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Part X
Afternoon of Somnus, Eighth Day of Autumnmoon
Józef led Bram through a tunnel that emerged from the side of a bluff, half a league east of Rungholt. He was joined by Konrad and a full squad of escorts—seven well-armed soldiers, two white wizards, and a couple of scouts. Konrad had refused to accept any fewer than these, and only after Józef had convinced him to be moderate. The young king had experience from many sojourns out of the country, and it taught him the benefit of traveling light.
The scouts went ahead to check for Angkorians lurking in the distance, but as soon as the area was cleared, he asked Bram to lead him to Géorg's sandskipper, which was nestled in a stone quarry further south.
Bram was greeted with wide smiles full of relief. As soon as the knight approached, a young girl who he later introduced as Uriana ran up to him, wrapping her arms around his waist. A man with one arm greeted him as well. He was introduced as Géorg Töller, whom it turned out had fought in the Kitezhian army when Józef's father reigned. He was visibly saddened to hear that Henrich Brandt had perished in the attack, but he welcomed Józef as the rightful heir.
Bram made his way to a woman who lay sleeping under some blankets in the bed of the sandskipper. She was the one he referred to as Rosa. Her face looked peaceful, even though she was supposedly infected with a magical toxin. Bram explained that the magic of the gray wizard Matthias kept it at bay until they found a cure—but there was no telling for how long. Józef asked his two white wizards to tend to her, and ensure that she was otherwise healthy.
With introductions over, he urged the group onward. He was anxious to be far from the Angkorian occupation on his city. Not just because he feared running into nearby patrols, but also because he was eager to reach Koba, and return to his kinsmen with reinforcements. Géorg started the engines of his sandskipper, and they were soon off. To help compensate for the heavy load, the white wizards used their magic to give the craft extra lift and maneuverability. Occasionally, someone sighted an airship in the distance, but Géorg was able to find cover behind nearby trees and rock formations.
Once they were far enough into the countryside, Józef led them to a small farm, where he knew of a place to rest and eat safely. In between fields of corn and potatoes was a small and inconspicuous white farmhouse. An older couple answered the door, understandably surprised to see the heir of Kitezh and his ragtag group. He explained the attack and death of his father, and the couple wept for the loss. They said that word had already traveled of Rungholt's attack, but the details were sparse. Józef quickly laid out their need for food and rest before their journey, and the man and woman were happy to accommodate.
"Sven and Marta are members of a family that has been loyal to us for generations," he explained to Bram and Géorg. "Sven's uncle worked at the palace until he passed away two summers ago, and Marta's sister knew my mother personally."
The Gnostic Knight felt it noteworthy to comment on the differences between Kitezhian and Angkorian rank. Apparently, few within Angkor's nobility socialized outside of their own class. Józef had no way to relate. In Kitezh, few looked down on working families, knowing how necessary they were to the livelihood of the nation.
"Please, make yourself at home," Sven offered. "We have a loft where you can rest."
"And how about you, child?" Marta asked, directing her question to Uriana. The young girl still clung to Bram's arm. "Are you hungry? I would be delighted to cook you something."
"No," she answered, burying her face in Gnostic armor.
Bram took her fondly by the shoulders, kneeling to speak to her at an equal level. "I think you should eat," he suggested. "You might not get another chance after we leave." Józef continued to be impressed with the knight's demeanor.
Marta stepped forward with a smile and held her hand out patiently. Uriana hesitated, but eventually allowed the matronly woman to lead her into the kitchen. Bram joined with Konrad and Géorg in a separate room to discuss the best route to the marshes, where they would search for Rosa's cure. Feeling drowsy, Józef headed to the loft to get some rest. The day's events had left him exhausted, both physically and emotionally.
He laid down on a small mattress, staring upward at the thatched ceiling. He thought about how futile it was to try to stop a kingdom so powerful that two powerful countries had failed to defeat them during the War. The display of optimism he had given earlier—the same façade he had showed all day—was waning fast. He merely thought it his responsibility to think positively. He was, after all, the heir of Kitezh—even though it was quickly becoming a burden too heavy to bear. As his mind wandered, his confidence sank.
"Everyone trusts in me," he mused as he drifted into sleep. "How would I live with myself if I let them down … like I did with Angela?"
With her name on his mind, his thoughts wandered to fond memories of a trip to Lake Derfriedlich in Kitezh's western province. He and Angela had been there just a week earlier. It was an incredibly peaceful bank overlooking a lake with an inexplicably placid surface, reflecting the surrounding mountains like a mirror. As a boy, he used to pretend that a passage to another world existed on the other side. He wrote a ballad about it, which he played on his lute. Angela lay by his side, still laughing at his joke from earlier. Golden sunshine cascaded off her delicate auburn curls.
Feeling the damp grass against his back, he relaxed to the sound of gossiping birds. It was late summer, when warm and pleasant air rolled into the glen. Tall and spindly pines textured the smoothly sloped valley walls. He watched the clouds as they curled in the shapes of exotic beasts, or so he liked to imagine. Angela announced their names as she found them.
"Cockatrice … minotaur … nymph …."
"That one looks like a viscar," he proclaimed, pointing upward. He wanted Angela to see it, too, but when he turned to face her, she was gone.
His smile faded. "I failed you," he admitted to the pantheon of puffy white beasts floating above him. The memory of her passing was still strongly imprinted on his mind. "I promised to protect you, but failed when you needed me most."
As his heart sank, the scenery shifted. Clouds rolled in, blocking out the sunlight and casting a dark veil over the valley. A light drizzle spoiled the lake's mirror surface.
"You trusted me, Angela, and look what happened. How can I be trusted to protect my kingdom, when I could not even save you?"
The vista drained of color, turning drab and gloomy. Fog rose from the surface of the lake, clawing upward in spidery tendrils.
"What will happen if I return from Koba too late? If Angkor discovers our Network, so many more will die because of me."
The grassy hills turned an ugly brown, and the lake's clear surface darkened with grime.
"I failed my father, and my country. I do not deserve to be king."
He was so consumed in self-pity that he never noticed the world transforming around him. With his head buried between his arms and knees, he wept bitterly. Had it not been for the icy chill that blew across his neck, causing the hairs to stand on edge, he would have still been engrossed in tears.
He looked up, and for the first time saw the morbid perversion of what had just been a beautiful portrait. In its place was a hideous cesspool, surrounded by banks of silt and mud. He was filled with such shock and dismay that he stood up without thinking. His soft shoes slipped on the slick surface, and he lost his balance. He tumbled down the hill, landing in the black boggy water.
His placed his hands in front to brace against the impact, but they sunk deep into the earthy substance at the bottom. He twisted in the icy cold water, struggling to stand upright. He brought his hands to his face and tried wiping away the filthy paste, but it only left muddy smears across his lips and cheeks. He spat out the fetid substance, gagging from the odious taste and slimy texture polluting his mouth. The harsh wind once again blew across his neck, raising goose bumps along his flesh. But this time it carried a faint voice.
"Józef …."
"Angela!" he screamed, instantly recognizing her sweet voice. But it sounded hollow and empty, just like the rest of the dusky fen.
At first he thought it was his imagination, but then he struggled to make his way back to the barren mound to get a better view. He worked his feet, but his shoes were stuck deep in the mud. He saw a figure in the distance. She was mostly obscured by the fog, but he was almost certain he recognized her.
"Angela!"
If the figure heard him, she merely stood there waiting, until a layer of white mist obscured her completely from view.
Leaving his shoes behind in the mud, he slipped out to follow the figure deeper into the oozy waters.
"Angela!" he cried, begging her to respond, wanting more than anything to feel her soft skin and hear her speak his name one last time.
Each step took him deeper into the murky sediment, but he failed to close the distance. Before long, he found himself chest-deep and unable to see the shore behind him. He turned around, disoriented, seeing only endless black sludge in all directions.
He stopped to gather his thoughts, now more worried about finding a way out, than about finding the figure who always stood at the edge of the fog, no matter how far he advanced.
"Józef!" a voice screeched. It was ghastly and wicked, the sound of a banshee.
"What are you?" he challenged in a wavering tone filled with fear and revilement.
"Doubt … regret … guilt … despair …."
"Why do you haunt me, spirit? Why do you lead me into these waters to torment me?"
"Inquire within, spoiled prince," the grisly voice responded. "You entered my embrace because it comforts you."
"You mock me?" he challenged. "I have no love for this twisted nightmare. I will awaken soon and continue my journey as before!"
The voice cackled with delight. "You—who called yourself a failure only moments ago—dare to continue your journey? You are delusional."
"I … I know what I said," he admitted. "It will be difficult, but I must still try!"
"Try all you want," the voice jeered. "It changes nothing."
Józef started to believe the voice. It told him what he knew in his heart was true. His father had failed to stand firm against Angkor, and his father had plenty of help. But he was neither as strong nor as experienced as the former king. He was a boy in regal robes, only pretending to have hope. Angkor had the power of the sunstones, and he was helpless to stand against it.
As he dwelled on his impending doom, he found himself sinking deeper into the water. The aqueous effluvia rose to his neck, its noxious vapors numbing his body. His head became airy, and his body felt as if inside the deadly embrace referred to by the ghastly voice. But he did not fight it. It felt, perhaps, that a watery grave might be preferable to facing the trials of the waking world. When the water reached his ears, he closed his eyes, ready and eager to be enveloped by it.
"Józef …."
No! He could no longer face the taunting voice! Better to sink into a watery grave and forget about the suffering that awaited him in the waking world.
"Józef, open your eyes," a far more pleasant voice called out.
He did, and saw an apparition floating above the water. It was Angela! He had sunk to the point where it was a struggle just to look at her. She wore a bright white robe that flowed in an unseen breeze. Her skin was fair and unmarked, and her face radiated beauty, like the goddess she truly was.
"Take my hand," she instructed.
Józef reached out with muddy fingers, trying to grasp her delicate transparent hands.
A bright light flashed as soon as he made contact, blinding him in a sea of white. By the time his eyes adjusted, he found himself on the shore of the lake, its pristine and mirror-like surface fully restored.
Angela floated by his side, her feet a short distance above the ground. Her body glowed with a white hue.
"You're a ghost?" he asked.
"I'm a memory," she responded.
"You saved me. Why?"
Angela's memory regarded him sadly. "You saved yourself, Józef. For a while, you thought it would be easier to give up. But at the last moment, you thought of me, and it gave you strength and hope."
A memory from Angkor's attack suddenly entered his mind. He wanted to forget the pain, but something important hung just at the edge of consciousness.
"I am sorry," he apologized, "but I do not deserve any kind of praise."
"Think back," she pleaded. "You must remember your promise."
In a rush, it all came flooding back. In the last moments with Angela in the garden room of the palace, there was an explosion. It knocked him against the wall. Dazed and disoriented, he stood up, unable to focus. She pushed him out of the way just before a stone column collapsed. Had it not been for her, he would not have made it out alive. He made a promise to himself that her sacrifice would not be in vain.
His head sank into his hands. Tears streamed from his eyes. "I owe you my life."
"My life is already over, my love," she answered. "You duty now is to your people. You must honor those who have placed their trust in you."
He shook his head. "I want to, I really do … but to win against Angkor? I am not my father, Angela. I do not know how!"
"Have you learned nothing?" she scolded. "You already possess all the necessary skills, through the tutors and lessons your father provided for you. It may be your first time applying the knowledge, but you must believe that you can follow your father's rule."
Indeed, Józef had been schooled by the best tutors in the nation, and given every opportunity to prepare for his duties. Ironically, it had meant so little at the time, but he needed those skills now more than ever. He truly was a spoiled prince, but it was finally time to grow up.
Angela seemed to sense his thoughts and she looked pleased. She approached and placed her hand along his cheek, smiling. "You are so dear to me, Józef. Ever since I met you, I knew you were a strong man with a good heart. That's why I can't bear to see you doubt."
"Angela …" he paused, trying to find the right words. "I know this is not real. This lake, the valley … it is something I conjured in my own mind. But you are different. I believe you came to help me, Angela. Please tell me that you will always be here when I need you."
The apparition smiled, and slowly returned to the shore of the lake. "I'm always with you, my love," she said as she swung slowly around to face him. "The best way to honor my memory is to follow your instincts. You must believe in yourself, even if we never see each other again in the flesh."
"Wait … please! I have not been the same since you left me." More tears streamed from his eyes. "I need to know that you will always be here for me, at our special place!"
"Farewell, Józef. Please don't cry for me. Remember what I said …."
Angela walked backwards along the surface of the lake, hovering slightly above the water's surface. As she reached the center, her body disappeared. The water was placid once again. Józef returned to his usual spot, where his lute was waiting for him. Cradling it in his arms, he played Angela's song, strumming each note lovingly until he was lulled into a deep sleep.
