There is a long line waiting to board a crusty old cog. Cyrus is at the front of it after waiting three days in an inn and standing on splintery docks for four hours. To him ship looks like a capsize waiting to happen. Mold and moss create apparent weaknesses in the hulls and ugly green streaks. Even so, it appears more comfortable than anywhere else one could stay on the docks. They are narrow and have caused more splinters than a sea urchin. If there is one thing Cyrus now regrets, it would be losing access to the navy. That is firmly in the hands of the other princes. Hitching a ride from them now would be a death sentence, he fears. Others standing in the line create a foul odor. The weather tonight gives him the chills. Now that the last few people in front of him are gone, the diplomat divulges to the woman outside why his transportation is important.
“Listen, my sister is married to King Ronald III.” This was something he learned after a few visits to Carev. It took months for him to successfully get a letter to her and months more to receive one back. Cyrus never did have the chance to meet her or the King. He supposes this was a deliberate choice by Ronald to prevent Raskidon people from sparking dual loyalty in her. Something changed between those two for her to be able to invite family.
The woman checking in passengers tips up her flashy purple hat with an elliptic brim and bow tied. Waves are crashing up against the dock, splashing small drops on her ankles. Moonlight casts a feint shadow of her as she stands with her wrists overlapping at her belly, long fingers with scratched up nails dangling without a care in the world. She is further from impressed than the distance of this return voyage. “Why do you want to board this boat then? You’ve got to have something fancier on standby.” She knows she is not supposed to even entertain people who try getting onto boats paid for by other people. The particular story she is hearing is too fascinating to pass up.
Cyrus’ eyes dart behind him to glance at the people murmuring behind him before staring dejectedly at the dock floor. The land breeze is picking up. It is bothering him and the others in line. He tucks his hands in the long sleeves of his robe to cope with the chill. “My father, Czar Donik of Raskidon, has effectively forsaken me,” Cyrus divulges. “After five years of entrusting me with the role of peacemaker, he has chosen a path of great violence.” No matter how much anger and despair infiltrate the diplomat’s mind, nothing can erase the sincerity from his cadence. The cold breeze is flustering his face and compel his eyes to water. Having struggled between showing vulnerability and resolve, nature pushes him towards the former.
The dockworker senses desperation in him. She would be happy to take a bribe if there were nobody else behind Cyrus. At least the next four people in line heard everything, and they are growing impatient. Before she could ask him to come back later, someone shoves Cyrus aside. Cyrus’ decision to huddle his arms prevents their use in balancing himself. He rolls his right ankle and tumbles off the side of the dock. He plunges into the sea hip first. The splash creates ripples dissipated by the intense waves in about a second. While screaming in agony, Cyrus forces himself afloat with two arms and his one good leg.
As for the woman that pushed him, the people behind are far too intimidated to get involved. The challenge stems from her social status and physical capabilities as world a renowned boxer patronized by Ronald himself. Not that this prevents the dockworker from giving the attacker a piece of her mind. “Lucille, you idiot! Now we have to take him,” she roars. For free, adds the self-serving section of her mind. The last thing she wants is a Raskidon prince going back home to complain about how he was treated. As far as the dockworker knows, he could have everyone here arrested. A brave bunch not so afraid of Lucille throw in a rope tied to one of the posts. Cyrus gets ahold of it, and the rescuers pull his weight up to bring him to safety. They stand awkwardly shoulder to shoulder, having had so little room to work in unison. Upon a closer look, Cyrus surmises that this is a family. The parents close to Ryler’s age and their daughter no older than seven.
“Is anything broken?” the mother asks.
Cyrus tries to stand up. He comes to regret it. “Something in my ankle perhaps. But I must continue this visit. This is for the good of the one brother I know I truly have.” Cyrus thinks back to how he left Edwin to his own devices. He wishes he had the courage to stick with him through the upcoming conflict. Or better yet, tried making a case for himself as the ruler and Edwin venturing off elsewhere with what little prestige his church role still gave him. But Cyrus realizes how true it was that he had insufficient faith in himself. Without a word, the kind strangers hoist him up to bring him on board.
Seeking to get the attention of the group, the child circles around them flings out her arms. “You could beat her up once you get better!”, the child boasts of his behalf. She pumps her fists, then shadowboxes to demonstrate the unusual techniques that she believes could defeat Lucille.
This amuses him, lightens the mood. Never the type to look for a fight, he gets her hopes down by stating, “that was never something I was known for.” He also acknowledges that his physical feats are lacking compared to any boxer. Cyrus receives assistance up the gangplank. His new friends on either side fulfill the role of crutches as he ambles with difficulty on one foot.
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Aster is allowed to stay in Raskidon Palace for as long as he would like, given his close friendship with Donik. Lodging for the guests is luxurious. Morton is sleeping in a separate bed separated by linen curtains with the Dragon of Hoytland. This privacy allows Aster’s wife to treat him from under the blankets (and sometimes, the other way around). Each bedroom comes with its own garderobe, preventing guests from having to sleep with the smell of their own feces. The room stands on the floor third from the ground, overlooking the beloved Berugi Ocean, a vast expanse of mystery whose exploration is this count’s pastime.
While Ryler is quick to tell him of the various cryptids of open ocean, the Count has more realistic expectations of what to find there. He dreams of figuring out a reliable method to retrieve lost artifacts of his people’s past. Unlike Raskidon, which found itself at the mercy of Poqdovia over a period of a hundred and fifty years, Hoytland was absorbed in a rapid invasion by Czar Gre. Several treasured pieces of its history were thrown into the ocean to protect it from plunderers. The people believed their patron deity, Phoci the Ray Goddess, would defend all cherished goods that make their way to the sea floor. Still coloured a monster by the people of Hoytland, the rest of Gre’s bloodline had to be presented in the most favorable way possible over the course of generations.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
Aster is shuffling through a sketchbook full of ways he believes could retrieve relics of his ancestors. There are dozens of ideas, yet the hundreds of pages still left in this once blank book gives the Count a subconscious push to conjure more. In one, he figures out a way to make bamboo more malleable, or discover a naturally suitable substitute, and create a tube to breathe through while he swims. In another, an empty barrel is weighted and has a small glass hole to see through. One thing is clear to him: lowering nets and dragging them with boats has yielded unsatisfactory results. So, anything is on the table.
His wife, Beryl, wriggles her way out of the sheets, revealing her top-heavy figure and black, wavy hair. She could tell from a lack of noise that Aster had his focus elsewhere and wanted to see what. “You really need to give yourself a break,” she scolds, albeit gently. Unlike Donik’s late wife and myriad of concubines, Beryl is native to the same realm as her husband and wishes for the same discovery of her people’s past. This passion brought them together, kept them together, and create tension between them all at once.
Aster brushes the hair around her ears with his fingertips. It offers some comfort. He explains his situation while he adores her pouty face and caresses its smooth skin. “It involves this again.” Aster flips the book around vertically, then makes a quick correction when he realizes she would be viewing the illustration upside down.
She flips through some of the newer pages to have an idea of what possibilities he considered so far. This pushes her to ponder possibilities of her own. Some time passes in silence, with Aster anxiously awaiting approval. “Why not get some pearl hunters to help?”
The count groans at the thought of it and reminds her, “those men are scoundrels. How can I ever trust them?” His arms become dead weight. Beryl clamps his right hand as it drops on her shoulder and scratches between his fingers with her jagged, lengthy nails.
She implores him, “could you relax for a few seconds?” The hostile response is reasonable. She knows the pearl hunters have taken advantage of desperate archaeologists before. The optimal strategy is to trust but verify. “I know we have to be careful. So, why not ask Ryler?” She receives a cut-eye but elaborates without hesitation. “Ask one of his merchant fleets to watch them. Surround them, even. You two have always been good friends…” Through the tsk-tsks and tut-tuts, the countess continues making her case. “Er, sometimes. Look, I know we have to protect our s—Morton.” As much as she wishes the child were hers, the she cannot forget the distinction for the sake of their bloodline. “But we have some time before anyone even thinks of hurting us.”
Aster turns onto his other side. He needs his own time to think about this idea. He is still disappointed that after years of arguing the importance of his work to the Czar and nobility, he has no support in his endeavors. It gives him this notion that Hoytlanders are the only people to care about their ancestors. Many other nobles seem to forget who they were before Raskidon began its expansion. Most of them preferred Moxi over the patron deities that guided their families for millennia, at least until Moxi too was abandoned by many of them for a pantheon of plant deities instead. All in all, it is up. Aster tunes out the precious voice calling his name to reflect on these circumstances. The only thing that can bring him back is when Morton walks up to his bedside with the perfect question.
“Uncle, can we go fishing?”
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Luther’s cart has been trekking the trampled trails for three days, three nights. Prolonged sitting gave him enough pain for him to resort to resting on Preston’s lap. He recalls the unusual crush he had on Edwin some four years ago. On the off occasion they travelled long distances together, the young bureaucrat asked to rest his head on Edwin’s lap. What he is doing now was the closest he could get to his half-brother. Having known even then what Donik did to his brothers, Luther knew that if he ever desired a male concubine, it would have to be someone with significantly less power and outside his family. Thus, he repudiated those peculiar feelings soon enough after they began. Luther drifts off into a nap. Preston allows it for the silent final stretch of the ride, then slides out from under him once they reach their first stop. Everyone in the escort unit knows what to do from here. Rudimentary dwellings made of log are gathered in a circle. It was some luck that the guards found the correct location; these homes are moved seasonally. These ranchers have very little going on while their lord is away. Only a handful bother to present themselves as busy in their fenced off pastures. One throws feed to his cattle. They drop the act once a third one points out the luxurious carriage. That is when people start piling out in the center of the hamlet.
Preston trots back to Luther’s coach. Calice is hoisting up a couple of chipped water buckets to satiate the thirst of the horses. Her arms tremble while they work to keep the buckets steady with no energy. Her whole face bears a downward slant akin to the sides of the mountain behind her. She has been looking forward to a break. Coachmen are generally not expected to sleep before reaching a destination. In practice, horses getting tired creates the perfect excuse for everyone to stop, so long as the destination is far enough from any stables that can change the horses. If Preston and Calice were better able to see eye to eye, perhaps he would be willing to aid her instead of going straight to Luther. He nudges the sleeping prince a few times.
Luther rattles his throat, shifts his upper body upright, and wipes the rheum from his eyes. It takes no elucidation for him to discern what time it is. Speech time, he figures. He hops down onto the dew grass. The two enjoy the sounds of animal wild and domestic while they make their way to the hamlet. Perfect attendance, though he assumes that was enforced. Having spent the last night memorizing what he had written, he recites his address in a way that seems heartfelt.
“I came here to tell everyone something important. The Czar is dying. You might not know this, but that’s going to bring us into an age of disunity. I came here not just to get people on my side when that time comes. I actually need some help now. You see, I don’t want a situation where we become vulnerable to that meddling bastard, Jace. He can be just as much of a conniver as past Poqdovian Czars if we give him the chance. He could decide the next time we divide should be the time to invade us. No one would be able to protect you. And honestly, no one would want to. You have to count on each other. You have to count on me. But the only way I can save Raskidon is to keep it together. I know that means becoming a usurper. I know that means becoming a kinslayer. Those are the sacrifices I’m willing to make, the burden I’m willing to bear, for you people. Eventually, I will meet with your baron and tell him exactly how you all feel: scared, mad, and ready to fight if it means we have stability for much. I just have one question for you: is this the truth?”