Heron Her Lomeon | 6th day of Sprout season
The main chapel of the domain was a tower built with the finest blocks of dark river rock. Each was sculpted in horizontal arcs, the whole docked tightly to confer the edifice the form of a wide, round column standing in the main courtyard of the domain. The dome-shaped stained glass at its top appeared stale under faint dawnlight, drawn with blue patterns of The Ancients, each sectioned by irregular golden borders.
Heron rubbed his eyes as he strolled toward the entry door of the edifice, drowsy from sleep cut short.
The first hours of the day made for a scarce number of prayers in the chapel. And the remnant cold still lingered, further ruling out attendance from the domain's residents. But as he set foot on the stoop this morning, he noticed a light already burned in the holy place, glimmering on the edges of the bulky metal door.
Heron considered the possibilities of a new companion of mid-week prayers as he marched up the stairs — among the new apprentice theologists there for their clerical duties, or barrack guards finally reminded of the praise owed to the gods at mid-week day.
He halted when he caught the glimpse of the man kneeling at the center of the chapel, his hand traveling to the silver pendant of the Trefoil of Souls around his neck.
Father.
Lomeon adopted a stance of complete submission to The Ancients, eyes turned up, strongest hand balled into a fist and tucked against his chest. He murmured unintelligible praise and was bathed in a mixture of feeble lights: candle fire and the glare descending from the stained glass topping the chapel overhead.
It was indecent to eavesdrop on a moment meant to be intimate among the spirits and a man. But Heron urged to reach the sculpted base of the stairs climbing to the altar. To listen to Lomeon's pleas.
Regardless, if The Ancients willed to exert justice, Lomeon would be burned on the spot. A man who indulged in adultery with married servants while his wife was dying outside the palace wasn't unlike the assassin or the blasphemous. The Ancients should see Lomeon's soul cast into the Order of the Shadows, caged into nothingness, and stripped of any right of Purification.
Lomeon stood slothfully, performed a bow towards the altar, and caught sight of Heron when he spun on his heels. His stroll on the carpet stretching from the entry to the altar was lazy, footsteps muffled by the quilted layer underneath.
Heron didn't budge.
"Son," Lomeon said, voice more wavering than his stance as he brushed past the door's threshold. His attempt at a smile came out listless. "I believed you would be here," Lomeon said. "Like all mid-week days."
His father had prepared for this encounter. "That is why you came?"
"I came to pray." Lomeon glanced around the chapel as if taking in its grandeur. "Unlike you, I don't do it nearly enough. If the Ancients receive Servyna's soul for Purification it will be attributed to you only."
For the undermost moment, Heron thought he saw regret flickering in Lomeon's face, but his pride and regalness returned too quickly for Heron to rule out any trickery played by the dimness.
"I believe you are quite late, Father," Heron said. "Why not continue doing things in the same fashion?"
"I finally remembered that I have always believed mistakes are better corrected late than never."
"Correct mistakes, you say," Heron scoffed, aware that rehashing the subject was the equivalent of holding a blade to an unhealed wound. "How so?" All he had left of Servyna was a fistful of her ashes inside his Trefoil pendant. Lomeon hadn't been there when she'd needed him the most. "What exactly do you intend to correct?"
Lomeon stared at Heron for a long time, silent and unblinking.
"I dreamed of your mother the night of The Chill. It was the first time I saw her face so clearly since—" He trailed off. "She was holding you in her arms, and you were crying. In the morning, I went to your chambers and you were not there."
The sadness was there now, clearly plastered on Lomeon's face.
"I am aware I am two years late at attempting redemption. Still, I'm determined to do it. But your will should be a part of the process."
The pain of Servyna's absence corroded Lomeon too. Heron rejoiced to see that pain surface, perplexed a dream was all it took to bring his father's guard down. He should ache more.
"Master Salmior came to me. He is quite worried about the possible enlistment of the Anutehi to the guard of the domain," Lomeon said. "I share his worry but I'm willing to grant you the benefit of the doubt by making the trial possible."
It was strange to have his opinion matter when Lomeon had handled Heron like an administrative chore intermediated by Master Salmior for the past two years. It arose in him a spiteful will to extract as much benefit as he could from the ephemeral window of weakness on his father's part. He thought of Amyra's proposal to leave for a tavern in the city, and the need for a guard.
"Precisely, I plan on making an exception to the classic rules of enlistment," Heron delivered, keeping his tone clean of emotion. "An enlistment without a trial in the blackcircle. To make the transfer from the Red Anutehi Guard completely administrative."
Pronouncing the words out loud did reveal the wrongness of the demand, even to himself. Heron attempted to elaborate.
"His health state is fragile and—" He was cut off by Lomeon's furrowing brows.
"You realize to cannot repair the past, Son, do you?" Lomeon asked. "That man is not Servyna."
"I'm aware, Father. Davir is alive, unlike Mother. I'm taking matters at hand this time to prevent the worse from happening."
"Forgive me. I prefer not to have a say on the matter," Lomeon said. "The established decrees coordinating the influence the Monarch can have on the brigades should serve their purpose. None of it includes ruling out the trial of guards for no urgent matter. If you're hopeful, you have the liberty to negotiate it directly with the brigadier in the barracks. You could take it as practice for your duties after your ascent this Drought season."
"Tutor Arai will shortly be in the library for my reading," Heron said bitterly. "Forgive me, but I must get to my prayers, Father."
Lomeon nodded. "The Ancients be with you, Son." A hand nudging Heron's shoulder, he strode past him.
Heron stood static at the same spot for a moment, turning to watch his father disappear in the corridors of the arcades leading to the courtroom.
When Heron prayed, he did it with his eyes closed to see Servyna, his head held up high, the blue lights of the stained glass now holding greater strength in a still dim room.
And before he entered the grand library for his morning lessons, he went to the barracks, arguments all prepared to intercede for Davir before the brigadier.
• • •
Davir Her Arun |6th day of Sprout season
"Wake, dear," said Lady Zuna, her tone overly nasal. In the characteristic speech of the people of the domain. So rapidly, it devoured the end of each word pronounced.
She placed a hand lightly on Davir's face, staring at him with that familiar sense of having made a curious discovery, reminiscent of the morning Davir had been brought into the sickhouses from the grove.
She cleared her throat and stepped back. The neatness of her face disappeared into the blur that consumed the other human shapes in the room, all standing beside the door.
"He will be back to his senses shortly," the Lady muttered to the others present.
All mornings in the sickhouses, Davir woke up in a sluggish giddiness that tamed all his senses. He waited until the heaviness of his eyes subsided. The light-headiness remained longer, sometimes still plaguing him when the sun had already reached its zenith point.
Davir counted five needle marks on his arm. Memories of the sudden drowsiness following the eve's meal after the heir's nocturnal visit resurfaced. One additional mark to the night prior, he noted. He suspected the nurses dosed his water and meatbread with sedative. And they assured he stayed asleep by needling his veins. What for, he still had to determine.
He lifted his gaze from his arm when his vision cleared enough, at last seeing the gathering past the edge of the bed.
The nurses charged with rendering him sicker were behind in retreat, in corroboration with the small patrol of four armed men standing near the door.
They flaunted all the surveillance they had deployed around to discourage him from any ill intention. He was a presumed criminal. Had it not been for the heir's unexpected interest in saving him, he would be now in a damp corner in the dungeons, marinating in piss and sweat. Remaining complacent until his memory emerged with a clue was the best course of action.
Sir Salmior stood beside the Lady, in his ostentatious heavy robe covering but his face and hands, a headpiece atop his head.
"Although your vitals signs have not improved since your arrival here, your state hasn't degraded," The Lady said. "We have ruled out respiratory disease or anything related to The Chill. I was willing to keep you here in the sickhouses for—" She trailed off, her lips bunched up. "For purposes of research."
Davir narrowed his eyes.
"Well, that is not well received by the ruling council. That is why we won't be keeping you here beyond the next three days. Unless your state aggravates, of course."
At the last words, Davir's body clenched. He'd first die of thirst or hunger than drink or eat anything prepared in this sickhouse again.
"Sir Salmior believes the problem could be located in the mind instead of the body. I'm skeptical. But he insisted you should be seen by a mind specialist," said the Lady, throwing a side glance at the only stranger among them. The specialist doctor: a tall, dark-skinned man, dressed in a long coat of slick leather with a line of golden buttons from neck to thigh height. The man exhaled strength and a profound sense of calmness.
She covered her mouth with her hand and spoke to Sir Salmior and the mind specialist. She attempted but didn't quite murmur softly enough to keep her words inaudible to Davir. "I believe he is back to his senses enough," she said with caution, one eye on Davir and another on the men she addressed. "I'm desperate about his case. So, I hope something will come out of his mind examination."
Sir Salmior nodded stiffly at the Head-healer discourse.
"Still we believe it's best not to leave him alone with visitors," she added.
"I am certain I can handle him if need be," Salmior replied. "I wish to be left alone with him and the mind specialist for a moment, Lady," he said. "Guards you can leave too, if you please."
Despite the Lady's reluctance, all complied, abandoning the room in a matter of seconds, the wooden door swaying shut behind the deserters.
Sir Salmior studied Davir for a long time. "You are not sound of mind," Salmior pronounced, "Davir?" he asked, "is it?"
"Davir Or Arun."
"Right," Salmior exhaled, coming to stand near the bed, the red edge of his robe, drawn with intricate round golden patterns, brushed the edge of the bed. "Something happened to you the day of The Chill," he said. "Davir dear, you see, the mind is a fragile thing." He stared at the mind specialist as he said the words. "It can break, shatter even, in the face of catastrophes."
The mind specialist granted Sir Salmior a nod of confirmation.
"Still, it's curious that you seemed quite certain about your Anutehi origins. I sent a pigeon to the Red Guard's brigadier to Anuteh. Turns out they have never heard of a Davir, son of Arun. Which means both you and the heir have fed us lies." Salmior sighed. "If it comforts you, I knew that had been the case. Although it matters little. We have entire patrols surveilling you.
"Well, no matter. Perhaps you are lying about your identity at my pupil's demand — he can be quite the liar when determined it's necessary. Our guards have been watching you. Even when you were not aware of it. And they amounted to nothing to incriminate you upon." Salmior shrugged.
"Because I am still struggling to grasp how you traversed the ramparts of the domain without alerting our guards. The sheer skill that would take." He shook his head slowly. "Or why my dear Heron would want to protect you in the first place. Perhaps you just don't know who you are." Salmior locked eyes with Davir. "Answer me, please: do you, Davir Or Arun, remember who you are?"
"No, Sir," Davir said, feeling unbearably exposed.
"Perhaps you were my pupil's lover. I scoured through the birth archives in the capital too. I did find a few Davirs but no son of Arun again. Plus, none of them is in his early twenties. My pupil will not be the one, to be honest with me. But he is now engaged for marriage through an external decree since a few days. Thus, the penalty for adultery is now applicable." Salmior spun to the man behind him. "Doctor, please. You can examine him."
The mind specialist scanned Davir from head to toe, emanating a strong sense of strength and control in every movement he performed, from his head turns to his steps. When he finally approached Davir, the doctor acted fast, enveloping his forehead with a large hand, fingers pressed at his temples. The gesture tipped Davir's head backward uncomfortably.
He met the man's grey eyes. And remained in that position for a long time. When the pain at the base of his neck became unbearable Davir spoke.
"Recovering my memories doesn't require keeping my bones intact, I suppose," he squirmed. "Go head bending my neck further. I still got a few nails to go."
The doctor ignored him, releasing his temples at his own convenience, leaving the imprints of his fingers on Davir's skin.
The doctor extracted a kerchief from the side pocket of the coat and wiped his hands.
Davir waited for a comment. But the man kept his silence. He bowed to Sir Salmior and abandoned the room.
Sir Salmior sighed. "It would be unfair for me to send you away now that I know you have nowhere to return to. I haven't communicated any of my discoveries regarding you to the court or the guard brigades. I decided to maintain the trial of enlistment to the guard. Don't make me regret this, please."