Reflections

“Well,” Plod said, standing from his kneeling position, “that was very interesting, scrub.” He cocked an eyebrow. “But what was the point?”

“What was the point?” Inalla scoffed, still fascinated by the ceremony. “The new Harvester King got coronated! What more could you ask for?”

“So some pious Harvester got a fancy crown.” Plod shrugged. “Didn’t get me any food or shoes from it. Like I asked, what was the point?”

Inalla was about to reply, but her retort died in her throat. Plod was right. Yrit may have become Harvester King, but it didn’t really mean anything at this moment. Maybe in the future, but not right now. And, right now, Inalla and Plod were hungry.

“Alright, Plod.” Inalla sighed, standing up. “We can go to the kitchens now.” Plod smiled and held out his arm, as if he were a nobleman instead of a dirty, ragged urchin that lived in the underbelly of Glausiania.

Inalla wished she could do that- forget what the courtiers and her parents thought of her and act like she wanted to act. Why couldn’t her mother see that?

My mother. Inalla thought, her eyes widening.

“We can’t go back through the sewers!” Inalla spluttered, letting go of Plod’s arm and kneeling quickly next to the sewer grate.

“Why not?” Plod asked, confused. “They aren’t that dirty.”

“It’s not that.” Inalla explained as she deftly undid the fastenings on the metal door. “My mother was asking me about the sewers this morning. I didn’t think anything of it, but when she asked Highking Yrit about me, I could have sworn she looked this way.” Inalla shuddered. “She’s probably on her way with soldiers this very minute.”

“But…” Plod protested. “I can’t go into the chapel! I shouldn’t even be this close to it!”

“You’re with me, silly.” Inalla threw him a winning smile. “And no matter how much i hate it, I am a princess.”

Plod sighed. “Lead the way, scrub. I suppose I’ll just deal with it as we go.” Inalla grinned and quickly jumped up to kiss his cheek before throwing open the grate.

“Tally ho!” She exclaimed as  she and Plod ran into the chapel.

Inalla had never known how much of an uproar a couple of children running through the Diradis meeting hall could make. Outrageous accusations were thrown their way almost as soon as they came into view, calls of “Heathens”, “Barbarians”, and even “Flens” rampant amongst the disgusted patrons. Inalla and Plod paid them no heed as they pushed through the aristocrats. The pair smiled as, every time they touched a piece of fine clothing, they left some sort of dirty mark on it. Plod was enjoying himself, laughing and smiling like Inalla had never seen. Inalla gasped in both horror and delight as he slapped a woman’s bottom, leaving a brown handprint on her white bussel.

“Be careful!” She giggled as they ran as fast as they could away from the fuming woman. “We don’t want to get in trouble!”

“Too late!” Plod laughed, grabbing her hand and taking the lead through the crowd. “Come on!” He pulled her through the cracks in the flow of people that led toward the great pair of oak doors that sat at the front of the room. Nearly knocking over several of Matrikai’s highest nobles, they popped out of the throng of people into the phantom sunlight.

And, as neither were looking where they were going, they both ran straight into Highlord Elik Kilvanio of the Council of Blood. They both fell on their backs on the hard cobblestone as the giant of a man turned with a storm in his green eyes.

“Who are you?” He snapped, hosting them both up by their arms. “Why are urchins running around where anyone of noble birth can see?” His eyes narrowed as he saw the discrepancy between the pair’s respective states of hygiene. “You look familiar.” He pointed at Inalla. “Which noble’s daughter are you?”

Before she could answer, he waved a hand to stop her words. “Bah, no matter.” He looked at Plod with an intense fury that bordered on hatred. “I will leave punishment up to your parents, girl, but this one is mine to punish.” He pulled up his sleeve, revealing the white bone spike that sat on his wrist. “Let us see how he fares with a few extra scars to mark his transgression.”

Inalla didn’t know Highlords very well, but she recognized a Bloodblade when she saw one. “No!” She screamed, slapping Elik’s hand away from his wrist. “You can’t do that! He didn’t do anything wrong!”

“You go too far, girl!” Elik roared, pushing her aside and throwing her back to the cobblestones. “I may do what I please with sinners, and this boy defies Aia with his raucous behavior, in a churchyard no less. You will hold your tongue, or I shall cut it off myself!”

He put his fingers to the hilt of his Blade, and was about to draw it when a soft, meaningful voice cut in through the silence that had ensued.

“What is going on here?” It said, and the crowd around Elik parted. A man walked with dignity to the center of the crowd. He wore a blood red crown on his head and a look of justice on his face. “Explain yourself, Elik.”

“Highking Yrit.” Elik said, half fervently and half nervously. “I apologize for disturbing your glorious day, but I was dealing with an urchin that attacked me.”

“That’s not true!” Inalla screamed, tears running down her face. Plod lay on the ground, unmoving, all the blood drained from his face. “We were just running and we bumped into him!”

Yrit looked at Inalla closely for a moment, then looked back at Elik with a raised eyebrow. “I would suggest you use your words carefully, Highlord. I wouldn’t want to upset the princess any more than you already have.”

Elik paled considerably, and his fingers began to shake ever so slightly. “Princess Inalla? But… I…” He took a deep breath to compose himself. “Whether she is the princess or not, she is none of my concern. This boy, however,” He gestured to Plod, “is under no such protection. He attacked me, and I will have my penance.”

“Come now, Highlord.” Yrit smiled. “Surely the great Elik Kilvanio of Reledan cannot be attacked by a mere boy? Would the “Storm of Kaskalok” find himself subject to a boy of thirteen?” Yrit walked over to Plod and held out a hand. Plod took it, standing shakily.

“Thank you, your majesty.” He said shakily. “I am in your debt.”

“Nonsense.” Yrit said with a wave of his hand. “I am in yours for this horrible misunderstanding.” Yrit looked around. “Guard! Take this boy to my mansion and give him a hot meal, a bath, and some clothing. He will be my personal page for the time being, before we leave for Xexera.”

Plod’s eyes were wide. “Thank you, your majesty.” He said, tears threatening to fall from his cheeks. “Thank you.”

“You are welcome, dear boy.” Yrit bowed. “You shall be taken care of.” He looked over at Inalla with a raised eyebrow and the hints of a smile playing about his lips. “Now, princess, I believe your mother was looking for you?” He gestured toward the palace. “Perhaps you should return before too long. Wouldn’t want to miss the celebratory feast, would you?” Inalla shook her head. “I thought not. Lord Elik.” He nodded at the fuming Highlord. “Remember that sometimes a gentle hand is better than a firm arm.”

Yrit turned on his heel and walked off gracefully, the crowd parting once more. As he left, however, Inalla saw something strange. A mirror stood against the wall of a building, dusty and old. It still reflected, though, and Inalla glanced at it as Yrit passed by it. She gasped as he did so, her hand flying to her mouth before she could scream.

Highking Yrit’s reflection did not show the handsome, kind man she had just met. Instead, she saw a rotten, walking corpse dressed in the finery of the Harvester King. And it was smiling a smile that spoke of evil and wickedness.

Inalla ran in the opposite direction, toward the palace and away from that smile.

* * *

You always have had a way with the lowly and poor. Liranif noted as Yrit walked away from the scene. Maybe its the product of a guilty conscience.

Or maybe it’s as a kindness.  Yrit countered with steel in his voice. No one should have to live like that. If I can save one, that is one less child that will not have to grow up as I did.

But look where you are now, Yrit! Liranif mocked. An urchin from the beginning, Harvester King at the end! Surely that boy might have a better opportunity if you left him to usurp a noble’s position. Highlord Elik’s son, perhaps?

Yrit growled. That is something I still am not proud of, Liranif, and you would do well to note it. I needed a position of power so that I could help many more people. Vixin just happened to be the collateral damage.

Collateral damage, oh yes. Liranif said. And who else will be collateral damage in your plot? Cixusa and Kiijal have already died because of your schemes. Who next? Gestarin? Valanal? Aia himself? Yrit could feel the anger radiating from his reflection. He wasn’t sure where the mirror was, but he knew it was there. You would do well to note your place in the grand scheme of things.

My place, Yrit snapped, is at the forefront of humanity, leading it into prosperity. That is why I make the sacrifices I do. That is why I allow myself to plot, to scheme. It will help them in the end.

And what of the ones who it does not help? Liranif pointed out. You cannot possibly help everyone. What criteria are you using to judge the ones who will prosper and the ones who will fall?

The ones who deserve to prosper will. Yrit said haughtily. Time will tell who deserves to participate in the glory I will bring.

And who are you to decide who deserves what? Liranif chuckled. A lowly human, and low on the human scale as well. Who do you think you are, Finaril? Some sort of god walking among men? You started from nothing, and if you continue to shirk your responsibility, then you will return to nothing.

Shirk my responsibility? Yrit growled, his temper growing thin. I have done naught but work for the people since I learned of my mission on this world. What right do you have to speak to me of shirking duties? Yrit nodded to Highlord Igith as he passed him on the street. None of the people around him knew of the intense argument he was having with a strange voice. Where was that damn mirror?

Who do you think I am? Liranif yelled in Yrit’s head, openly angry for the first time. Do you think I am your servant, Finaril? Given to you to carry out your petty whims? I am a part of something you cannot begin to imagine, and unless you follow what I say, you will be left behind when a day far more glorious than this comes about.

Yrit clenched his teeth to keep himself from screaming in frustration, a dull headache beginning to from behind his eyes. He had begun to rub his temples when he remembered: the mirror was in his own pocket.

Desperately he fished in the folds of his cloak, searching and searching. Triumphantly, he pulled the miniscule, hand-sized mirror from one of the pockets. The maid must have placed it there in case he wanted to check his appearance before the coronation. How wise. How foolish. With an almost casual gesture that was simultaneously filled with contempt, he slammed the mirror against the ground. Liranif was suddenly silenced.

Sweet silence. Yrit had missed that.

A dull thumping noise began to sound in Yrit’s ears, a sound that very closely resembled the sound of a beating heart. Yrit stopped and whirled around, trying to locate the source of the sound. A Bloodwielder duel, perhaps? The noise greatly resembled the sound of clashing Bloodblades- but no. It wasn’t quite right. It was more the sound of a sail flapping in the wind than the clash of Blades. Or possibly the wings of a bird. Or the wings of…

Yrit looked up into the dark day sky to see three white shapes in contrasted against the blackness of the heavens.

Jods.

The King of Glausiania had returned.

In great haste, Highking Yrit began to make his way to the royal palace.