The WorldMight

By Cyril L.C. Bussiere

It is the end of fall in the kingdom of Alymphia. Princess Aria and Prince Hob are readying themselves for yet another Fall Passing Festival. But unbeknownst to them, change is coming to the kingdom. Change brought on by dark forces and events that occurred generations prior. And those changes will unfold over their lives like a flood that nothing can stop.

In another place and another time, a mysterious prince walks the world, trusted steel at his belt and a mystical stone imbued with magic at his neck. He is looking for a word that has never been said; a word that would save his love from the grip of an ancient beast.

The WorldMight is a fantasy imbued with romance and mysticism. It is a classic tale of love truer than time, a spiritual journey in a world heavy with secrets and magic. Despite spanning generations and more, it is also a very personal story of devotion, jealousy, and redemption.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cyril L.C. Bussiere
• Release date: Aug 3, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310511172

Cyril L.C. Bussiere

A biologist by training, Cyril L.C. Bussiere was born in Avignon, France. He spent his youth in the Mediterranean city of Marseille, and upon graduating from high school he left to study abroad in the US. Ever since he was able to hold a pen and scribble, Cyril wrote; mainly poetry and mostly constantly. However, once in the US, life happened and his studying and social life took precedence over his writing. Besides a few poems and songs that he wrote in his adopted tongue, it was not until completion of his graduate studies at the University of Texas in Austin in 2011 that the need to write took him again."The WorldMight", a fantasy infused with romance and mysticism, is his first published novel. He is currently working on a second novel titled "BLUR", a dark and raw story about love, lust, and the impact unresolved childhood issues bear on personal relationships. Cyril currently lives with his wife, Nicole, in Lubbock, Texas where they enjoy brewing b

Book preview

Prologue

The young man was a prince.

His father was no king and his mother was no queen. But he was a prince nonetheless.

He had left home long ago, lost and confused, to find himself walking the world in search of a word that had never been said; a word that would free his love.

He now looked at the sky stretching above him, red-orange leaves cradling his field of vision. Lazy clouds up high, reluctant to move south, slowly led the way toward the place of worship he had been directed to.

You’ll find him there, the old man had said.

If he ain’t dead yet, he had added after a while.

His smile betrayed yellow crooked teeth once again, and as he rolled his cigarette between his fingers, he pointed with his chin to their right.

Follow the wind, my friend. It’ll take you there.

They had shared a cold night and a meager fire. The prince listened to the old man; stories of loss, joy, and hope. And as the night drew to a close, and the horizon slowly whitened into blue, the old man asked about the prince’s journey. So he told him what little he could remember of the country he left so long ago, fertile and green, of its royal family and the people it guided, of his love, taken from him, of his quest to find her and of the word he had been seeking for so long.

The dirt under the prince’s feet felt familiar. The soft breeze at his back gently pushed him forward and raised wisps of hair up and down as it blew. He had walked many a road such as that one and somehow it had become home, just as the solid weight of the pack on his shoulders, the tug and sway of the blade at his belt, and the comforting presence around his neck had.

Patches of bright green grass crunched moistly as he walked on and left fresh spots on his leather boots. Swirls of leaves raced him to the end of the road. They bounced against his loose cotton pants as they passed him. Every so often they lingered around his ankles, splotches of soft colors against the sun-washed fabric, before rushing onwards.

The cool whisper in his ears told him he was drawing near. His whole surroundings pointed in that direction, earth and heaven drawn together in one motion across the land, pushing him forward. The trees ruffled mysterious encouragements as they swayed back and forth, shedding their colors onto the road.

The prince walked on, following the leaves and the clouds toward what he hoped would be help, if not answers. The trees lining the road became sparser as he pushed on, revealing spreads of green fields interspersed with bouquets of shrubs beyond. Men in pointy hats appeared here and there, bent over the earth, tools in hand, while others rested in small groups in the coolness of trees.

A few clicks further, the road sloped down gently as the trees rounded away from the path on either side of him. By then the sun was drawing long shadows over him as it descended toward the earth. It would be night by the time he reached his destination.

The sun had just tipped over the horizon when the road ended into a shoulder-high wall of gray, mossy stones. The prince followed the wall to his right, his left hand lightly probing the asperities of the stones. The uneven ground shortly gave way to a pebbled path and out of the growing dimness of dusk appeared a shimmering light: a frail flame dancing around the bend of the wall some hundred yards away.

"I would be here, now," the prince thought.

As light receded into night, the fatigue of the day seemed to suddenly dawn onto him. His pack grew heavy, digging into his shoulders and his blade started to weigh unnaturally at his belt. The soft stones under his feet felt treacherous as they slid unpredictably under his weight. He seemed to sink a bit deeper into the path with every step.

Within a few yards he had to prop himself steady against the wall. His breathing was slow and even, his hand firm against the cool wetness of the moss. And yet the chain around his neck, as light as he knew it to be, somehow pulled him to the earth. He closed his eyes against the effort as he slid down to the ground, his back to the wall.

The feeling had become familiar. The Night, he called it. Strength sipped out of him even though he could feel the unfaltering tension in his muscles and the unmovable resolve to reach his goal. Since he had left home, the Night had become a voracious, demanding thing that in a way feasted on him. It had a taste for something fundamental, beyond life itself. It seemed to hollow him out, empty him of his very substance without really affecting his physical being.

Now, sunk to the ground, he reposed his cheek on a patch of moss. His hands rested lightly on his knees as the Night satisfied its hunger on him. Eyes closed, focusing his mind against the vacuum that built up inside him, he slowed his breathing and brought his mind’s eye to the stone resting on his chest.

Once a gift from the one he loved, the one he sought, now a familiar anchor against the swirls of emptiness rising inside him.

It would pass, he knew. He relaxed his body as he learned long ago, for he knew anything else would be a waste of energy. And as hungry tongues slashed away at him, ripping chunks off from his unknowable core, he raised against them his own quiet waves in a slow and paced rhythm.

"Get away from me, my black dogs," he repeated, on and on.

Get away from me, my black dog, slow and steady, turning waves after waves into a great, immovable barrier.

The prince sat there for a while; the peacefulness of his surrounding a contrast to the turmoil inward. The Night took what it needed. It would be done soon. And the wall the prince rose against it would fill him again. The stone at his neck would grow in his mind like a seed grows into the tree that bore the fruit from which the seed itself came. Its trunk would swell, thick and sturdy. Its branches would reach every corner of his being, strong and flexible. Its numerous leaves would breathe vitality into him and make him whole again.

The weakness faded now. The Night had once more taken, and yet again he had willed himself unto himself. The world slowly reached out for him. The breeze running along the wall cocooned him gently, its embrace gradually coming back to him. The cool pebbles he sat on gently poked at him as if to remind him of their presence. The moss against the back of his head seeped its humid chilliness down his neck. The earthy smells of the world, the ruffle of the trees, and the distant sounds of birds waking to the night came back to him.

The prince finally opened his eyes and sighed heavily. He rolled his head from side to side, stretching his stiff neck. Another night he had won himself back.

He sometimes wondered if one night the wall he raised would not be enough, if the Night would eventually take him over, bring him out of existence. But his love would rise in his mind, fierce against such thoughts. She would swell in him like the sail of a great ship under a strong wind and fill him with purpose and certainty. The Night would not, could not, have him. He belonged to his love and his love only.

He pushed himself up and looked around. However long it had taken him to fend off the Night, a few yards away the flame still danced in the dark.

Answers awaited.

He adjusted the blade at his belt and headed toward it.

Chapter One

Syndjya, Capital City of Alymphia.

Year Hundred and Fifty of the New Age

Fall Passing Festival, Two days prior.

Aria woke up to the sound of a string forcefully plucked. She opened her eyes as it receded into soft vibrations.

"That would be Hob," she thought.

A few seconds later more notes reached her; this time more gently pulled out of the instrument her brother was using. She laid in bed, soft, silky sheets and heavy blankets resting over her midsection in a tangle.

"The festival is coming up," she reminded herself.

Morning light glowed behind the red fabric of the curtains, and it softly illuminated her bedroom. She propped herself up against her pillows, stretched her arms to the heavens, and yawned in a way she knew her mother would not approve of.

But you are a princess, Aria! she would say. Ladies do not behave in such a way! You know that!

Ah! Being ladylike, what a chore that was, always having to be proper and measured.

Do not laugh too loud, do not walk too fast, do not talk too smart.

Do not, do not, do not. And the dos were not any better.

Always be presentable. Wear make-up. And for the love of Hethens, sit up straight.

And the clothes, pretty as they were, always too warm during the summer, dresses too long, pants too flowy, and garments too tight across her waist, as if their sole purpose was to prevent her from moving. She sometimes wondered if parents were so fearful of their daughters running away that they purposefully dressed them with clothes that were either so tight they made it impossible for them to breathe right or so elaborate that it was virtually impossible to do much else while wearing them besides walking ceremoniously.

Aria stretched her back, twisting her torso to one side and then the other, and loudly popped a few vertebrae, another incredibly un-ladylike thing according to her mother. She rubbed her eyes to remove the heaviness from her eyelids and let the world come into focus in front of her.

A large light-green carpet made of fine silk spread out at the bottom of her bed. Its complex pattern of flowers and birds finely sewn in colorful wavy lines danced gleefully in the morning light. It had been a surprise present from her father for her tenth birthday. He had returned early from a trip to Lha-Shem, the large mountainous country across the Narrow Sea to the west, and had brought back many presents for his people. This had been the most precious, and it had been for her. Every time she looked at it or felt its softness under her feet, she was filled with some of the warmth she felt that evening as he walked unannounced through the doors of the great hall.

To the right of the carpet, an old dresser made of some precious wood stood by the window. A vase full of exotic flowers rested on top of it and filled the air with a subtle spring smell.

On the other side of the window, a matching vase stood on the corner of her make-up station, an antique gold and polished-silver table accoutered with a large mirror. Dozens of little vessels, containing powders of different colors and smells, were messily spread atop it.

A pile of cloth, abandoned on the floor the previous night, overflowed from the open closet facing her bed and spread onto the smooth tiles of her bedroom.

I’ll have to hang that up before leaving, Aria thought. "Or else Beveline will have to."

Aria knew the old maid to be busy with the guests that had come in for the festival, and she hated the thought of her messiness burdening her any further.

To the left of her bed was her art desk, covered with papers and pieces of canvas. Brushes, feathers, and bottles of ink, clay and paint were neatly arranged at the far end of the desk. The wall above it was covered with drawings of the countryside surrounding the city and with finely rendered paintings of the sunset as seen from her balcony. In a drawer, hidden out of view under a large volume, were many rough charcoal sketches of her closest friend, Cassien, one of the weapon master’s apprentices.

Aria sat in bed for a while, enjoying the soft morning light reflecting off the brass ornaments of her bedroom’s imposing two-panel door. She let out another feline yawn and finally got out of bed. Breakfast would be ready and mother disliked her being late.

She walked to the dresser by her bed and started yanking drawers open and pulling undergarments out of them. She dropped most of them to the floor and ended up slipping into fuchsia leg warmers. She pulled aside the heavy curtains over her window and stepped into the walk-in closet on the far side of the room. She randomly selected a light-green, satin dress that she threw it on her bed before sitting down at her make-up station.

Appearances, appearances. Is there nothing but appearances? she sometime sang to herself as she got ready for one formal function or another.

"Well, that’s the price to pay when one is born a princess," she thought now.

She had been taught the art of applying make-up, or face-painting as she called it, at a young age. It was, after all, a part of every princess’s curriculum. There really was only one rule in face-painting: well applied make-up was barely noticeable make-up. It had to blend so perfectly with one’s facial complexion and the attire one was to wear, that it enhanced without being noticed. Needless to say, it took way too much time in Aria’s opinion. But her mother always insisted on it, so she complied as best as she could, or rather as fast as she could.

Twenty minutes later, all made up and presentable, Aria stood in front of the rotating mirror by her bedroom door. She pressed a few wrinkles out of her dress. A curl of her brown hair was camping on her forehead and she stuck it behind her ear. She was about to consider herself done when her eyes fell on her naked neck.

Should I wear a necklace? she wondered.

She walked back to her make-up station and looked at her jewelry box. It was overflowing with all kinds of necklaces, pendants, bracelets, and brooches. Some were gold, other silver, and all were ornamented with precious stones.

She picked up her favorite pendant. It would have been considered by most the least elegant of her possessions, but it was a present from her grandfather, the late King Rhegard, and as such she cherished it. It was a simple, pale oval stone set in an unremarkable metal brace and came with an equally bland metal chain. Her granda, as she used to call him, had brought it back from one of his numerous trips abroad.

In the last decade of his reign, King Rhegard had relinquished more and more of his duties and powers to his son and had led expeditions to increasingly distant lands. From those numerous trips he brought back many exotic items. The paintings that adorned the Corridor of Beasts were some of them, and the pendant was one as well. Unfortunately, her mother found it vulgar and refused to let her wear it in public.

Aria sighed. She put the pendant back into her jewelry box and decided not to wear anything after all. She could hear that Hob was still playing his cittern in the garden. It hopefully meant that she was not late for breakfast again. She turned back to her mirror and after one last, quick inspection she pulled on the fox head-shaped handle and stepped out of her bedroom.

Good morning, princess Aria, Beveline’s voice greeted.

The old maid, dressed in her usual plain, blue-and-white dress, was bending at the waist a few steps down the stairs leading from Aria’s room to the first floor of the keep.

Oh! Good morning, Beveline. Am I already late for breakfast? Aria asked as she turned to face her.

Beveline’s face wrinkled up into a smile.

Not yet, dear, but only because your father himself is late.

Oh, no, mom is going to be upset. I’d better hurry down then.

Yes, dear. And I have to go tidy up Lord Hevens’s and the other trusteds’ rooms before breakfast is over. Though I don’t think they actually spent the night in their beds.

Aria started down the stairs. But as Beveline moved to let her pass, she suddenly remembered the mess she had left in her bedroom and froze mid-step.

She turned around, rushed back up to her room, and slammed the door behind her.

She reappeared a minute later, slightly flushed. Beveline was standing by the door, a question on her face.

Everything alright, dear? she asked Aria.

Yes, yes, I just forgot… some rouge, Aria fibbed.

Oh, alright then, Beveline smiled.

She patted her on the arm.

You should really hurry down, dear. Your mother is waiting.

Yes, on my way.

Aria headed down the large rotating staircase as fast as she could, passing the imposing, familiar paintings of long-gone family members as she went.

Once on the first floor, she crossed the grand foyer. She nodded to the guards on duty by the keep’s entrance. Spears in hand, they stood rigidly on either side of the steel-reinforced doors and when she came into view, they greeted her with a resounding ‘Princess Aria’.

A fire still burnt in the imposing hearth facing the entrance. Above the mantle, her father’s colors hung high. Over two large blood-red and dusk-blue vertical strips, an ominous black heavy sword lay horizontal atop a round, silver shield and was a reminder of the evening her family won the throne many generations ago.

It had been as bloody a battle as any. Barely surviving on lands they did not own, overburdened by taxes they often could not pay and routinely abused in foul ways by pitiless lords, the people of Alymphia had swelled the ranks of her ancestor’s army.

He, a small lord from the eastern provinces, who had stood up to the agents of power, refusing to let them cruelly mistreat his people. Suicide, most had considered. The king would order his family killed; an example to others who might be tempted to challenge his authority.

But the time was ripe and word had spread. Farmers, merchants, and artisans of all kind rose to his side. Man, children, elderly and even women poured their frustration and anger behind him; an army of the people the like of which the land had never seen. They rose as many all over the country and two summers later fell as one onto the armies of the king.

The last battle took place at dusk in the Scarlet Valley. No one knew if the valley had been named in the aftermath of the battle, in memory of the scores of dead who bled on its floor that night, or if its name merely came from the flowers that every spring turned the valley into a crimson river. It had been the last war and for the past hundred and fifty years Aria’s family had ruled Alymphia in relative harmony with its people and its neighbors; its kings striving to be just and fair to all.

A king’s duty, and most important task, is to listen, her father often said. To hear what is being said, what is truly being said. The words, but not just the words. Hear the feelings behind what is being said. Hear what truly moves those who talk to you. And remove yourself as much as possible, so as not to color what you hear with your own thoughts and wants. Only then will you truly understand your people, only then will you be a true leader.

Old relics that they were, the sword and shield now rested safely in a vault under the main keep. Aria had seen them many a time, for at each season-passing festival, they headed the commencement and closure processions and to this day remained a reminder of the price of peace and prosperity.

Aria quickly walked through the doors leading to the common quarters, down a hallway decorated with colorful maps and blazons. She passed the large meeting room where her dad received foreign officials and peasants alike. Then she turned right into a smaller hallway covered with a long, red carpet and stopped, two doors later, in front of the official dining room. She silently wished her father not to be in yet.

Lately, she had been spending many of her evenings with Cassien, long after she was supposed to be in bed and waking up in time for breakfast had become somewhat difficult.

For a few seconds she stood in front of the door, smoothing out her dress and composing herself: shoulders back, chin up, hair behind the ear. She forced a pleasant smile onto her lips and walked into the room.

Her mother, Queen Silifia, sat at the end of the long, polished solke wood table, a rare tree from the Barum province where her family yielded from. Several additional segments had been added to accommodate the extra guests and the great table now filled the entirety of the dining room in its length.

Good morning Aria said, bowing slightly at the waist.

She spied a few unknown dignitaries sitting at the far end of the table. They stood up as one and greeted her with a resounding ‘Princess Aria’.

She slowly made her way to her mother’s side, giving room to the slew of staff bringing the last drinks and sweets to the already well adorned table. The temple runner, His Highness Baccus, sat facing her mother next to the empty seat at the head of the table. Aria let out an imperceptible sigh.

Dad is not here yet, she thought. Lucky me.

The two seats to her mother’s right were also unoccupied.

Hob is probably still practicing; even better.

As Aria approached, the queen interrupted her conversation with His Highness Baccus and turned to face her.

Good morning, dear, she said, an inkling of coldness in her voice.

Aria kissed her mother lightly on the cheek.

Good morning, mom, she replied.

She inclined her head down to the guest facing her mother.

Your Highness.

The old temple runner pushed himself out of his seat, gave her a warm smile, and bowed to her.

Princess Aria, always a pleasure seeing you.

He sank back into his chair and added with a wink, Even this early in the morning.

The pleasure is mine, Your Highness, Aria replied with a smile.

She noticed a wave of annoyance flash across her mother’s face at the temple runner’s remark.

The old man, now in his early seventies, had always been fond of her and usually sided with her unless she was trying to embark on one of her more dangerous endeavors, like the time she had wanted to go visit the Black Forest on the outskirts of town alone with Cassien; a forest well known for its numerous berries but also for its dangerous wolves.

Aria sat down to her mother’s right, leaving her brother’s empty seat between her mother and herself.

How are you this fine morning? Master Baccus inquired.

I am fine, thank-

She is late, her mother cut in.

There was a sharpness to her voice that Aria was not accustomed to.

Sorry, mom, I was-

This is not appropriate of a princess, the queen snapped. You are your father’s daughter. Your actions reflect on him, reflect on your people.

Taken aback, Aria stared at her mother. The queen’s blue eyes had none of the laughter that was habitually found in them. Her blonde hair was pulled up unusually tight in a bun held by a fox-shaped, golden brooch. Her face, thin and pale, was lined with… anger, or was it worry?

The temple runner quickly reached across the table and patted the queen’s arm gently.

Now, now, he said. It’s alright, Silifia.

His voice was deep, soft, and strong. His shiny, light-gray eyes peered out of his old, round face with a gentle reassurance. He squeezed the queen’s hand and she looked at him.

It’s alright, he repeated, his smile exuding a comfort and warmth honed by decades of honest caring for the people of the city.

As she looked at the temple runner, a swarm of emotions rushed over the queen’s face.

It’s alright, Master Baccus said again, his voice but a whisper now.

The queen closed her eyes. Anger, worry, and maybe sadness, Aria thought, pulled at her face.

The room seemed to have grown quieter. Only the muffled sound of the maids bringing dishes to the table and the muted discussions at the other end of the table could be heard.

The temple runner gave the queen a knowledgeable smile. He let go of her hand and leaned back into his chair. Aria peered at her mother’s profile, trying to read into the familiar lines of her face.

The queen sat silently, eyelids half-closed over thoughtful eyes. Her interlaced fingers rested on her lap atop the silky blue fabric of her dress. Her head moved slightly from side to side as if she was desperately negating something. The muscles of her jaw slowly tensed and relaxed under her smooth, pale cheeks. She closed her eyes again and let out a long, controlled breath. A curtain of tranquility spread over her features and the moment was gone, the tension and worry evaporated.

The queen turned to Aria.

Well, nevertheless, Aria, it would be greatly appreciated if you made an effort to be on time, she said. At least for important functions.

She looked down the table, hooked an eyebrow, and smiled.

You know, for appearances’ sake, dear.

Aria was confused. Something weird had just happened. Her mother rarely swayed from her good temper. The last time she had seen her display that much negativity was… Aria could barely remember. She’d been so young. The hint of a memory came back to her, more a blur of emotions than anything else.

Well, should we wait for your father or not? the queen inquired. He has been busy entertaining Lord Hevens and the other trusteds for most of the night.

She leaned toward Aria and lowered her voice.

They might have decided on a sleep over as far as I know. You might find them asleep in each other’s arms now.

Aria could not suppress a laugh. THAT was more like her mom!

Now, now, the temple runner interjected. What did you just say?

He winked at Aria.

The MOST respected and loved Queen Silifia GrandJoy of Alymphia would surely never start rumors of our great king asleep in a man’s arms, would she?

The three of them burst out laughing.

Oh, never would I dare, the queen said mid-laugh. Though, my dear husband might find Lord Hevens’s beard quite comfortable.

Aria was trying her hardest to laugh in a lady-like manner but that was proving quite difficult. When the temple runner followed with a remark about the amount of time Lord Hevens spent in the care of his beloved beard, Aria could not repress a snort. That, in turn, invited a roar of laughter from all around the table.

They were still laughing when Hob entered the room. He was immediately greeted with a loud ‘Prince Hobgard’ from the dignitaries at the end of the table. He wore his official outfit; pants, shirt, and light vest made of brown silk, richly adorned with fine threads of precious metals. His shoulder-length light-brown hair was held in place by his royal circlet, a simple band of intertwined auburn-gold filaments ornamented with a large ruby at its center.

Good morning, he nodded as he approached.

Good morning, Hob, Aria said as he kissed her on the cheek.

Your playing was delightful this morning, she smiled to him.

You heard that? Merely practice exercises, he said dismissively.

He kissed the queen on the cheek as well.

Good morning, Hobgard, the queen said.

Sorry for my tardiness. The festival is coming up and my practicing has been overly time-consuming.

Hob bent politely at the waist and greeted the temple runner before sitting down between Aria and the queen.

A pleasure to see you, Prince Hobgard, the old man said cheerfully.

It’s alright, the queen said after a moment. One has to practice to reach perfection. Losing oneself in the flow of repetition is a rather common thing.

Aria frowned at that comment.

"So Hob can be late but I can’t!"

She was about to make her indignation heard, when one of the steward ceremoniously announced the arrival of the king.

Chapter Two

Syndjya, Capital City of Alymphia.

Year Hundred and Fifty of the New Age

Fall Passing Festival, Two days prior.

Cassien had just finished sharpening a battle sword. He wiped sweat from his brow and inspected his work. The edge of the blade was smooth and properly angled. He ran his thumb along its length and felt the steel sink lightly into his skin. Satisfied, he put the sword down and leaned against his work table.

The weapon barn was still empty. The only sounds that could be heard were the crackling and hissing of the forge Cassien had fed alive when he first came in and the soft moaning of the morning breeze through the aeration holes, high in the blackened ceiling.

With only one of the five forges with a fire going and four lonely torches lit, most of the barn was still draped in shadow. Soon, though, the morning’s first light would filter through the cracks in the barn’s wooden walls. Cassien loved the way it wrapped itself around the smoke rising from the hearth, revealing strange, twisted dances. He would sometimes lose himself into the flitting, rising shapes, private ballets of soft movements exposed unwittingly, moments of everyday beauty he had long since given up trying to share with others.

It’s smoke, Cass! Baley and Jem, the two other weaponsmith’s apprentices, said when he first pointed out the swirling shapes escaping the heat of the hearth.

He is seeing things in the smoke now! they had laughed.

Yeah, Cass, spending too much time at that temple of yours, are ya?

Must be sitting for hours with the old temple runner.

I know! The incense’s giving you visions!

Ya, I’d be careful, there, Cass. It’s messing with your head!

They had gone on and on and he had never brought it up again.

He sometimes had a hard time understanding how people could be so oblivious to what was in front of them. The smoke was only one of a multitude of things he found mesmerizing. He often caught himself stopping in the middle of crowded streets to listen to the chirping of birds filtered through the humming of the crowd. He would close his eyes and let the myriad of sounds wash over him. He would follow the many beats, waves, and resonances of things on things, of people to people, of animals; each sound in itself and each sound layered into every other sound. He would pursue each through its own labyrinth, each a lead and each a follower. And he would find that instant’s rhythm -for everything, every moment has a secret rhythm- and all the random sounds around him would coalesce into music.

But just like Baley and Jem did not see beauty in smoke, few people seemed to hear what he heard in the cacophony of market places. Worse even, none of them cared to try.

"None but Aria."

That thought brought a smile to his lips.

Aria was the only one who followed him beyond what to everybody else was flat and boring. She could see the inherent beauty of the world in the most mundane of things and he cherished her for that.

Whenever she could escape her official duties, she snuck out of the castle and they would wander around town, her hidden behind common pants and him her sworn protector.

When she was by his side, everything was an adventure. Getting warm bread from Jonan’s or simply laying in a park at night became exciting endeavors.

When a couple of summers ago her father had requested that she attend more official functions, Cassien had feared that she might lose interest in the simple pleasures they shared. But he should have known better. Over the seasons, the pressures of her station had not changed Aria and getting involved in the Crown’s affairs had not either. He admired her deeply for that.

As he day-dreamed about Aria, wishing it was already evening so he could see her, Cassien cleaned up his work station. With a couple strokes of his leather apron he swept onto the floor the steel shavings that had accumulated on the tabletop. He then grabbed a large wooden ladle from its hook, dipped it into a water bucket and proceeded to pour large amounts of water onto the grinding stone he just used. Once the stone was soaked, he pulled a towel from a drawer and carefully dried it.

Nikos Borrun, the weapon master, liked to see the workspaces pristine when he first came in in the morning. Since Cassien enjoyed working before sun up, alone, in the quietness of dawn, he had to clean his workspace twice a day; which he did not mind at all.

Nikos would be arriving soon, but Cassien still had the weapon barn to himself for a little while longer. Once the stone was completely dry and his workstation was clean, he grabbed the sword he just finished working on. He lifted it in his left hand, testing its weight and balance. He took a couple of steps along his work station and lunged, left arm forward, the blade an extension of his body. He paused for a heartbeat, stretched out in a position practiced thousands of times, then quickly retreated with a circular parry followed with a straight thrust. He took another couple of steps backward, accompanied by as many rapid feints, and finished with another effortless lunge. The sword felt solid in his hand. It was a good weapon. He inspected it one last time before carefully placing it alongside other finished blades on the sword hanger on the wall. Nowadays, his fencing skills rivaled his weapon-making skills. He had been Nikos’s apprentice since the age of ten and seven years later he had learned almost all the weapon master had to teach.

His first year at the barn had been difficult and he found the basics of metal mixing and melting rather boring. However, once Nikos handed him a hammer and taught him how to shape billets against massive anvils; drawing, folding, and welding the material back onto itself over and over again in order to create layers of steel, things changed dramatically and Cassien turned into an avid and willing student.

By the time he had mastered forming blades, two years had gone by and he was stronger than most boys his age and yielded fifteen-pound hammers as if they were wooden sticks.

Next, Nikos taught him the subtle art of normalizing, the tedious repetition of heating and cooling blades to remove stress from them and Cassien turned out to be surprisingly skilled at what most blacksmiths considered an exhausting exercise in patience.

When he turned fourteen, he was already learning how to sharpen and assemble swords, and he could already make a decent weapon.

Although he spent most of his time making blades, weaponsmithing was not the only thing Cassien learned from Nikos. After catching him many times pretend-fighting with the weapons he worked on, one fall morning Nikos requested his presence on the practice grounds and gave him first official sword fighting lesson. Since then, few were the days when Cassien did not practice the art of battle, either under Nikos’s direct supervision or with the royal guards during their daily training. From time to time, he even trained with Baley or Jem, though they were not very good.

But long before Nikos became Cassien’s teacher, Master Baccus had been his mentor. And where the weapon master taught him how to master battlefields, the temple runner taught him how to master himself.

Like most orphans in Syndjya, Cassien spent most of his youth at the Great Temple where he first met the temple runner and Princess Aria. In Alymphia the teachings of Hethens were considered a crucial part of the education of any child of significant standing, including the heirs to the throne. As such, the children of lords, nobles, and merchants attended weekly lessons on the Words of Hethens at the Great Temple.

The children yielding from humbler families rarely attended those, mostly because their family could not afford it. Time spent at the temple was not spent in fields or in shops earning coin after all. However, for the orphans living at the temple things were different. Despite being the most destitute children of Alymphia, or maybe because of it, they were required to attend those lectures. It had been the will of King Hedgard when, still a prince, he first set up the orphanages around Alymphia by royal decree. And so it was at the Great Temple that, one summer, Cassien the orphan met Aria the princess. In one of the temple’s side yards, together among other children, they sat in the cool shades of large fruit-trees and listened to Master Baccus ceremoniously recite the Ode of the Making, the first text in Hethens’s Canon.

In the beginning, the temple runner said, his voice gentle and level, "the earth was a moving mass of tainted mud.

The Heavens were dark, shrouded in corruption,

And Life was trapped in between and could not seed itself.

Hethens came and spoke to the Earth.

And the Earth stilled itself.

He dipped fiery hands in the mud.

And the mud parted into land and sea.

Hethens turned to the Heavens.

He breathed in three times.

He exhaled three times.

The first Breath purified the Skies.

The second Breath parted the Veil.

The third breath revealed the Gems.

Hethens freed Life.

And Life spread to the Earth and to the Heavens.

Praise Hethens."

Praise Hethens, the children echoed him as they would for myriad of times to come.

Each time, Master Baccus followed with, Now, we close our eyes and open our hearts to Him.

And they closed their eyes, children that they were, and struggled not to peek around or simply stand up and chase each other. Most of them quickly grew bored of hearing the same stories over and over again and just sat there thinking about one thing or another. But to Cassien, Master Baccus’s lessons were more than mere storytelling and bland repetitive prayer. They spoke to him on a deeper level, one his young age struggled to understand. There was something essential behind the stories, a knowledge that begged to be uncovered, something the silence hinted at, just out of his grasp, something very real. Baccus understood Cassien’s inclinations early on and took him under his wing. And whenever time permitted he would teach him of the art of sitting.

Stillness of the mind is mother of all true movement, the old temple runner would repeat every time they sat, cross-legged, to dive inward.

In the beginning, sitting had been challenging. A few seconds felt like drawn-out minutes and for the longest time the silence was an uncomfortable and foreign presence which unleashed a whirlwind in his head. At first, seemingly random thoughts raced through his mind, thoughts that carried him away with them and scattered him to their will. With time, deeper and darker thoughts, and then emotions arose from the bottomless well his practice slowly opened, thoughts and feelings of a surprising and confusing intensity. Quite a few times, suddenly pretending that he had forgotten to do one chore or another, Cassien literally ran away. Master Baccus had been patient and comforting, and when Cassien finally shared the frightening emotions that arose from the silence within him, Baccus taught him ancient phrases to repeat over and over again in order to steel his mind against itself. It was on occasions when the repetitions did not prove enough to still him that Master Baccus started teaching him series of specific movements he called Gi-Yu. Through physical focusing Cassien learned to channel his emotions into effort,