City of the Wind
Kia Ixari
(Revised 2009 Feb)

VI.

The sky was endless and blue, a flock of birds and a bundle of clouds patches of white against it. He wanted to fly. Fly as high as a majestic eagle and see the land from up above. Sun against his back, wind under his wings, he would soar over the skies. Oh, if only, if only!

"Ne, Ryoma."

"Mm?"

"They are searching for us."

"Mm."

"Mother and auntie will be mad."

"Mm."

A sigh.

"Mm."

Life in the royal castle's West quarter was a curious mix of frantic tension and laid back comfort. For Crown Prince Keigo and Prince Ryoma, it was not hard to let days slip by, to lose whole afternoons lying on their backs in the grass, feet submerged at the edge of a tranquil pool or stream in the vast gardens, watching clouds gather and part above them in fluid, serpentine shapes.

Smart and magically gifted children they were, they often had no problems evading their governesses, who were subjected to a daily torturous game of hide and seek. They would run about, quick little legs carrying flailing bodies, weaving in and out of the hedgerow maze. And when the governesses — and the occasional maid or soldier asked to help out — were sufficiently lost, they would slip to their favored clearing and play.

Of course, playing outside was only allowed after their lessons — in the morning history, arithmetic, science, and literature. They were yet to be introduced to combat, given their six- and eight-year-old bodies were far too young to be strained, whereas they were already taking magic lessons to occupy their early afternoons.

Magic was a way of life for both of them, as it was for the rest of the kingdom. Neither needed teaching on how to command it. It was as natural as breathing, as innate as walking. Both took joy in their daily lessons, treating what normal Monastery trainees would label "advanced" as pastime play. A single day was never complete without the two of them lapsing into a noisy competition as to who was superior.

"Ne, Keigo."

"Mm?"

"Don't you think it'd be awesome if we could fly?"

"Mm."

"I wish I was born an eagle."

"Mm."

"Or a swallow."

"Mm."

"And you could be the Worm, my Prey."

"Mm."

Silence.

"Hah?!"

-

Ryoma clearly remembered his father. His father, the Echizen Prince. His father, the King's right hand. His father, the best and strongest mage ever to set foot upon the Kingdom. His father, his mentor, his model — the center of his universe.

Contrary to Keigo, who was his mother's little boy, Ryoma kept to his father's side. Stories of his insistence to accompany his father everywhere as a toddler were commonplace with the castle's serving hands. Before he had started his daily lessons, he kept his father company in the study, patiently rifling through books despite his inability to understand the complicated paragraphs. Just by sitting with his father, soaking in the warm, welcome presence, he was beyond content.

Nowadays the lessons prevented him from spending every single waking moment with his father, and his father's duties prevented them from having more time together in the late afternoons and the evenings. Therefore, Ryoma savored the select days when he was given the privilege to step out of the West quarters and into the main palace where his father stayed as per High Counsel's duty to the King. The West quarters were actually still within the same royal compound, separated only by a short stretch of woods, designed to keep the children safe, in private, and away from court. The Monasteries were near the West quarter, but they were never allowed near the tall, ominous towers.

Today was one of those special days when he was allowed to go to court. He leveled his eyes and held his head high as he walked alongside his ever-elegant mother. One day he knew he too would be walking these grand corridors and commanding the attention of those reverent people. But that day would come when it did, and for now, all he was concerned about was his father and the time they would be able to spend with each other.

"Make way for Her Royal Highness Princess Rinko and His Royal Highness Prince Ryoma!" cried the Lord Chamberlain, and the ranks of avid, envious people obediently parted to let him and his mother through. There appeared to be some sort of event — perhaps that was the reason why he was dressed so finely; he never really asked — but Ryoma could care less.

Upon seeing his father beside the King and Keigo, Ryoma half-grinned. He dropped to a bow as they neared the throne, and beside her his mother curtsied. The King welcomed them with a warm smile, descending from the dais with Nanjiroh and Keigo. After exchanging greetings with the King, his mother joined with his aunt, Keigo's mother, leaving him in the care of his father.

He reached up and took hold of his father's hand, safety and security settling his soul as the larger grip enveloped his smaller hand. The rest of the morning passed a blur, and his mind was full with the faces of people he was introduced to. He willed time to move faster, faster, faster! – so that it would soon be his time alone with his father. There really was nothing worse than waiting.

Careful to rein in his annoyance, though, he kept a tight smile on his face. His young mind understood that in front of people, he was supposed to be good — but he also understood that being good and keeping "pretenses" (Keigo's big word) was hard work. And it was a rule that hard work must be rewarded. As such, he persevered. The longer he held himself in check, the more right he had to demand extra time with his father.

However, his impatience soon became apparent through his facial expression and body language. Sensing his agitation, his father took his hand once more, and with a polite smile, excused the both of them. Ryoma crooned in glee. Finally!

"Are you hungry, little prince?" his father asked once they were out of the great hall. They were headed towards his father's private study; Ryoma knew this route by heart.

Ryoma nodded. "My feet hurt too."

"Well, we'll need to ask your governess to get you a pair of comfortable shoes." Nanjiroh asked one of the maids to bring them a light lunch with extra dessert for Ryoma in the adjoined sitting room. Ryoma sat beside his father on the couch. "How have you been, little prince? Are the studies treating you well?"

"The studies are interesting, but history is very long," Ryoma grumbled. "I was very bored."

"Ah. But you are enjoying your magic?"

Ryoma nodded eagerly. "Yesterday I made mother's old dead cherry blossom tree in the garden flower again!"

Grinning, Nanjiroh ruffled Ryoma's hair. He had received news about Ryoma's unbelievable accomplishment the night before, and was just as surprised as the rest of the Inner Court. The cherry blossom in the West quarter's private gardens was an old, cursed tree they were all wary to remove in fear of upsetting the earth magic — but Ryoma made it flower once more with a single touch, repelling whatever it was holding the healing earth magic away from the tree.

The child was strong, that much was certain.

"Next week, I will take you in a ride through the woods. I think you will like it, since you are attached to earth magic," declared Nanjiroh. A reward was fitting for his proud child.

"Can we take Keigo and Yuushi too?"

"If they are allowed to go, then yes," Nanjiroh acquiesced.

Satisfied, Ryoma nodded. His father never lied to him — not once. There was no need to doubt. His eyes wandered around the familiar room and came to rest upon a flute in one of the glass cabinets by the wall.

Nanjiroh followed Ryoma's gaze and stood to retrieve the flute. "Would you play for your father, little prince?" Ryoma looked up at his father in surprise. "You have been learning. Your mother told me you even made a song of your own." Nanjiroh handed him the flute. "Let me hear the song."

Ryoma received the flute, handling it with his small hands, gently, carefully. "It's very short. And it's not very good."

"Play, Ryoma."

The child hesitated, before lifting the flute to his lips. On no account was he to disobey his father, his mother told him. Disobedience would only earn him punishment, and punishment would mean seeing his father less. He did not want that.

He took a deep breath, and played.

The first notes were uncertain, wavering with his breath, but he willed himself, and gained confidence. The simple notes came, one by one, and soon the melody was flowing smoothly through his fingers. The light breeze, as if attracted by the sound, blew into the room, lifting the melody and carrying it with the wind. A single cherry blossom petal wandered through the open window, and swayed with the magic under the music's command.

Melancholy was the word his mother used when Ryoma first played for her the song. In reality, Ryoma had no idea of how he brought forth the simple melody — his fingers, he told his mother, simply moved on their own, much like how they were prone to do on the piano. Perhaps it was the magic, Ryoma mused. Magic, after all, was much unknown.

"A beautiful song," Nanjiroh grinned when Ryoma finished. Ryoma flushed in delight. "Do you have a name for it yet?"

"No…" Ryoma looked down at the flute. "Mother said it was 'melancholic'. What does that mean?"

"She is saying your song makes her feel a gentle sadness," Nanjiroh explained, knowing Ryoma would catch the gist. The child was sharp. "And I agree. Your song certainly does remind one of old memories. Maybe you should try transcribing the song on the piano. And when you finish the song, you can play it for me and your mother."

Ryoma nodded, giving his father a brilliant grin. He opened his mouth and was about to say something, when a maid bowed into the room.

"Your lunch is ready, sire."

Ryoma made to give the flute back to his father, but Nanjiroh placed the flute back in the small hands. "This is yours now, Ryoma. I'm giving it to you." Ryoma's eyes widened in pleasant surprise, making Nanjiroh grin. "Come on, little prince. We shouldn't make the food wait."

-

There followed five days filled mostly with feasting and merriment around the castle — and for Ryoma, it was time to spend with his father. Though the guests prevented Ryoma from keeping with his father all day long, he was unperturbed. His father woke him in the mornings, and they would break their fast together. Then they would go for a walk around the gardens, and after a while his father would leave him to his mother. And then his father would come back for lunch, with Keigo and Yuushi and the King and the Queen. The afternoons were again spent with his father, until late night when sleep overtook him and his father tucked him into bed.

But happy days were bound to end, and end they did. A distraught Ryoma bid his father goodbye, sulked through the short ride home, and promptly locked himself up in his chambers upon arrival at the West quarter. On top of having to leave his father, he was forced to leave without Keigo. The Crown Prince's presence was still needed in the Palace, a lively, festive place always bursting at the seams with people. The West quarter was just far too quiet in comparison.

The following days were filled with gloom, and though they smoothly reverted back to the old routine, somehow Ryoma felt something was not right. Even at age six, he was able to sense things by feeling the magic surrounding him—and right now, he did not like what he felt.

But no matter where he looked, everything seemed normal. The maids were laughing and cajoling; his governess was chatting amiably with the seamstress over tea and cookies; his mother was tending to the flowers… everything was normal.

Too normal.

Sighing, he returned to his music sheets and laid his hands over the keys. He was working hard to come up to his promise — he would transcribe the nameless flute song he had created onto the piano, and he would play it perfectly to his father. His music teacher was delighted upon seeing his incentive and offered to help — Ryoma rarely ever put more effort than necessary unless rewarded with something worthy and of equal value — but Ryoma refused, wanting to finish the piece of music on his own. It would be his gift to his father.

However, he was unable to concentrate. The magic surrounding him — it was heavy. Like air inside a sealed room. It felt unpleasant against his skin, and the occasional cold tingle made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. The trees rustled against the wind, restless, as if warning him of some impending thing — what, he did not know.

Over the next few dragging days, he could barely control his own magic like he was strictly trained to do, what with nature's insistent distractions. Yet he persevered, bearing through nature's omen. His mother, showing no signs of noticing such said omens despite having notable magical abilities herself, left for court a week after they had returned to attend a private banquet of the Queen. He had forced himself out of bed in order to give his mother a proper sendoff, but collapsed back in as soon as the carriage was out of sight.

For the rest of the week, he was miserable. He dreaded the headaches lasting into the weekends, until a blissful Saturday night four days after his mother's departure, when the weighing feeling settled upon his consciousness vanished into thin air.

Perplexed but nonetheless overjoyed, he slipped out of bed and decided to have a few minutes of fresh air. The servants, in fear of the Prince catching anything contagious in his weakened state, sealed off the entire room despite his aversion to closed quarters. He rather loved the gardens and the fresh breeze alive with magic.

Pushing the glass doors leading to the terrace that opened to his personal hedgerow garden, he grinned with delight. The moon, in all its crescent glory, provided little lighting, but with a few well-chosen words, the garden lit up with floating balls of multi-colored warm fire.

In his little paradise, he strolled, savoring the pure earth magic.

Until, of course, the magic alerted him of a presence behind his back.

"Who is it?" he turned and said.

A cloaked figure — Ryoma recognized the seal of the Monasteries — approached from within the darkness of the night, and knelt before him. "Your Royal Highness, I come bearing news from the Monastery and the Court."

"What is it?" Ryoma was apprehensive. Why was it so quiet? How did this man get into the quarters and past his governess, herself an accomplished mage?

"The Court, your Highness, is currently under siege. We have come to ensure your safety."

"Siege?" echoed Ryoma in incredulity. "Siege? B-But… my father?"

"His Royal Highness Prince Nanjiroh rode into battle a week ago, your Highness. Thereafter, Her Highness Princess Rinko followed in order to lend her healing abilities to those injured in the war," the cloaked messenger relayed. "Your Highness was not informed in order to prevent Your Highness' further involvement and possible subsequent endangerment."

"But how — the Palace… Keigo? The King and Queen? Where are they? Are they alright?" he drilled the messenger.

Said messenger shifted listlessly, before answering, "I am most regretful to inform Your Highness that His Majesty the King and Her Majesty the Queen have both been killed during Court's siege. Currently, the Monastery mages are pushing back the enemy front. His Majesty the Crown Prince remains alive and physically unharmed."

Ryoma opened his mouth, but could not bring forth the words he wanted to say. His father was at war? His mother too? Why didn't they tell him? He was never informed of any of this. And the King his uncle, the Queen his aunt — dead?

"We have also found the Kingdom's wards partly cracked and continuously weakening under the neighboring Empire's onslaught," the messenger continued as he remained silent. "Your Highness…" the messenger braced himself, and continued, "The Monasteries ask for your help."

Ryoma did not know much about the Kingdom's wards. He had yet to take lessons in advanced ward magic. All he knew was that the wards acted as shields and protected the Kingdom from massive magical attacks. "My help? But I don't know anything about the wards! I can't help them!"

The messenger shifted again. "Quite the contrary, Your Highness. If I may be so bold — you are yet unaware of a huge amount of latent magic you possess, being the strongest heir of the Echizen clan." As if catching himself, the messenger reverted to his formal address. "The Monastery simply asks Your Highness to provide enough magic to support and strengthen the wards against the Empire."

Ryoma, skeptical, remained silent.

Sensing his hesitancy, the messenger continued, "As soon as the wards' cracks are mended and it is reaffirmed, the burden of protecting the bordering cities will be lifted from the army's shoulders. They will be able to refocus their attention, and this war will end much faster. The sooner the war is finished, Your Highness, the sooner your parents return for you."

Ryoma's breath hitched. His emotions were a jumble. He was upset; they did not have to keep him the dark! He was afraid; what would happen now? He was worried; were his parents alright? He was confused; he knew nothing about what was happening beyond the West quarter's walls, being the child he was. However, the notion of the war ending early was certainly a welcome thought, and if he could do anything to pull that day closer, then he would — if only to see his mother and father again. "B-But… how do I do that? I don't know anything about ward magic!"

"There is no need for Your Highness to know," the messenger assured him in a deep, rolling voice. The cloaked head lifted, and Ryoma's eyes met sharp dark eyes glinting under the moon's shadow. "We only ask of Your Highness to remain within his rooms. We shall place a seal upon the room, a seal that will take a small part of Your Highness' magic to support the wards. However, Your Highness must not step outside the chambers."

Ryoma bit his lip. It certainly did not sound too difficult. Only… "Is it possible to include the gardens within the seal? I… I cannot stay within the chambers all day."

"Of course," the messenger smoothly answered. The messenger looked him in the eye. "Will Your Highness lend us a hand?"

A pause. Ryoma hesitated. Around him, agitated balls of rainbow fire shuddered and stuttered in the darkness, illuminating only patches of the garden, painting an eerie picture. The cloaked messenger's presence was muted, yet at the same time sharp. Should Ryoma trust this person?

But as he thought of his father going into war, and his mother toiling long hours in an infirmary tent, his heart clenched in pain. He could never leave this be!

He steeled his resolve.

"I will."

-

The rest of the night, he did not remember all too clearly. He did recall the messenger informing him that a cleansing ritual was in order before the seal could be placed and his magic could be borrowed. The following morning, he woke to find himself in a small modest bed that paled in comparison to his luxurious cushion-piled circular bed. He was inside a room with a single small window, a small desk that had several books atop it, and a plain door most probably leading to a bath chamber.

"Good morning, Your Highness." Ryoma turned to find the same cloaked messenger by the bigger door — the entrance — watching him attentively.

"G-Good morning."

"We will have to ask you to stay within this room until we finish preparing the ritual for your cleansing, Your Highness. It is imperative that you do not leave these quarters — these walls are made with Earthlust Stone, and effectively block your presence from anyone outside. As long as you stay within the room, the Empire's assassins will be unable to find you. The longer you stay, the easier the cleansing will be, as well, for the stones keep your magic in and condense it."

"I understand." Ryoma nodded, resolute. He forced his voice not to waver, not to reflect his uncertainty. It would not do to show weakness – he was of high station, and things were expected of someone his caliber. So his father always said.

From then on, Ryoma stayed within the room. Day after day passed. He was not certain how much time it was since he was made to stay, only that he knew it had to be at least a week, maybe even two. He tired more easily, and slept more too — his days and nights were now wonderfully confused. Perhaps it was the dense magic in the air that made his eyes want to droop faster, made his breathing go deeper. Yes, perhaps that was it.

He often dreamed, for he was longer in sleep than in waking. He dreamed most of his father and the time they spent together reading, playing chess, or riding. He dreamed too of his mother, who would always teach archery, or the proper ways to tend to a garden. He dreamed of Keigo and their daily lessons and bantering, their games of hide and seek, their little abandoned clearing. During the short time he spent in waking, he wondered if Keigo ever wondered where he was.

After countless days spent reading books in between long, deep naps, the cloaked messenger finally came back. He dressed quickly and arranged himself, following after the messenger through the darkened hallways, out through a garden pathway, and into the woods. They broke through the short stretch and emerged near the West quarters, a familiar, calming place. The breath of fresh air was invigorating to Ryoma, and the earth's essence melded deeper with his magic.

They silently walked through the quarter's empty hallways, passing eerily silent rooms and empty gardens. Perhaps the serving hands were temporarily dismissed for their own safety? He had yet to see his governess since that night.

Soon, the messenger ushered Ryoma into his personal chambers, neat and immaculate. The bookshelves were freshly dusted, the bed sheets recently changed. The glass doors leading to the gardens were closed, and over them were heavy draperies blocking out the light.

He was instructed to stay inside the room and not to leave until the messenger came back, and as usual, he obeyed. Obedience was a virtue, his mother told him.

His mother. His father. What were they doing now, he wondered?

He sat idly on the divan, looking around his lonely, empty room. If it was a normal day, around this time would be lunch. Right after lunch, he and Keigo would let their bellies settle before lapsing into their afternoon magic lessons. His mother would be watching over them with expert eyes, and the old mage who was their teacher would be giving them explicit instructions on what to d —

"Aaargh!" he cried out.

The pain.

He doubled over, breaking out in sweat within less than a minute. His head throbbed, his muscles burned. His eyes burst in a rainbow of lights. He could no longer find his voice, could no longer call for help.

White-hot, burning, knifing pain.

Constricting, binding, suffocating — cannot breathe —

What is this?!

Faintly, very faintly, he could hear faint chanting in his ears. Words — he could not comprehend them, words spoken in the powerful ancient language. Chanting. A spell. A rite. Where they were coming from, he could not even be bothered with — he was already far too occupied with the pain, oh the pain--!

Stop! Stop it!

Darkness.

-

Light.

Firelight. Ryoma slowly opened his eyes. A dream… a dream of old stories and faded memories. Where were they now, he wondered? What were they doing? Did they still remember the little prince, their playmate, a boy named Ryoma? Keigo and Yuushi… the only two remaining of what was once his family. Torn apart by the Great War, rent to shreds by the Monasteries' sinister plots.

Closing his eyes once more, he remained still upon his bed. The room's inherent earth magic provided him much-needed comfort. Betrayed by the Monasteries' mages, trapped inside the darkness for ten years. At the beginning, the pain of the magic being torn away from him was so overwhelmingly unbearable it rendered him incapable of coherent thought. The only remaining sign of his sanity in the never-ending darkness he was cocooned within was his dreams.

After a while, however, he had started remembering. The garden, the cloaked messenger, the siege, the King's death, the Great War. How much of it was true? How well should he trust the words of the unknown messenger who served in the dark towers of the Monastery? He had puzzled, and puzzled. Time passed. How long it was, he hadn't the faintest idea. Ten years was an estimate he came up with upon awakening, for in the infinite darkness, there was nothing but himself and his thoughts. His dreams were his sanctuary, within which he could retreat and relive precious old memories, as fleeting and hazy as they were at times.

In the darkness, he had longed. He had longed for the bright sun, for the free wind. He had longed to feel damp grass under his feet, the way he loved it after a refreshing spring rain. He had longed for the thunder of the clouds during a storm, for the cold of the lashing rain against his face. He had longed to feel, to see, to smell, to taste, to hear, to live. He had longed, oh, how he had longed!

But longing only made it more painful. There had been a constant tug at his magic, draining, pulling. Painful. His body was just barely able to keep replenishing, to keep providing enough. He had hoped against hope that his magic did indeed go to the Kingdom's wards, fervently so. The thought, whenever it crossed his mind, had steeled him during the darkest of times.

Even now, as he lay in his warm bed, he could not help but wonder why no one came for him. Surely someone noticed the lack of his presence? For years and years, while he was cramped within the darkness, he felt no one approach the West quarters. He felt not a single soul step within the old house. Was he forgotten? Had it beenthat long ago? Surely not! Surely someone remembered…

But if Keigo had remembered, then surely he would have returned. Ryoma knew, just knew deep in his heart, that Keigo would never, ever betray him. Nanjiroh and Rinko — Ryoma knew, though his heart refused to accept it, that the possibility of their death by the hands of Empire was high. But Keigo was the Crown Prince — no, the King. Surely he would be kept inside the Kingdom for his own safety… unless the King, Keigo's father, had not died?

No. No, that cannot be.

If Keigo's father was alive, he would have been rescued much earlier.

Unless they do not know I am trapped.

Ryoma sighed. He did not know the extent of the Monasteries' power, which only meant they could be as weak as worms, or as powerful as the gods themselves. He was, however, certain that they had done something. Altered memories, perhaps. Or produced an illusion.

He had waited for Tezuka to reveal something — anything — regarding his meeting with the King. He wanted to know, he needed to know — was there still a place for him out there? His parents—he forced his tears back, screwing his eyes shut. His parents were no longer among the living.

But in the end 'Mitsu did not tell me a single thing.

He turned his head and his eyes fell upon his grand piano, sheets still open and scattered upon it. He would never be able to make true his promise to his father anymore.

He sighed, and was about to rise, when he was blanketed by a sudden darkness.

A vision?

The familiar contradictory sensation of dropping out of his own consciousness and being aware of it washed over his being. After a moment of darkness, cold touched his bare feet. He glanced down. Flagstone floor. He lifted his eyes, and in front of him was a dimly lit passageway.

The vision was guiding him, he realized, as his feet moved towards the brighter light. The cold stung his skin, his bare feet lightly padding without noise. He neared the end of the passageway, touched the wall with a cold palm, and peered around the corner.

It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the witchlight's bright glare, and a few more thundering heartbeats to comprehend the scene unfolding before his very eyes.

But when his comprehension finally caught up with his vision, his stomach dropped to his feet.

He screamed.

"'MITSU!!"