"The first true parley in Hyrulean history took place between the ancient lords of the Houses of Ordon, and has remained tradition ever since. Most certainly in the southern latitudes, but one can see this custom manifested in the meeting between King Gustaf II and the Clan of the White Bird during the Third Gerudo War, as well as Queen Zelda VII's negotiations with the southern commanders in the midst of the Ordish Fire. Of course, in the case of the Great Houses, nothing was said that could have prevented the conflict between them, but it was considered dishonorable to fight an enemy whose face you'd never seen."
Lady Ronia of the House of Faron, "The Battle and the Barter."
It did not surprise Link to learn that Zelda knew what had happened to him.
While he was rushing through the halls of the castle, propelled by the uncontrollable energy of the triforce, she felt a ripple in her hand, she felt the subtle movement of the power that lay inside her.
She must've, because the next day, after Link had spent an entire sleepless night attempting Garona's methods of repressing the power that threatened to burst him open, she came to him.
"You did it."
Link did not realize he had been half-asleep, eyes open, until her voice jolted him upright. It took him a moment to recollect where he was and what he had been doing, until Garona's diary slipped from his lap and fell to the floor.
Zelda stood in the doorway of the old Queen's library, still in her nightgown, hair disheveled, feet bare. Somehow, either through Sheikah wiles or through the power of her own magic, she had evaded her nursemaids and traversed the castle unseen. Her face was pale, her eyes ringed with fatigue—Link realized that this past night she must've had as difficult a time sleeping as he had.
When she stepped into the room, her triforce stirred in her hand. His fluttered in response, the proximity to its sibling forcing the golden light to the scarred white skin of his palm. He clenched his fist, burying it back down inside him, using what little he had gleaned from Garona's teachings to keep the power from burning through his skin.
"You did it," Zee said again, a hint of a smile crossing her face. Her hand shook as mercilessly as his own, dripping light.
"I did," he said. "I can't exactly explain how, but I did."
Zelda nodded, almost knowingly. She may have been the only one out of all of them who had the slightest bit of understanding of what sort of mysterious strings were being pulled behind their backs.
When Link had tried (and likely failed) to tell the story of Wolf and the realm of silence to the others, even Palo admitted he had no idea how a ghost could abduct a living man into a purely spiritual domain. Talm had immediately discounted the whole thing as a hallucination, and preferred to assume Link had stumbled upon the triforce in a closet somewhere (it was for the best—her mind was already occupied with so many other tasks, and trying to parse through the metaphysics of the gods was not part of her job. Her job was to announce loudly, and publicly, that the missing fragment of the triforce was in their possession—"Great for morale," she'd said, winking).
"Come here and see, Zee." Link slipped off the Queen's chair and slid to the floor, opening his arms for Zelda. She pattered forward, falling into his lap as she used to in Kakariko, grasping at his left hand and examining its glow.
"Are you in pain?" she asked.
"I'm not sure if it's pain," Link told her. "It's discomfort. I've felt… trapped. Confined. All I want to do is climb the castle walls and rush out into the fields. It's such a strange feeling."
She glanced up at him. "I feel trapped, too."
"I know." He rocked her for a moment, telling his triforce to settle down, to leave his muscles and allow his arms to move slowly, gently.
"I cannot do what I am supposed to," Zelda continued. "There is such chaos outside, there is so much that has to be done, so much to prepare for. And I am trapped inside myself, trying to control my own thoughts."
"You're fighting two battles at once," he told her. He took a deep breath, attempting to channel the calm spirit of the old Queen. "It's best to focus only on one at a time."
He outstretched his hand and pushed the light of his triforce through it, tingling, burning, blinding. He closed his fist, commanding the power to retreat to his elbow. It was stubborn, filling him with a searing energy that threatened to tear back down his arm, but he breathed, he flexed his hand, and slowly he managed to repress it. Garona's words flashed through his mind as if he were reading them anew, and he followed her instructions as closely as he could.
A curious frown passed over Zelda's face as she watched the light move past his elbow, to his shoulder, then his chest. "How did you…"
When he could breathe again, he silently thanked Garona for her dedication to her diaries, for cataloguing her hardships, her hopes, and her practical methods of coexisting with an artifact she knew could destroy her.
"I've had some help," Link said. "From someone who held the triforce before either of us. She wrote of sharing her body with it, granting it space when she needed to and forcing it deep inside her when she needed to." He lowered his arm, chest tight. "It will be a part of you so long as you hold it, but it can be… stored away, so to speak. It doesn't have to be at the forefront of your mind at every moment."
Zelda scooted from him, raising her eager eyes. "Show me," she said.
"Take this position. That's what Mandrag Garona used to do when things got too tough for her."
"Garona?" Zelda asked. "From the portrait?"
"Yes, the Queen who came before you. She had a difficult life. But when she panicked, or when she thought she was losing control of her mind, she would make herself think of the triforce as a fluid inside her. She imagined a white light, pooling at her fingertips—like this." He showed her with his hand, barely loosening his hold on the glow—even that sent a hot energy swirling around the room, forcing him into a trembling sweat. He could not even begin to imagine how Zee felt now, storing that much energy in such a tiny body. Or how she had felt when she summoned its full power in the palace raid.
Zelda mirrored his motions. She lifted her open palm and a look of deep concentration crossed her features. Her fingertips glowed, her arm twitched, and suddenly Link could feel an explosion on the edge of eruption.
"Wait, Zee!" He gripped her hand and closed it. "Wait… don't release it. You'll bring down the whole tower."
"I'm sorry," she said, distraught.
"Just spread your fingers and feel it. Don't do anything with it."
"I don't know if it'll listen to me."
"Here. Close your eyes." The little princess followed his instructions, and Link tried his best to explain to her what he had read in Garona's diary. "Think of your stomach, deep in here." He touched the base of her sternum, where her ribs met, beneath the too-ornate ruffles of her nightgown. "With every breath, let the light flow up from your hand. No, deep breaths. Deeper. Every time you breathe, it moves, very slowly. From your fingertips, to your palm, to your wrist." He watched her carefully, eyes following the light as it faded from her outstretched hand. "It's flowing along with your blood now. Feel it, it's at your elbow."
Zee gasped. "I lost it. I lost my hold."
"That's fine, Zee," Link said. "That's okay. I'm not very practiced, either. Let's do it again, together."
She closed her eyes and took a breath, shoulders rising and falling, as he tried to guide both their powers away from their minds, down their spines and into the stable, strong, safe depths of their bodies.
"Try it again," he said. "From your wrist, to your elbow. To your shoulder."
Her face twitched, but she seemed to hold on, grasping the triforce with every bit of of her fragile strength.
"It's at your collarbone now," Link said. "It's going slowly through your lungs, dripping like water through a sponge. Now it's in your gut. Keep it there. Every time you breathe, every time your stomach balloons out—that's the triforce in there. Harmless, controlled."
She hiccuped, eyes still closed, and Link allowed himself to believe it was almost a chuckle. "This is weird," she said. "Can you see it in there? Is my stomach glowing?"
Link laughed. "It's not, but the power is definitely stuck in there. And it will be until you let it go." Of course, he had no idea if it was true (for either of them), but he certainly hoped so. At least now he felt a little calmer, a little less like throwing himself through the tower window and uprooting every tree in the garden. "Let it rest in there. When you feel like it might be crawling back out, when you feel like your thoughts aren't your own anymore, close your eyes and push the triforce down into your core. It's the strongest part of you. Apparently."
Zee smiled. When she opened her eyes, he saw a small light in them—she was not her former self, she was not the little girl from Kakariko, but she seemed a step closer. "How did Garona teach you this?"
He tousled her still-short hair. "She kept a diary. A very long one, very detailed."
Zelda thought for a moment. "Why?"
"Why?" Link shrugged. "I suppose she was lonely. She had no one else to talk to. Which is a shame. She had a lot to say, and she was eloquent."
"What does that mean?"
"It means she was quite good at writing down her thoughts."
Zee slumped a little, frowning. Her face went blank for a moment, and Link worried that the triforce had made its way back into her mind, that it erased her thoughts and replaced them with its own. Then she blinked, and gazed at him with big, familiar eyes. When she opened her mouth, it was most definitely Zee's voice, with her childlike intonation and her insistent, forceful timbre.
"Do you think I should keep a diary?"
In all official capacity, the Schism War has ended. I can breathe again, I can sleep soundly again, for the first time in nearly five years. The Hyrulean Crown and its people regret to see Eldin and Ordona secede, but that is what is best—at least for the moment. I can only pray those bridges will be rebuilt one day, and that Hyrule will again see unity.
I signed the terms of Ordish and Eldine independence because my father would not. Even now, after all these lost battles, after the bloody skirmishes and miles of burnt fields, he insists the only thing to do is march and retake them. He is confident that my triforce can achieve what his had in the past, that mine can bring down towers and shake the earth beneath my enemies. He does not accept that my magic is of a different sort.
My ministers are appeasing him at the moment, reassuring him of our plans to retaliate, to seek revenge against the provinces when given the opportune moment. Those men are obsequious and masterful flatterers, brilliant equivocators—under normal circumstances I would not count these as desirable traits, but right now they are all that stand between Ganond and declaring another war. We are lucky the Mandrag is too old to march, that his body is too frail to handle the surges of power of the triforce, or else he would have already tried to retake the lost provinces on his own. And the fools in his army would've followed.
As it is, I leave my father to the ministers. They will never convince him that it is right to grant autonomy to Eldin and Ordona, but they will hold him back until I appoint ambassadors and build ties between our newest neighbors.
I have only just returned from the signing of the treaty. I spoke at length with the self-titled High Prince of Ordona, as well as the newly elected Minister of Eldin, and we had come to an agreement, composing a rather reasonable document of compromise. I will not bore myself by reproducing the contents of that treatise here, but let it be said it was much easier to sign than to write. The Ordish are very fond of formal language and do not hesitate to throw it around at every opportunity, and the Eldine are barely literate in matters of state—it was certainly one of the more interesting parleys I've attended. If it weren't my responsibility to attenuate their rage, I would say I rather enjoyed watching the Minister and High Prince go at each other. In all honesty I did not expect a highborn Ordishman capable of such colorful language.
Despite the arguments, misunderstandings, and the inevitable disputes that will no doubt arise in the lowlands between Ordona and Eldin in the near future, the drafting and signing of the treaty was a resounding success. Both provinces—excuse me, nations—have unified under this cause. It is almost a blessing to see every sect come together under a single banner—especially the eternally warring Houses of Ordon. It was a wonder to see the Goron Patriarch, the Minister of Eldoran, the Knights of the Hylian Order and every minor lord in between gather together at the table. Even the Sheikah Elder attended as a representative of his people, and he hasn't been seen outside of Kakariko in nearly twenty years.
It seems a new age is rising in Hyrule, and among its neighbors. I pray to all the gods it is a better era than the last.
The walls of the city shone under the stars, glinting with cannons like jewels atop a giant ring. The crescent moon glided across the sky, and the black shadows of the towers cut across the jagged roofs of neighborhoods like hands on a clock. The King knew he should be under those shadows now, he should be marching through the gates of his city, alit with glory and celebratory lanterns. He should be in his own bed by the end of the hour, with his wife at his side. All his soldiers should be returning into the arms of their lovers, they should be in the taverns and restaurants, around fires and tables, safe at home with their children.
The stableboy and his rebellion had deprived them of that right. He held their city hostage, held knives to the throats of every soldier's family, poisoned their homecoming with the threat of fire and blade. The King's men itched to march, chomped at the bit like their horses to go home. But there was one thing left to do before then.
"Do you have your hand on them?" Barudi asked.
Ganondorf glanced at her—she must've seen his meditation, his face raised to the sky in motionless concentration, and assumed he was attempting to take hold of the servants.
"I have heard that Ganond's mothers knew an incantation which allowed them to see through the slaves' eyes," she said. "Perhaps you should try."
He clenched his fist, trying to wring the magic through it, but it was met with a hard, immovable resistance, as if he were trying to claw his way through steel. "Do you know that incantation?" he muttered.
"I do not."
"Pity."
Ganondorf slipped back out from his thoughts, marched to his tent and pulled back the flap. He stepped into darkness, but his triforce lit the way, pulsating with an anxious energy. He wished he could dismiss its unease as a mere response to the promise of bloodshed, or a reaction to whatever foul Sheikah magic was relieving his servants of their marks. But he could not lie to himself. As the hours crawled on, he was more and more sure that all three fragments of the gods' power were here, in his kingdom, mere miles from one another. The true form of the triforce was within reach.
It was both an incalculable risk and a priceless opportunity. He had to plan carefully, he had to test those waters.
He lit a candle and retrieved a quill and ink. He stretched out a roll of parchment and thought for a moment. "Barudi, will you call for my general?"
"Yes, my love." She leaned out the tent flap and passed the command to a passerby, then sank onto a pillow beside him. Her eyes followed the feather of his quill almost suspiciously as he began to write.
His words were trite, practiced. He had written such words on the eve of every battle, as tradition dictated. Terms of surrender, vague threats gilded with the formal language of law. It would be a boring document, excepting its addendum, addressed to the boy who did the impossible, who managed to find the piece of the ancient artifact that had been missing for over a century, dead and buried with its last wielder.
After a few minutes, he sighed. His triforce still stirred in him, flickering as he repressed it. "Do you think the gods enjoy this, Barudi?"
"Enjoy what, my King?"
"This world. War. The cycle of violence and reconciliation." He dotted the last sentence with an authoritative period and signed his name. "Granting us their power, and using it to pit us against one another. Do you think this is merely a game to them?"
The Queen thought in silence for a moment. "The three goddesses of gold are quiet beasts," she said, eventually. "They are secretive and unwilling to divulge their intentions, even when asked. Their wills are not for us to know."
"Bitches," Ganondorf breathed.
There was no fighting fate, he supposed. The King could not escape it, Link could not escape it. Certainly the little girl could not, that tiny usurper who fancied herself a princess.
He wondered what cruelties her power had visited upon her. What he learned of the Triforce of Wisdom he had learned from his grandmother, and she had never spoken at length about it. She had mentioned her suffering only in passing. When he had known her, she had worn its power as comfortably as her crown. It seemed to fit her, triforce molding into her, or her into it, until they were indistinguishable. Elgra and Ganondorf could not say they had ever manipulated theirs as skillfully, even though it was attuned to their blood.
But Garona had been wise, mature, ready to assume the burden when it came to her. This girl, the tiny child Barudi saw in her visions, was not older than four or five—Ganondorf could not even begin to guess the effects it would have on a child so young. Were it not for the steady pulsations in his hand, he would've assumed merely touching the thing would've destroyed her.
"They don't even know the extent of their own cruelty," he said, mostly to himself. "Forcing her to take on that burden." He folded his parchment and carefully sealed it with his wax sigil. "It cannot continue."
"You could end this swiftly, my love," Barudi said. She crossed her legs and her little fox stepped into her lap, yawning, drawing back its near-translucent ears. "We could end this together. We could send a river of blood to wash away the city. We could turn the ground beneath it to fire and molten rock. We could destroy it completely, with your magic and mine."
"And sacrifice thousands of our own men to do it," Ganondorf sighed. He supposed it wasn't much different than sending hordes of his soldiers into the blades of their enemies, for the same goal. He stopped himself from thinking too hard on it. "I hope it is not necessary in the end. That is our home. My mother's home, my grandmother's and Ganond's. I would prefer not to burn my whole palace just to smoke out a few rats."
"Understood, my King."
"It should be easy enough to tear down the city walls," he muttered. "And perhaps I will not require more than that."
"Sire, your general has arrived," came the demure voice of a servant. A young man leaned into the tent, nodded his head, and stepped aside for a glinting suit of armor.
An instinctive part of the King almost allowed himself to believe it was Haema that stepped into the tent. The clinking silver armor, the looming shadow, eager to please, was almost the same. But the suit removed its helmet, revealing Buliara's face, and Ganondorf's head reminded his heart that his oldest friend was dead, removed from the world by the stableboy's hand, if word was to be believed.
"Sire," Buliara bowed deeply.
"General." The King stood. "Arrange a party of your fastest riders and adorn them in neutral colors. Give them a messenger's banner and have them deliver this to the city gates."
"Yes, my King," she said. She took the folded paper from his hands, turning it over in hers for a moment, as if she hoped to see through the envelope and read the message inside. She had been through this ritual before, no doubt, in some minor battle or another, but she left the tent with all the ceremony of a newly assigned pageboy.
"What is it you wrote, my love?" Barudi asked, when the general had gone.
"An ultimatum," Ganondorf replied. "The conditions of truce are absurd, of course. I do not expect either of us shall agree to anything. But it is necessary."
He shook his head, daring himself to smile. War in Hyrule is brutal, but at least it is courteous, his grandmother once told him.
"I must see the stableboy. Before I burn my home I must see if he has truly acquired the Triforce of Courage. It is impossible, but I have seen many impossible things these past few years."
Barudi sat silently for a few seconds. "And if he has?"
"Then we must move forward with care. But our strategy does not change. We will still lay siege to our own city, we will reclaim our castle. We will find every last one of those rebels and slaughter them. And we will put that poor usurper girl out of her misery."
My father says he is disappointed in me.
He does not say so because he thinks I am a poor ruler. He knows how well I have kept the peace, he knows how well I can manage local politics and factions within our own city. He even seems to have come to terms with the outcome of the Schism War. Of course, like many others, he would rather see Eldin and Ordona subjugated than independent, but that is a discussion for another time. What really seems to matter to my father is not the current state of the Crown, nor the state of the country. He has concerns only for the continuation of his bloodline. He has been complaining of nothing in the past month but my failure to marry and breed.
It is unfortunate that he is still Mandrag. Even though I function as steward to Hyrule, he still has the power to command me, to marry me to whomever he wishes. I consider it a miracle that I have convinced him to let me choose my own husband, but he is getting impatient. I have procrastinated too long. I have quite a few childbearing years ahead of me, but I will not stay young forever. And the Mandrag will force me to give him a grandchild before he dies.
Yesterday he paraded a dozen young men before me (more than one of them, I am sure, was there against his will). All were as Gerudo as male Gerudo could get, and most were dressed in warriors' garb, their faces hard with cruelty or blank with indifference. The Mandrag has spent the past three months selecting them from the choicest specimens, and demanded that I approve of one by the end of the fortnight.
"Each is as good as the next," my father said, sweeping his gnarled hands over the line of young men. His grin disgusted me. "I have been assured that they are all sufficiently fertile."
I do not believe I blushed at that. I did, however, at what he said next.
"If you do not manage to bear a child within the next year," he told me, "I swear to all the gods I will put one in you myself."
The nerve of the old bastard! I know all those men must've spoken Gerudo, all of them heard that heinous threat. Gods, we were within earshot of half the council—to humiliate me like that, especially in front of my potential spouse, I could not stand. I stormed out of the hall. I swore to myself I could not marry any of them. I simply could not. If they had harbored any respect for me, it was lost the moment my father opened his mouth.
Now, as I write, my anger has calmed. I've decided to send my handmaiden to pick out a husband for me. Surely she is a better judge of character than my father, and she will not betray me to some brute of a soldier, or some sycophant who only wishes to crawl closer to the Crown.
"Bring me someone gentle," I told her. "Reasonable, kind, and preferably uninterested in women." My greatest hope is that she will find a man who will endure only as many nights with me as it takes to conceive a child. Perhaps she will even find a man with whom I get along, a trustworthy friend, a lifelong companion—but this is wishing for too much.
Ganond, of course, will demand that my spouse be some kind of war hero, that he be strong, with an exacting, cruel mind. But these details can easily be fabricated. I will forge for my future husband an impeccable military record, I will give him a few victories in the Schism War, I will soak his hands in false blood. Ideally, my father will not look too carefully into his history, and the Dragmire family will have an acceptable stud to sire its offspring.
It is such a heartless thing. I do not wish to use a man like this, but the Mandrag has given me little choice.
It is not as if I do not want a child. I am not afraid of birth, I am not afraid of parenthood. In fact, I would delight in having a babe to call my own. But I fear… if I am to write truthfully, as I always do in this book, I fear that some drop of my father's blood will pass through me, drip from my womb and infect my child like some fell disease. I fear that my baby will look too much like him, that I will see not myself but only my father in the life I create. I fear that he will perpetuate himself through me, and there will be nothing I can do to stop it, because I will never be able to do anything but love my child, dearly and unconditionally.
I am not him, and I tell myself over and over that my children will not be him. But he is the most powerful force in my life, as unstoppable as a sandstorm. He will never yield, he will never change. It is the very nature of him, and natures are passed down in the bloodline.
The war room was abuzz, chaotic. Talm moved swiftly from underling to underling, giving commands, absorbing information, assessing and recalculating the positions and subdivisions of their patchwork army. A curled strip of parchment dangled from her arm, on which she wrote plans, questions, and to-dos. With nothing but a pen and paper she organized the entire palace's stores of food and weaponry, internal disputes, battle strategies, and, of course, the steady output of its copious propaganda.
It was almost insane, the way her mind could split into parts and perform tasks simultaneously. It was with a jaded sort of admiration that Palo watched her wheel across the room, juggling the complaints and suggestions of commanders, writers, illustrators, strategists, and her sister.
"There are hooligans running about with Sheikah face-paint on," Impa was saying.
"Good," Talm replied. "They're showing support for our cause."
"I don't think they are."
A pair of newspapermen extended a gargantuan pictograph for Talm to see—Zee and her retainers, unsmiling, unmoving, dead-looking, in Palo's opinion. "Print more of these," Talm commanded. "I want one in every pub by nightfall—and make it even bigger." The man nodded and retreated, and Talm wheeled around. "Ignore the kids and their paint, Impa. I don't think they're saying anything with it. It's meaningless."
"That's what gets me," Impa sighed. "Our tattoos have meaning."
"Are they robbing anyone?" Talm asked. "We've had problems with overeager looters—battle hasn't even started and they're already circling like vultures."
"Not that I've heard."
"Then take it as a compliment, I guess." A man with a pictobox approached Talm, leaning in to speak to her in a low voice. "Of course I want that shoot! And I want another one of the Verdant Knight, with his triforce and his sword. Get him in traditional garb so he really looks like an old Faronian hero."
"But I'm not Faronian," Link said. Then, quieter: "I think."
"That doesn't matter!" Talm said, shoving away the newspaperman and swiveling in her chair. "It works for the narrative, so we're using it. Oh, and Aelina—get someone to tell the man at the gate to either join us or hole himself in a tavern."
"What man?" Aelina asked.
Talm looked through her parchment, briefly, for details. "Yeah, he's the one from this morning. The one who's dressed in green and claiming to be the real hero. He won't leave the square and keeps shouting he wants to challenge the Verdant Knight for the gods' golden power."
"He can have it," Link muttered. "Maybe he can pose for my pictographs for me."
Palo chuckled. Ever since he'd been blessed by the gods, the poor man couldn't keep still. He'd grabbed the triforce like grabbing a sandworm by its tail, and constantly fought with it—Palo could see the way he writhed, shifting from foot to foot, tapping his fingers against his thighs constantly, spelling a rhythm of restlessness. It had been a monumental task to get him to pose for the camera—the last attempt at a pictograph left him blurred, with an angry, almost constipated look on his face (Talm thought it was perfect).
No wonder the old hero's spirit was eager to pass that power along. Ghosts were keyed up enough as it was—being trapped in the clutches of such raw energy must be hell. Or close to it.
Palo supposed it was all for the better. Link would need that kind of vigor when he fought the King, when he tested his golden power against its sibling.
A cold presence asserted itself behind Palo, and he suppressed a shiver when a whisper reached his ear. "Nothing appears to be amiss at the enemy camp," Agahnim said. "No signs of any surprises."
Palo was unsure whether or not to believe him. The deadseer had commanded Agahnim to make himself useful, so he had tried his hand at the ghostly art of espionage, but Palo was less than enthusiastic about his loyalties. He knew the necromancer was not particularly invested in their survival—after all, if Palo died, the two of them would again occupy the same plane (for eternity—what a harrowing thought). But Agahnim's information so far had proved correct—he had helped them find a weakness in the palace wall, he had helped Palo keep Haema's ghost at bay so Link could follow the trail of a shyer spirit. At the very least his guile had proven useful.
"Though," Agahnim continued, unbidden, "you will receive something of a surprise soon. I think Viscen is coming up the stairs with it now."
"Is he?" Palo asked.
"Is he what?" Sheim's harsh voice intersected the space between Palo and Agahnim, and was quickly followed by the elder himself. Kasheik at his side, Sheim had managed to sneak through the busy room unnoticed and perch at the periphery. "Are you talking to phantoms?"
Palo figured equivocation wasn't worth it. "Yeah."
"And they're listening to you?"
"Just one in particular." He crossed his arms and gave the elder his most innocent smile. "So if you need any favors, let me know. I'll see what my ghost can do."
Sheim narrowed his eyes. "I hope you are not attempting to bend the dead to your will."
"Hah! I learned that lesson in Ordona. I'd rather join the dead than give them orders." He hoped the elder did not hear the hesitancy in his voice. Kasheik must've—he made an ancient sign against evil and temptation, intertwining his fingers and invoking spirits who had long since passed from the world. It almost hurt Palo to see the gesture. "So…" he started again. "Have you two found the substitutes to make your dye?"
The elder still did not seem pleased, but he appeared willing to change the subject. "Yes, we have. The red is almost the same as at home, the blue is a little too dark, but all Kasheik needs is a touch-up. So far we have no concrete plans for the ceremony, but—"
"Madam Talm."
Just as predicted, Viscen arrived in the doorway, parchment in hand. The room quieted, and all eyes turned to the captain.
"We have just received a message from the Mandrag," he said solemnly.
"Ah, so it begins," Talm smiled.
"Burn it," Impa said. "No doubt it's some ridiculous demand for our surrender."
"Of course it is," her sister answered, wheeling herself toward the captain. "Have we sent him ours?"
"Yes, Madam," Viscen said. He handed over the parchment. "The first bit is pretty standard. Conditions of truce, declaration of his victory, et cetera. But there is an interesting passage after it."
Talm's eyes darted across the paper, then rose. They settled on Link. "Well, that makes sense."
"What?" Link asked.
"Our King wants to speak to the Verdant Knight."
"Unsurprising," Impa growled. "He wants to lure him out into the field so he can kill him outright. Send a message back, refuse to meet him."
Link reached out and took the paper from Talm, brow furrowed. His blue eyes drifted across the words, steadily, slowly. He was a good reader—Impa had taught him well—but he would never be a fast reader.
Palo watched Link's lips shape the words of the King's message, and leaned back to whisper to Agahnim: "Trap?"
"Likely," Sheim muttered.
"No," the ghost replied. "As far as I have overheard, it is simply a formality. He did the same before he marched on Bruton and Ordon City."
"I'll go," said Link, folding the paper.
"Are you insane?" Impa shook her head. "You're just giving him an opportunity to get to you before the battle even begins."
Link frowned, folding the parchment and returning it to Viscen. "Then come with me, Impa," he said. "You and Nabru and the rest. You'll keep me safe, and Zee will cast protections on me." He turned to each of them, smiling faintly, his face an unbreakable mask of surety. Palo knew the kid wasn't going to take no for an answer. He could recognize that look, the grim determination against the others' better judgment.
"We'll agree to nothing," Impa said. "It will be pointless."
"So it will be," Link answered. His hand twitched, and Palo knew the triforce itched to clash with its counterpart—it was a force so potent even the magic-illiterate in the room could sense it. "But I want to talk to him, one last time, before I kill him. We both deserve that much."
Ganond is dead.
I have not allowed myself to prepare for this day. I am shaken. Somehow, my unconscious spirit had presumed the triforce would sustain him forever, lend him strength until the end of time. I do not know why. He is not a rova, he has no means by which he may live eternally. I have watched him grow old, I have watched him go from foot to cane to bed, I watched his last breath. But I cannot believe it. I cannot believe he is dead.
Ganond is dead. Ganond is dead!
Gods help me, I am overjoyed!
What sort of fool allows herself to grin at the funeral of her own father? Who laughs and runs her fingers through her hair like an excited child? Who fumbles her words while she says rites over his body, while she speaks of his achievements, his legacy?
Not Mandrag Garona Naboor edhshin-Arbosa Dragmire, Queen of Hyrule, Defender of the Sacred Provinces. Not this Queen, because a good Queen does not grin at a funeral. She may simper, just a bit, when the ministers are not looking. She may slide her hand over the coffin and play with the floral arrangements, but she does not allow anyone to take notice.
Today was a glorious day, but a trying day. My father's triforce was difficult to handle, it was nearly impossible to pull from his body once he left the world—gods, he clutched onto it as tightly in death as he did in life. But I managed to calm it, to extract it from him, to reassemble the pieces as they slid from him and latched onto me.
It was such an odd feeling. The thing seemed to seek me out, it seemed as if it were trying to invade me, trying to oust the other triforce that already resided in me. It is natural, I suppose, for the Triforce of Power to seek its chosen blood. But I kept the thing at bay, I kept it distant from my heart, even as it raged, naked, seeking its kin. I did not think I could do it, at first, but when I closed my hands around it and released it onto the pedestal to await its next wielder, the room breathed a collective sigh of relief.
I am strong. I am not a woman who winces at the spiteful power Ganond left behind. I have subdued his triforce, I have anointed his body, I have performed the rites at his funeral perfectly, singing the songs of our homeland to guide him to the mouth of Molgera (would that she spit him out again, straight into the black waters of hell).
The service itself was a beautiful affair. I played my part spectacularly, and even Elgra stepped up to sing a farewell song in his honor. There were no scandals, no assassination attempts, no wayward citizenry come to send off their King with violence or vulgarity. It was uneventful—I daresay somewhat cheery. I know many were only pretending grief, and when others' backs were turned they smiled and sighed as much as I did.
I have never felt lighter. I can breathe deeply. I will sleep soundly.
Ganond is dead! I will repeat it to myself as much as it takes for me to believe it. He is dead, and I am Mandrag.
I am freed. So is Elgra—freed from Ganond's cruelty, from the evil thoughts he is always trying to instill in her impressionable mind. And my husband, my poor husband, whom I shall release from his duties posthaste, and allow him to return to whatever life he led before Ganond forced us to marry. We are all free.
I have my own will, my own power. I have ministers and generals who are loyal to me, who will obey me either because they loved and feared my father, or because they are merely grateful to have someone other than him rule in his stead. I have historians and secretaries at my side, I have ambassadors and advisers whom I dare to call my friends. I have a daughter I love very much, who excels in swordsmanship rather than witchcraft (thank the gods!). I have my scepter, I have my crown, and I have a country to rule. I have everything.
What shall I do with this newfound abundance, this freedom? I think the first order of business is to rip down that statue of my father in the gardens—no, that is too bold. Perhaps I should commission a portrait of Elgra and myself, or arrange a journey to visit my friends the Zora at their Domain, where we can bathe in the clear water and cleanse ourselves of Ganond's lingering aura. Oh, I must fire my father's torturer, that is certain, and I have more than a few political prisoners to release. I can finally take to bed that lovely plainswoman, the priestess of the White Bird, the one I have written on extensively in previous entries. Neither my father nor propriety can stop me. The best anyone can do is hide it from the world—oh, I shall enjoy it to see the stuffy historians scramble to rewrite my life! I have already watched them try to repaint Nadiba's disappearance as a fell kidnapping rather than an elopement, and they have only half-succeeded. I still hear stories and songs of her undying love for a peasant boy (and, unlike my father, I will not cut out the tongues of the bards who sing them).
I cannot help but wonder what songs they will sing about me, which stories of my life will survive and which will not. I do not expect anyone shall ever truly know my tale, I do not expect anyone will look through the hundreds of books in my library and choose to read these little hidden tomes, untitled and nondescript. But if one does, if one so happens to open this book and read these words, I greet you.
I do not know what the world is like when you read this, but know this: the day I write this entry is a turning point in Hyrulean history. This is the day when this country abandons tyranny and embraces peace. It will be a long, difficult journey, but mark my words, citizen: so long as I rule, and so long as my descendants honor my memory, Hyrule will never again succumb to war.
Hey all! Just checkin' in, hope everyone's all right. Quarantine is a great excuse to stay in and write, but I'm hoping everyone is staying safe out there. Wash your hands, stay home if you're sick, and try not to cough directly into each others' mouths. That would not be a great idea.
