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 absolutely vomit-inducing scene of a jovial King Tyr greeting Palmr Jorgensen with a warm, laughing embrace…

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

  Her eyes followed this Prince of Pretjord—this mythical creature born of an improbable marriage—as he took his place at the dining table on Palmr’s raised platform. Her mind drank in every new 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 was currently on strike.

  For what reason, she had no way to fathom. Just like she couldn’t understand this sudden rush of emotion that overrode her ability to think straight.

  Then, in Trippy’s pointed absence, a third entity answered for her. Except its 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.

  Focus 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 attitudes between the Stammers and Rotters—with the former hanging onto King Tyr’s every word with glowing smiles, while the latter… did the same but with a lot fewer smiles. 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 right. 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 ever come across in her short career. Its shaft was of gold-inlaid steel with a bluish tint, not unlike the markings on a certain giant salamander. An ornamental collar at the base of the blade featured various gemstones embedded into a gold-plated ring. And the blade itself was just as remarkable, with three prongs that flared out in a triangular arrangement, each of them barbed to ensure an inescapable bite.

  One thing I’ve noticed, Serac mused, somewhat calmed by the mental exercise, is that a Wayfarer’s Auxiliary can often be fancier (or at least more visually striking) than their main Instrument. That’s the case with the Tomasens’ OARs and COASTER, Renate’s DREDGER and OYSTER, even my own PULVERIZER and REVOLVER fit the bill. And here again with GUNGNIR and… and… hang on, where is this guy’s FURNACE?

  This 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 that this FURNACE had anything to do with the Furnaces that had left permanent scars upon a Penitent soul, but even that doubt was enough to momentarily douse any stirrings she might’ve felt for the smiling prince. In their place, Serac was left with only curiosity: what did this Instrument look like and where exactly did Rathor keep it on his person?

  Speaking of… I don’t remember seeing that DIAPHRAGM on Loha’s person either. And if I look again… nope, still not there. Hmm. Wayfaring mother and son who both carry on with no visible Instrument. I wonder if I’m missing something…

  Before Serac could make any inroads on her private musings, she 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, and had 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 getting to the part where you explain exactly why we couldn’t have a Realmhunt for the last six years?”

  A second of shocked silence, followed by murmurs up and down both sides of the divide.

  With all the bodies in the way, Serac couldn’t see the speaker, but she thought she recognized the voice, belonging to a certain clownfish cobbler. I didn’t know he had it in him! And as much as she could commend the man for his boldness, a part of her couldn’t help but be worried on his behalf.

  And then, even before the King himself could offer a response:

  “I’m more interested to hear your reasons for siccing your soldiers on us!” 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 before they could turn Starveling? Not only were you not 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 were the sparks that set off a powder keg. Emboldened by righteous rage, the entire Rotgardian contingent erupted in an uproar of heckling and outcry.

  The Stamgardian side 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 abuse by a lawless mob.

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  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 that they’d keep their cool or that someone in charge would bring a halt to this madness! As soon as she had that 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!

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

  “—ac Edin and Zacarias Borges-Juventus!” Someone in the crowd was shouting, 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 how ‘distant’ she was from the issue 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 King Tyr himself, waiting for his response. Explanation? Appeasement? Denial and condemnation? Anything would’ve been preferable to silence, and yet…

  Serac watched the Immortal for his reaction to the whole mess, and was genuinely surprised by what she saw. From a man of his stature, she might’ve expected stern anger, calm authority, or perhaps even that friendly 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, a strange, impossible thought occurred to Serac.

  Does this guy not know what was happening at the border all these years? Even at the feast, he gave off the impression that 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 think these soldiers aren’t even acting on his orders! But if that’s true, then—

  “Outrealmers!”

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

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

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

  The prince’s words were the wind that parted the sea—well, a sea of Yakshas, at any rate. 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. And as soon as their eyes met for the first time, Rathor graced Serac with a winning smile, one 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 threatened to go completely blank. Well, if Mr Prince says so, it must be true!

  Once more carried away by her distracted thoughts, it took Serac a second to realize that 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. For 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 had 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 on 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 not much space for maneuvering. Serac found herself pushed and pulled uncomfortably close to Rathor’s bare chest. But the prince wasn’t done there.

  “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 was the realization that broke Serac out of her ‘spell’—at least for the moment.

  Really? 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 that I’ve 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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