The Beggar’s Journey – Prologue I

(~1k words)

Open and airy, the parlor in the Tower of Nissonos sat exposed; a half cracked, domed cylinder perched atop Nero’s Thumb with its closed back to the Uralic Sea. Sculpted in the likeness of the Gods, nine pillars of carved snowstone stood in a half circle around the room’s perimeter, gazing down on all that remained of the once sprawling Aerodin Empire. Benches of felted cotton bordered the pillars, their rosewood frames topped with folded wool blankets and silk pillows to protect against the cold wind which blew through the high mountains. Forgoing these easy comforts, King Callius Nisodon sat atop a slab of cold snowstone near the rim of the parlor, where the floor in the Tower of Nissonos ended and fell the long way to the ground below. Only in this high place with the wind on his face and the mountains of Nero’s Claw sprawling out below him, did the King believe he could find perspective enough to see both the Empire, and the impact his decisions would have on it.

Too young to be called old and too old to be without an heir, the King wore the weight of his people on his face, hard lines and heavy creases like a farmer’s field after a blighted Scything. In spite of this, he appeared relaxed, as though the hardships that brought those lines had been given to a younger, greener man while the one who wore them now, had -for the nonce at least- found mastery over them. He raked a hand through his hair as he contemplated the coming exchange.

For twenty three turning seasons he had lived with the missteps of his younger self, tirelessly recovering the power he had traded in the earliest days of his reign. This chore represented the last of those mistakes and also the least of them. So minor a misstep that in the twenty three seasons since, the King had not bothered to remedy it. He wondered about that now.

“Callius…”

A dark skinned woman with bright eyes padded across the parlor floor, she wore a plain white robe belted at the waist and held a cup of wine which she offered as she arrived. With an eye for the unseen and the boldness to speak where others kept silent, Callius thought of Desma as the parlor’s tenth pillar. Surrounded by sycophants as he so frequently was, his wife’s honesty made her a kind of god unto herself. Even the Arbiter of Stones was rarely so frank.

“Desma.” Declining the wine, Callius took her hand.

“You’re upset,” said Desma bluntly. She set the wine down and sat beside him. “It’s him isn’t it?”

Callius leaned back. “It is not the man himself who upsets me so, but the man he reminds me of…”

Desma sighed. “It’s not healthy to live in the shadow of your failures for so long, Callius. You were a child then, and have accomplished much in the time since. We cannot change the past, my love, much as we might like to.”

“Much as we might like to?” said Callius, feigning indignation.

Desma slapped him on the back. “He’s been here nearly an hour now. How much longer will you make him wait?”

“I am the only one in the Empire for whom he must wait. The rest faun over him like an idol made of precious stones, as though he were Aeras made manifest in the soul of a man. No…” said Callius with a shake of his head. “A bit of waiting will not hurt him.”

“Do you think he will make another joke about the King’s Boon?”

“He will doubtless lead with it,” said Callius with a snort. He shook his head. “All the more reason to delay…”

Desma sighed. “Callius, if you think continuing to delay your council will help, then I am fully in favor of it. That said, I see no reason why I should be inconvenienced as well. Use one of them to handle it, Aeras knows they could use a stretch.” She casted a hand towards the King’s blooded guards who stood as statues at the parlor’s entrance. Clad in black segmented cuirass’s with yellow cloaks pinned at the shoulder, they held spear’s in one hand and black shield’s in the other, the Aerodin sigil of Nero’s Claw inlaid in gold across it’s center.

“The Queen wishes to abandon her duties?”

Desma dropped her head in mock challenge, glaring at Callius until he gave in with a chuckle.

“All right,” he said, surrendering. “All right, I’ll have Fexin see to it in your stead, I’m sure he’ll be honored to have the task. Come here.” Callius pulled Desma close until they were nearly nose to nose. “Thank you,” he said.

“For what?”

“For the wine, and your council…” He rested a hand on her belly. “For everything.”

They shared a kiss and Desma stepped away.

“See you this evening?” she said.

“As soon as I’m able.”

With a knowing smile, Callius watched Desma go, calling out just before he lost sight of her. “Send Fexin as you leave, will you?”

She waved an acknowledgment, and he turned back to his view of Aerodin, the chill mountain air biting into his bare feet. Lynceus would expect him to be dressed for ceremony; armored boots and cuirass, a fixed cape and ornamental staff. But there would be time enough for grandeur in the coming months. For now, he meant to enjoy the Noble from Nothing’s discomfort at his King’s most humble appearance. He pulled his meager robes around him in an effort to block the cold, and though it did nothing to warm him, a bit of cold was a small price to pay to put a man off of his footing. Especially this man.

Still, seeing no reason he should not take the sharpest edge of his discomfort away, he picked up the wine Desma had left him, and drank. Swallowing, he shook his head.

Would he continue to freeze on the steps of the parlor so that he might needle a man whose council he had never valued in the first place? No. He had already wasted Desma’s time, he would not compound that mistake by wasting more of his own.