It's a wealthy city, populated by charitable merchants and honorable thieves, ordinary folk who work hard enough to understand the finer points and little enough to enjoy them. In the center of this city of stone, metal and glass, a palace rises out of the ground like a thorn. It is the home of the royal family and few privileged nobles, and is reverently known as the High Place.
The Place was built by King Markus III nearly five hundred years before. The official reason for its construction is no doubt buried beneath tax records and trade certificates in the main library, but there is a legend that the people are very fond of, that the King commissioned the build out of love for his foreign Queen. The High Place is made of smoky glass bricks and great stones of pink marble, with doors of oil-slick obsidian and hallways and corridors with jade tile floors and bands of gold running the length of the walls.
It is summertime when this story takes place, and summertime in Madahn'dre is indeed a wonderful thing. The sun is up more often than the moon, and the light is strong. The air is sticky, thick and heavy with the scent of flowers and baked sweets and sweat, and the people's clothes stick to their bodies like serpent's skin. A fair takes place annually to see off the last days of the season, called the Festival of Light. Inns and motels are filling more and more each day with travelers ready to celebrate with the rest of the people, and a certain excitement is becoming noticeable in the atmosphere.
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Prince Hisoka wasn't really one for the season. He had allergies; flowers made him sneeze. His pale skin would sooner turn purple than tan- he burned like rice paper over fire. And the baked goods, well…too much sugar. He really didn't appreciate sweets. He sat, staring moodily out of an open window with his head in his hand, rolling a golden ball the size of orange along the ledge.
"Oh- there you are. Master Hisoka, you're late for your history lesson."
Hisoka didn't look at the speaker. "It's too hot for history." He answered monotonously.
The servant, one of higher standing, pushed his glasses further up his nose. "It's only going to get hotter." He replied, his own voice flat and unsympathetic.
"Mmgh."
"Perhaps we could arrange a bribe?"
Hisoka cocked a brow, interested despite himself. "…A bribe? What do you have in mind?"
"You're currently going over the Markuinese War of Tyara, with Master Yuo,"
"Yes."
"A field trip, then." Tatsumi fingered his glasses again. "To the Tyara wishing well, where the War began."
"The Great War of Fire." Hisoka muttered. His fingers idly rubbed over his bottom lip, his expression thoughtful, the golden ball still beneath his palm. He turned away from the window. His green eyes sparked with a kind of feeling the servant knew many of his people would not believe he possessed. While it was true that the King's only son was a cantankerous thing, crabby at the best of times and sarcastic to a fault, there was good in him. One only had to endure his company for long enough to see it.
Unfortunately, this was a bit too much to ask of most.
"I think I could be talked into it…" He mumbled. He passed the ball nervously from hand to hand. "When would we leave?"
Tatsumi allowed himself a small smile. "Tomorrow morning. Would you prefer to go by horseback or carriage?"
The prince wrinkled his nose. "Horseback. The wishing well isn't so far from us, and a gallop's wind will feel good in this heat."
"Very well sir." He backed out of the room with a bow. "I shall begin making the arrangements. Do not forget that your father wishes your company tonight for the evening meal."
"…right."
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He was interested in history, no matter what Yuo Tatiko said behind the safety of stone walls. The state of the Place's second library was a testament to the fact, its books piled carefully on the floor around stuffed armchairs and on top of tables. Under the tables, even, in a precise order understood only by the prince himself. It had been a long time since a servant had put any of those books back on the shelves- no one ever visited the library to care if they were where they belonged, and Hisoka only took them down again anyway.
Then there was that golden ball of his, that toy. Watari, the resident alchemist had temporarily become a gold-smith as a hobby years before, the small bauble being his one success. And even then, to call it a mediocre piece was being excessively polite. Tatsumi hadn't bothered with that, of course; he'd told the crazy wizard exactly what he thought of it when he first found it shoved beneath his nose. A piece of junk.
But despite the fact that it wasn't perfectly round, or that its surface was pitted and dimpled, the prince had happily received it from the dejected man. In five years, the small globe of precious metal had rarely been seen away from the boy's hands.
Tatsumi and the alchemist had theorized about it before, about why their prince carried the thing like a security blanket. Watari had suggested that it was his worry-stone, and the manservant had found this an acceptable presumption, having none better of his own to offer. The little prince did have a great deal to worry about.
Like his father the King, and the constant risk that the unstable monarch would someday tire of his son and name another as his heir, as he'd threatened to do so many times in the past. Really, the boy was a bit disagreeable at times, but he didn't deserve such obvious dislike. What's more, the King didn't trust him. Not a bit. As said, he was dangerously unsound, paranoid, cruel, quick with his rulings and merciless in his decisions. It was only because day-to-day happenings were handled by honest officials that the city continued to run smoothly.
If, the King did decide to force Hisoka to give up his claim, Tatsumi mused, the Queen certainly wouldn't raise a hand to stop him. A useless woman, she was; a stain on the history of a city as famous for its outspoken Queens as its aesthetic beauty. She was a foreign woman of high standing from a tropical land far to the south, and was considered a perfect bride by the King's, and her people's standards. She did not speak unless spoken to; she did not challenge her husband's authority. She did not raise her voice, her hand; she didn't even raise her head.
The King loved her.
Tatsumi wondered if she held any thought worth the effort of speech. A mean thought, one that Watari would surely scold him for, but he did truly pity the woman.
The manservant sighed as he left the kitchens after telling the cook to prepare a lunch for the following day. Dear, dear, the High Place was a tangle of conflict, wasn't it?
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The King insisted on using the largest and grandest of the dining rooms that night, as apposed to the smaller, more suitable family room. The floor of the First Dining Room was made of shiny, cool black title that pleasantly reflected the clear light from the enormous chandelier overhead. Burgundy and crimson striped drapes stamped with royal crest hung in the corners of the great room, and over the doorways that led to the kitchens and servant's stair. People of note came and went through two tall doors made of opaque glass. It took two men-at-arms to heave them open.
The King himself sat at the head of the table, directly opposite of the doors. The Queen was at his left, the Prince at his right.
Hisoka found the conversation decidedly lacking.
The meal, composed of a full five courses, was as grand as the room, and as inappropriate. The first dish was a bowl of fruit cuts in a sticky, cloying sauce that burned Hisoka's mouth. He tried to ease the discomfort with of gulp of wine, but nearly choked on the sugary tang of buklesweed.
Sweet, he thought, scowling hatefully at the crystal stemware, the food, at everything. Too sweet.
The second course was a slab of dark bread, with berries and cubes of chocolate baked into it. It was heavy, rich, and difficult to swallow.
And, again. Sweet.
The King's voice droned on in the background, occasionally spiking drastically in pitch for a few words before returning to its usual mumbling tone. Leaning over his third-course bowl of hartlend burr soup, muttering and picking apart of a piece of hard bread, he appeared much older and weaker than he actually was. The ninety-fifth Madahn'drein King was a strong man, with the heart of a horse and eyes like a falcon's.
Hisoka's mother sat at his left, sipping meekly from her soup, eyes downcast. Occasionally she would pause in between spoonfuls and utter a feeble sound of acknowledgement, or agreement that always seemed to go unheard. She wore a beautiful, midnight dark dress stitched sporadically with silver beads. The effect was the stunning, almost hypnotic illusion of stars in a night sky.
The young Prince was miserable in the drafty First Dining Room. Hisoka had anticipated the family room- or, more specifically, the great round fireplace that occupied the center of it. The thin clothing he wore wasn't meant to fend off the cold, and, had he been more adequately informed, he would've chosen differently.
What's more, Hisoka sulked, stirring his soup gloomily. My stomach's already nibbling at my spleen; one gurgle and father will find a new fault in me. I can hear it now. He'll sit up and say something like, 'Starving yourself, boy? There are quicker ways to die.'
Bah.
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Tatsumi stood, ever vigilant, behind one of the carnelian drapes, his teeth on edge, arms crossed over his front and eyes aching from prolonged strain. He didn't notice the alchemist at his elbow until he leaned forward to nudge the curtain further aside. Watari gave a low whistle.
"Family dinner, eh?"
The manservant grunted.
"King's being awfully quiet…" He made a considering noise, pulling back his hand with a sigh. "Poor kid."
"He'll be all right, in the end."
"In the end, you say, but His Highness is a young man." Watari observed sorrowfully. "I don't doubt the boy's strength, but he's lucky to have lasted this long."
Tatsumi's chest rose and fell with a heavy breath. His eyes flickered closed for a brief moment, watering from relief.
"Are you planning to go with us tomorrow?" He asked tiredly.
Watari blinked, looking up at the slightly taller man. "Tomorrow? Where are you going?"
I've been sitting on this story for awhile, I wanted to finish it before I put it out, but it's almost done, and I'm excited so I'm jumping the gun :D
Review? What do you think?
-Oceans