109. Prince of Pretjord

  After Gulloyne the giant salamander ‘parked’ itself and curled up for a nap at the mouth of the Sanzu River, after the royal family and their elite Wayfaring regiment stepped onto the Netherpool to mingle with the common folk, and even after the nauseating scene of King Tyr greeting Palmr Jorgensen with a warm, jovial embrace…

  Even after all that, Serac couldn’t take her eyes off Rathor Tyrsen.

  Her eyes chased the Prince of Pretjord, this mythical creature born of an improbable marriage, as he took his place at Palmr’s dining table. Her mind traced every detail of his meticulously sculpted face and body. And her heart fluttered with a thrill and urgency she’d never known before. What is this? What’s happening to me? Help! Trippy?

  Dead silence. Such that Serac had to doubt for a Ksana whether Trippy was even alive. But she could feel his presence readily enough, which meant the Special Guidance Protocol had gone on strike. For what reason, she had no way to fathom. No more than she could understand the flood of emotion that had drowned out her ability to think straight.

  Then, in Trippy’s pointed absence, a third entity answered for her. Though said answer amounted to nothing more than a light, teasing prickle at her right temple. This, Serac could tell right away, was neither sign nor warning. No, it felt more like… mockery.

  Alright, that does it! The ol’ reliable. Anger helped to somewhat counteract the mystery emotion. At the very least, it cleared her mind enough to focus on the present. On what was important.

  Like the absolute daggers Queen Loha threw at Palmr Jorgensen whenever she seemed to think no one was looking. Like the stark difference in the ways Stammers and Rotters received their King—the former hanging onto Tyr’s every word with glowing smiles, while the latter… did the same but with a lot more unhappy frowns. Oh, and like the way Rathor Tyrsen’s ash-gray mane would ripple in the wind, or the way his ruby-red eyes sparkled when they caught the sunlight just right, or the way he smiled winningly every time some giggling admirer in the crowd yelled out his name—

  Stop it! Whatever this is, I need to stop right now and pull myself together! Let’s look at… his weapon. That’s it. That’s a perfectly sensible thing for me to inspect…

  Serac forced her eyes to focus solely on Rathor’s fishing trident. No easy task, given the way it now rested against the man’s topless body. GUNGNIR was by far the prettiest Auxiliary Serac had come across. Its shaft was of gold-inlaid steel with a bluish tint, not unlike the markings on a certain giant salamander. The blade itself was just as remarkable, with three prongs flaring out in a triangular arrangement, each of them barbed to ensure an inescapable bite.

  The next thing to look out for, naturally, was the man’s Zealous Instrument. Yet, apparently, Rathor had taken after his mother in more than just appearance. For his FURNACE was nowhere to be seen. Just where are mother and son hiding their Instruments?

  This latest train of thought, more than any other, deflated Serac’s mood to the point of sobriety. For her, the word ‘furnace’ was still something of a landmine, touching a part of her life she’d rather not revisit. She doubted this FURNACE had much to do with the ones that had left permanent scars upon a Penitent soul, but even simple word association was enough to douse her stirrings for the smiling prince.

  Serac soon found herself distracted again, this time by a noticeable shift in the crowd’s mood. King Tyr, drink in hand, continued to waffle on with his favorite anecdotes about the Realmhunt. He’d just started on a particularly memorable year with multiple reports of a ‘mermaid’ sighting, when suddenly, a man from the Rotgardian side yelled,

  “You told the same story six years ago! When are you going to explain exactly why we couldn’t have a Realmhunt for the last six years?”

  A moment of shocked silence, followed by murmurs up and down both sides of the divide. With all the bodies in the way, Serac could barely see the speaker, but she thought the voice belonged to a certain clownfish cobbler. I didn’t know he had it in him! As much as she commended the man for his boldness, a part of her couldn’t help but be worried on his behalf.

  “I’m more interested to know why you sicced your soldiers on us!” A second dissenting voice. This from the pufferfish clothier, another Rotter near and dear to Serac’s increasingly anxious heart. “Do you know how many of us starved? Or worse yet, how many of our own family and friends we had to send on their way lest they turn Starveling? Bad enough you weren’t here for us when we needed you most, you even used your own men to kick us when we were down! What do you have to say for yourself… uh, Your Immortality, sir?”

  Despite the unconvincing finish, the clothier’s words proved to be sparks to set off a powder keg. Emboldened by righteous rage, the entire Rotgardian contingent erupted in heckling and outcry.

  The Stamgardians didn’t take it lying down. Once they got over their initial shock, they began to hurl angry rebukes and counter-accusations, eager to defend their beloved King from a lawless mob.

  Serac’s knuckles turned white as she watched it all unfold. She paid special attention to the armed soldiers in the middle, hoping against hope they’d keep their cool or that someone in charge would bring a halt to the madness! As soon as she had the thought, however, she realized the shape and extent of her own hypocrisy.

  Lars was right, she reflected bitterly, upset first and foremost with herself. I’ve been here all of two months and assumed I’d seen enough. What did I know about the depth of the Rotters’ hurt and anger? About what the Stammers would do to hold onto their way of life? And as soon as things got hairy, what’s the first thing I wished for? For ‘someone in charge’ to restore order!

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  Yet, even as Serac lost herself in self-scrutiny, she was abruptly pulled back to reality, this time by the sound of her own name.

  “—ac Edin and Zacarias Borges-Juventus!” Someone in the crowd had shouted, loud enough to be heard over the fracas. “When the whole Realm ignored our plight, these Wayfarers stood up and lent us shoulders to lean on! Not our neighbors, not our King, but two outrealmers, who acted out of nothing but the kindness of their hearts and the nobility of their spirits. For shame, King Tyr! Whatever amends you think you might’ve made, it hasn’t been good enough!”

  If there was a hole in the ice next to her, Serac would’ve seriously considered diving in. She felt far from worthy of the praise, especially given her ‘distance’ from the issues at hand. Kindness and nobility? Sure, maybe that’s part of it, but there’s also a lot of looking out for our own.

  Suffice to say, all eyes from both sides were now on the Realm Immortal, waiting for his response. Explanation? Appeasement? Denial and condemnation? Anything would’ve been preferable to silence, and yet…

  Serac was genuinely surprised by what she saw. From a man of King Tyr’s stature, she might’ve expected stern anger, calm authority, or perhaps even that all-encompassing charisma he showed at the feast. Instead, written plainly upon his bulky bull-shark face was only confusion.

  The king stared at the chaos before him with a blank, slightly open-mouthed expression. His was such frank and unadorned bewilderment that not even his exposed teeth carried any threat. The man offered no word in response, not because he felt himself to be above it all, but simply because he didn’t know what to say. Seeing this, Serac struck upon a strange, impossible notion.

  Does this guy not know what was happening at the border all these years? Even at the feast, he gave off the impression the withering was some kind of minor inconvenience that would correct itself in time. He said he wanted to learn more about Mulaharta… and then nothing. No follow-up, no one from Krongard to come down and investigate. I’m starting to doubt these soldiers are even acting on his orders! But if that’s the case, then—

  “Outrealmers!”

  A clear, sonorous, musical voice sang out above the hubbub. This latest contribution to the ‘debate’ had the dramatic (and admittedly welcome) effect of shutting everyone up.

  All eyes shifted from the King to the newest speaker. They didn’t have to travel far, for the voice belonged to none other than his son sharing the same table.

  “Outrealmers Serac and Zacarias,” Rathor Tyrsen reiterated, now bringing himself to his full height, along with bejeweled GUNGNIR shining in the sunlight. “Where are you? I should like for us to finally meet.”

  The prince’s words were the wind to part the sea. Rotters on either side of Serac and Zacko backed off to give them space. This then set off a chain reaction of shuffling bodies, until a clear footpath connected the outrealmers to the royal retinue at Palmr’s tent. As soon as their eyes met for the first time, Rathor graced Serac with a winning smile, lit by ruby-red eyes and framed by a flowing, ash-gray mane.

  “Ah, so the rumors were true.” Rathor’s melodious voice complemented his smile. “A Rakshasa woman, as beautiful as she is fierce, perhaps not unlike another we all know and love. And you, Zacarias. A Manusya among us, a rare and delightful gift from the heavens above. You and I must sit down sometime; I’m sure you have much to teach me.”

  Me, beautiful? Serac somehow managed to ponder, even as her mind teetered on the edge of utter blankness. Well, if Mr Prince says so, it must be true!

  Once more carried away by her distracted thoughts, Serac took a second to realize Rathor was waving her and Zacko onto the stage. She hesitated (of course she did!), but Zacko didn’t, so she had no choice but to follow.

  Then came perhaps the most stressful moment of the day. As Serac neared the stage, Rathor bent down and extended his free left hand. She took it with plenty of hesitation, all the while ruing the craggy, blood-caked appearance of her left hand. If Rathor was at all put off by how badly PULVERIZER clashed with the rest of Serac’s attire, he didn’t show it. His confident smile never faltered as he pulled his fellow Rakshasa up onto the platform.

  Yet, as Serac made her climb, she found herself eye-level with Rathor’s mother beside him. And there upon Queen Loha’s otherwise handsome face, for at least one split Ksana, flashed a look of pure, unmistakable hatred.

  The look was so unexpected—and so far removed from how the woman treated her at their last meeting—that Serac had to doubt if she saw it at all. What’s got her twisted in a knot? Is this about ‘Mully’? But if she wasn’t mad at me last time, I don’t see what’s changed since then…

  As much as Serac wanted to take in and grasp everything happening around her, she couldn’t stop the flow of time. No more than she could command the whims and wills of other souls. And on this the most important day of the Pretjordian calendar, three Rakshasas’ stories intertwined and raced ahead, with one among them firmly taking the helm.

  Rathor kept his scaled hand wrapped around Serac’s craggy one, even after the latter had already joined him on the platform. Despite Palmr Jorgensen’s best efforts to accommodate his king, the addition of two more bodies had left little space for maneuvering. Serac found herself pushed and pulled uncomfortably close to Rathor’s bare chest. But the prince had more plans for her yet.

  “I hear and am moved by the plight of my Roots-dwelling brothers and sisters.” Rathor spoke as though directly to Serac, his ruby eyes boring into her cinnabar face. But his voice was loud enough to draw all present into its music. “At the same time, I curse my own ignorance and inaction. I, the Prince of Pretjord and Captain of the Kronvakt, should’ve been the first Wayfarer on the ground—the beacon to guide my people through a difficult ordeal. Would that I could undo my mistakes, but alas, time marches ever forward, as surely as the Sanzu flows netherward.”

  Serac found herself unable to look away from Rathor’s earnest gaze, but the silence all around told her all she needed to know. The people—even the Rotters—were listening, hanging onto the prince’s every word. Somehow, this realization finally broke Serac out of her ‘spell’.

  Really? How is anyone buying this? Not to mention that river metaphor is a little shaky, especially in this context!

  “But I also count myself fortunate,” Rathor continued, oblivious to Serac’s skepticism, “to be in the constant company of fellow Wayfarers, whose courage and ingenuity never cease to surprise and inspire me. I feel especially fortunate today to have crossed Paths with these outrealmers. Two brave and generous souls who embody what it means to be a true Pretjordian. In recognition of their service, in hopes of restoring Rotgard to its former glory, and in the spirit of competition that so enlivens our great tradition of the Realmhunt, I’d like to make a proposal.”

  Rathor Tyrsen’s ruby eyes glinted mischievously as he sang his next words.

  “I propose… a wager.”

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