It’s a late evening in the small village to the south of the country. The light passes through the mudded window into the yard of one lone house. Inside, a gas lamp flickers on the table as the moths surround it and bump against the glass.
A woman, slouched on the chair, squints her eyes and raises the book closer to her face to compensate for the lack of vision. The almanac with the descriptive title Land of Hrom, Country of Resenn, and State of Its Royal Family in the Year of 895, made out of rough yellow-ish paper, details the news and dealings of the country and its ruling family in the respective year.
The woman isn’t reading such a thing to catch up on the news or give some food for thought late at night — no, in fact, she is reading the almanac to put her kids to sleep. There weren't any books of fairy tales or folklore left that she hadn’t already read. After the kids’ complaints about the constant repetition, she had no choice but to pull out the most recent chronicle. The front cover with a painted picture of the capital city’s Royal Palace is stained with the remnants of a soup, something oily and green — she pulled it out from under the pot. There isn’t any better use for something like this in their circumstances than as a stand for kitchenware.
“...there, in the capital — our glorious marble-clad city of Structtes, blessed once by late Deuron herself — resides King Hurd II Edermour with his family,” the woman begins somewhere in the middle of the almanac. “A few years back, the Country of Resenn welcomed the delightful news: the King and Queen had a son, born to bear the name of Leroenn and hold the title of a Prince.”
The woman coughs before continuing, her spit reaching the pages of the chronicle and blurring the ink of the text, “The Prince, as reported by King Hurd II, not only has the divine title of the future ruler of Resenn. But also, when the King first saw the child, he proclaimed his descendant as the holder of the Holy Facade. That’s not where the blessings end, the child was bestowed by the Omni Deuron as a Kenness. As expected, it is of no amazement that one of the Royal Family would receive such a divine gift — a gift of clairvoyance.”
“A gift?” the younger brother rubs his eyes. He was almost asleep, but the sudden interesting detail chased the dream away. “So what can he do?”
“I wouldn’t know, Isak. Never met one of those people, those Keenn… Keen…” she struggles to repeat the word; after a couple more tries, she gives up. “They see something that we can’t, that’s all.”
The kid nods, though he isn’t satisfied with the answer. He stares into the ceiling, black in places from the furnace soot, trying to imagine what it's like — but it proves hard for him to comprehend something that he cannot see.
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“The mentors and secretaries of the Royal Family, though not disclosed in full, report that the child’s abilities are exceptional,” the woman continues. “Because of the nature of the gift and his Holy Facade, Prince’s face is wholly covered with linen cloth at every public event. The Prince’s crown adjourns his head.”
“Why?” the younger child shows curiosity once again. “Would we turn to ash if we, mere mortals, saw his face or what?”
“Could be,” the woman shrugs, raising her shoulders.
“Or maybe they cover his face because he’s an ugly child,” the older brother remarks and chuckles by himself, chiming into the conversation.
“Kurt!” the woman raises her voice. “Don’t speak what you don’t know.”
“Or her Excellency Deuron will punish me, right?” the older kid retorts.
The woman is silent, her lips quivering with a mix of anger and frustration, before she tries to pull her thin resolve together and say in almost a whisper, “Go to sleep.”
“Mom, don’t mind him,” the younger brother tries to calm the situation. “Read more for me.”
The woman sighs and shakes her head, before coming back to the chronicle and
meticulously trying to find the place where she left off. “The King already announced that his son would be the one to take part in the Divination — a tournament to determine the ruling country and house among the Hrom Lands for the next fifty years. As our Country of Resenn never won the Tournament, mayhaps this time the victory will come to our revered ground. Prince Leroenn, as a representative Keenness of our country, together with one chosen Royal Chevalier, would take part in Divination in the Year 911.”
The younger kid once again interrupts. “Together with who? Roya—”
“Shh!” the mother stops him as the older brother is already sniffling in his sleep. “It says here next,” she continues reading in a more quiet voice. “The chosen Royal Chevalier will be decided through the battles in the Capital Arena among the active ranks of the guild. Secretaries don’t report when such a battle would take place, but not in the next decade at the very least.”
“Those Royal… knights, or whoever they are, must be paid well,” the kid shares his thoughts; unfortunately, being from a family, living in the poor parts of the country, the dreams of his future prospects would often involve the need to mind the expected payment. “Royal Chevaliers…” he repeats again.
“Isak, think about something less… so high up in the sky. You can become a guard in the nearest town. It isn’t bad, the husband of that lady, who lives close to the mill, works there and she told me nice things about that post. They pay well and we’re thinking of giving Krut to train there, they promise to give him the job right away then, you also could do this, when the time comes and …”
The kid pretends to snore, “Now that’s a lullaby.”
“Sleep already,” the woman says at last before closing the pages of the almanac with a soft thump, while the dust from it whirls in the air. She ruffles her son’s hair as a goodnight gesture and leaves. “You are getting too grown up for bedtime stories.”
For a while, in a state between a dream and a reality, Isak imagines the capital city, made of marble; the King’s Palace, built with many floors and towers; the Capital Arena, where countless battles are fought; and the Royal Chevaliers, clad in shining armor.