Song of Isonei

An Unseen Hand Short Story

BY NARCISSE NAVARRE

City of Reyza

Brindi, Fourth of Sund'im, 444 A'A'diel

At dusk, the young poet Irilio descended from his family's forlorn villa perched high in the hills of Gavalene and entered the city's only park. Cleared of courtiers and merchants by the late hour, the expanse of woods with its enchanting nooks was an oasis of tranquility, but Irilio felt no peace. His father's tirade of the merits of marriage and news of his betrothal to the dullest woman in Laremlis ruined his day, and possibly his life.

Feeling powerless, the courtier walked through the verdant lanes and lashed out at the clusters of dark shrubbery. He smacked the bushes with his walking stick; poked the marble pedestals of nymphs and shouted his displeasure to the moons. Above the trees, loomed the Temple of Zezen where couples seeking happiness tossed jewels into the goddess' well. The pavilion's golden dome shone brightly against the serrated silhouettes of needle pines—a stark reminder of his future.

Irilio bent down and picked up a rock. He weighed the object in his hand, and upon finding it too light, threw it aside. He jogged along the gravel path to a crumbled statue and rummaged through the rubble. The merry nymph's head, cleaved in two by time and moisture proved a heavy chunk of marble.

"Perfect!" he mused, holding her broken face to the moonlight. "You, dear girl, are prettier than my future bride, and likely more intelligent. Thus, I impose the cow's name on you with great chagrin. You are hereby known as Lynyah."

The poet tucked the decrepit head under his arm and made for the temple. His footsteps crunched on the path as he whistled a bawdy tune. He had a year and a half to enjoy the pleasures of bachelorhood before the yoke of marriage slammed down on dalliance. He would start by showing his disgust with the marital institution by dumping his bride's proxy into the sacred well. No jewels, nor wishes for happiness with Lynyah would be forthcoming.

Irilio entered the building through the columned portico. The walls rose to a frescoed rotunda depicting joyful Akadian scenes. The light of elemental orbs illuminated carvings of nymphs and satyrs. Winged addonels blessed the bucolic figures with garlands and summer fruit. Inside, a soothing sillage of burnt resin and crushed petals suffused the air. Beams of moonlight filtered through the oculus high above, bathing the steaming font in brilliant light.

Irilio spread his arms in mockery of the welcoming effigy and smiled at the multi-breasted goddess. He set down his cane on the lip of the well and held the stone head over the water. "I come with an offering; my future wife's head!" 

"Most unwise," came a masculine voice.

Startled, Irilio lost his grip. The statue's head tumbled from his hands and splashed into the black waters of the pool. Whipping around, the poet scrabbled for his dagger. "Who goes?"

Mailled footsteps echoed in the pavilion as a guard wearing the palace livery stepped forward. The man, whose face betrayed forty seasons, held his helmet under his arm. His graying hair was slicked back and his eyes filled with pathos. His pauldrons and vambraces glinted in the flamelight as he approached. "At ease, I am no foe."

Irilio sheathed his blade and smoothed his tunic. He gave the rippling water a cursory glance before addressing the man. "I did not see you when I came in."

"I was sitting in the shadows."

"Praying for a sweetheart?"

The semblance of a smile crossed the soldier's face. "Something like that."