—adonai of ieshan—
T
he House's retainers have begun the irritating business of minding my health.
At first, I am a little touched. I spend most of the early morning entertaining their various concerns with solemn nods, until the sun limps into the throne of high noon, and my patience gives way to something sharper. They tell me it is unwise to go to the Peak alone, which I take to mean they wish me not to go at all.
For a moment I forget that I am now their king. The student's docility is ingrained in me, you see. Everyone admits to at least one great weakness suffered in their lives and this is mine: I cannot look disapproval in the face. It is a stunning weakness yet I often convince myself that I have slain it, until some passing comment is made by an unrelated tongue and my ability to think it into conspiracy astonishes me.
A palace maid curtsies into the hostile room. I am standing by an open window, a row of robed officials held back by the table—and the letter, wax seal blood-red—between us. Draped over her shoulder is a bolt of watery white silk, sent in by the tailor for a fitting; I'd requested it last night yet had forgotten this by the morning. In any case, the timing is impeccable.
By the time the retainers are let back into the room to renew their case, I am a phoenix sailing low over the blue waters of the Oasis.
§
Andras knew me as a prince, as Pilate's eldest brother. His ascension from Deluminian Warden to King had cheered me, and the letter of congratulations I'd sent over by nightfall had—hopefully—conveyed my feelings well.
Terrastella's newest queen I recall in scattered pieces of memory. A heart pressed into her brow; eyes like sky in summer; a bedside manner markedly rosier than Ruth's. In truth, though, I remember not nearly enough about her visit except for the nagging notion that I had let something slip—or that, in the way some healers seem to be able to see straight into the heart, that Elena had glimpsed something—unsavory.
(The end of my tail snags on the boughs of a pine as I descend to black cliffs and moss; I pull it free but a few flames escape, dancing for bright seconds before extinguishing into a curl of smoke. It seems I am not yet powerful enough to be much of a danger—truthfully, I don't think I know how to be one.)
And finally, as one Solterran hymn goes: Denocte is the mistress to watch. Except for the matter of Ira's age, which had made Solterran headlines by the morning edition, I know only that he had come from—nothing. Nothing of note, anyway; the report had been disarmingly short.
If my siblings have taught me anything, however, it is that tenderness of age rarely says anything about anyone.
§
I change back in a shaded clearing, beneath the needles of a towering redwood. There is a faint smell of burning that always clings to my skin for hours after each transformation; I pick a few sprigs of pine and rub them along my neck, yet in the end they do nothing but sting. I give it up after my breaths settle into an even rhythm.
The bright head of Solis is the first to greet me when I step into the ring of waiting sovereigns. I stare back, unblinking, a whispered blessing paid out before passing.
"I apologize if I kept everyone waiting. I am Adonai." From Andras to Elena to the one who must be Ira, I offer each a bow, before tugging quietly at the lyre strapped at my side. I'd forgotten I'd brought it along; under moonlight, it is struck silver.
I take my place besides Delumine, bending towards him to whisper, "That is a very nice coat, King Andras," before turning back towards Dusk and Night.
and the night smells like snow. walking home for a moment you almost believe you could start again.
@
BRIGHT SPLASH OF BLOOD ON THE FLOOR. ASTONISHING RED.
(All that brightness inside me?)
(All that brightness inside me?)
♦︎♔♦︎
