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Chapter XLVIII : Promise

Midday of Primoris, Ninth Day of Autumnmoon

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Józef led his new troupe through a series of tunnels that emerged east of Rungholt, through a small cave. The entrance was barely visible, on the side of a bluff, more than a league from the city. By his side marched Konrad, Bram, five veteran soldiers, two scouts, and a couple of sorcerers. The escort was quite large, but Konrad would have accepted nothing less. As a boy with many sojourns under his belt, Józef preferred to travel light. But as king, he acquiesced to the will of his chief advisor.

The scouts went ahead to check for Angkorians. As soon as the area was cleared, Bram led them to the sandskipper, which was well hidden inside a dense thicket. The Knight looked relieved to see his companions, especially the child named Yuri, who threw her arms around his leg as soon as she saw him. Bram introduced them to Géorg, who had once fought in King Henrich’s army. The former soldier was saddened to hear of Henrich’s passing, but he welcomed Józef warmly.

Bram led the young heir to a woman who slept in the bed of the sandskipper, the same who had been cursed by the rogue wizard. She lay motionless, under blankets. Her face looked peaceful, but apparently the horrid illness still lingered inside her body. Now that Matthias was gone, the enchanted stasis slowly faded. Soon, she would require food and water, and she would be vulnerable to the adverse effects of being in a coma. Józef asked his sorcerers to tend to her, but they were not experienced with the ambisanguinous scholar’s advanced treatments. Only the sap of Prometheus would cure her completely.

When introductions were over, Józef urged his group onward. He was anxious to be on his way and eager to return with reinforcements from Koba. To compensate for the heavy load, the sorcerers gave the sandskipper extra lift and maneuverability. Géorg started the engines, and they were off.

Bram warned to steer clear of open areas, due to patrolling airships. East of Kitezh, the foliage was sparse, which made it risky to travel during daytime without cover. So as soon as they reached the countryside, Józef led them to an inconspicuous, white farmhouse, nestled between fields of radishes and potatoes. There lived a family, loyal to the crown, where they could rest until nightfall.

An older couple answered the door, understandably surprised to see the heir of Kitezh and his ragtag group. He told them about the attack and death of his father, and the couple wept openly. They explained that they had heard rumors of an attack, but no details. They held out hope for as long as possible, but it was clear now that Kitezh would never be the same. Józef quickly laid out his need for food and rest, and the couple was happy to accommodate.

After making introductions, the young king explained his relationship to the couple to Bram. “Sven and Marta have been loyal to us for generations. Sven’s uncle worked at the castle, till he passed away two summers ago. And Marta’s sister knew my mother.”

Bram looked surprised. “Such relationships are uncommon in my country. I grew up on a farm, and I know how rural folk feel about the cities. Angkor has a fairly wide social divide. People on the outskirts are happier not knowing their wealthier neighbors, and the same goes in reverse.”

Józef was appalled. “Why not? Do city dwellers look down on working families?”

Bram shook his head. “Sometimes they do, but that’s not always the case. Mostly, it’s due to false perceptions. City dwellers assume country folk are boorish and ill tempered, while those in rural areas find urban folk to be elitist and arrogant.”

Józef shrugged. “I wonder how Angkor can even function economically. In Kitezh, the working class is necessary for our country to prosper, and the governing class keeps the people safe and prosperous. I don’t understand why anyone would want to isolate on either side.”

The Knight had no response. He acted as if he heard something profound, which felt strange to the young king. Józef had always considered it common sense.

Sven welcomed them inside. “Please, make yourself at home. We have a loft where you can rest.”

Marta was just as friendly. She bent down to Yuri, who still clung to Bram’s arm. “How about you, child? Are you hungry? I’d be delighted to cook for you.”

She shook her head and buried her face in Gnostic armor.

Bram took her fondly by the shoulders, kneeling so he could speak at her level. “I think you should eat. You’ve had only dried food for days, and we might not get another chance.”

Józef was impressed. Bram could have easily been the girl’s father. Yet, seeing him dressed in black Gnostic armor seemed like a contradiction.

Marta smiled and extended her hand patiently. Yuri hesitated, but she eventually followed the matronly woman into the kitchen. Bram joined Konrad and Géorg by the fire in the next room to discuss the best route through the marshes, but Józef excused himself. He was exhausted and thought it best if he headed to the loft for a nap. The day’s events sapped his strength, both physically and emotionally.

He laid down on a small straw mattress and stared up at the thatched ceiling. He felt so small and alone. Angkor was large and powerful. During The War, Kitezh combined forces with Koba and yet still did not prevail. Now, Angkor’s power had grown without bounds. They were strong enough to crush his capital in a day. His remaining contingent might not even last long enough for him to return with reinforcements. It felt futile to even try.

Earlier, he displayed bluster and optimism, but it was all an act. One that he was already tired of playing. He had to think positively to motivate his subjects. But he wasn’t sure if he could keep it up. His mind wandered, and his confidence sank.

“Everyone depends on me,” he mused as he drifted to sleep. “How could I live with myself if I let them down … like I did with Angela?”

With her name on his mind, his thoughts drifted to a trip he made to Lake Derfriedlich in the western province. It was his first trip with Angela since arriving back in Kitezh. The scene was beautiful and serene, with a hill overlooking an inexplicably placid lake. Whenever the sun ducked behind the clouds, the surface became a mirror, reflecting the surrounding mountains as if the world had a twin, and the pair stood side by side.

As a boy, he used to pretend the lake was a passage, and he could travel between worlds to meet new people. He wrote a ballad about it, which he played on his lute. Angela lay by his side, still laughing at the joke he had told her earlier. Golden sunshine lit her tight red curls, and she was beautiful.

Feeling the damp grass at his back, he relaxed to the sound of gossiping birds. It was early autumn, when warm, pleasant air rolled into the glen. Tall, spindly pines textured the valley walls, and clouds curled into shapes of exotic beasts—or so he liked to imagine. Angela announced their names as she found them.

“Cockatrice … minotaur … nymph ….”

“There, a viscar,” he proclaimed, pointing up. He wanted Angela to see it, but when he turned to face her, she was gone. His smile faded.

“I shouldn’t have brought you,” he admitted to the pantheon of puffy white beasts. “I wanted to show you the world. Instead, I brought you an early grave.”

His heart sank, and the scenery shifted. Clouds rolled in, blocking the sunlight and casting a dark veil over the valley. A drizzle spoiled the lake’s mirror surface.

He squeezed out tears. “You trusted me, and look what happened. I can’t know the future. I’m … stupid and immature. I can’t be trusted to protect an entire country.”

The vista drained of color, turning it drab and gloomy. Fog rose from the lake’s surface, clawing its way to the shore in spidery tendrils.

“If I return too late, Angkor will discover our Network and murder my people.”

The grass wilted, and the hills turned brown. The lake became a pit of mud.

“I’ll tarnish Papa’s legacy and bring ruin to our country. I can’t be king. I’m not worthy.”

With his head buried between his arms and knees, he failed to notice the world’s transformation. Had it not been for an icy chill that blew across his neck and prickled his skin, he would have still been engrossed in his own suffering.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

He looked up, and for the first time saw the morbid perversion of what had once been a beautiful portrait. In its place stood a hideous cesspool, surrounded by banks of silt and mud. He was so shocked and dismayed that he stood up without thinking. His soft shoes slipped, and he lost his balance. He tumbled down the hill, sliding until he landed in the cold, black, boggy water.

His placed his hands in front to brace for impact, but they sank into earthy sediment. He twisted and struggled to stand upright. Once stable, he wiped the fetid paste from his mouth and cheeks, only succeeding in leaving muddy smears. He spat the odious mixture seeping between his lips, gagging at its slimy texture. A harsh wind blew against his neck, bringing back the goose bumps. But this time, it carried a faint voice.

“Józef ….”

He recognized the sweet voice instantly. “Angela?”

“Józef ….”

This time, it sounded hollow and empty, like the rest of the dusky fen.

He struggled to stand, but all he could do was crawl his way back to the barren mound that was once a hill. His shoes sunk into the mud with every step. The hairs on his neck stood at edge, and he shivered uncontrollably. He looked over his shoulder. There, at the center of the lake, mostly obscured by fog, was a figure. He was certain it was her.

“Angela!”

He hollered her name, but the figure merely stood there, waiting. A layer of white mist drifted in front. Right before she disappeared, a white arm beckoned.

He pulled out his legs, leaving his shoes behind, and waded into the swampy waters.

“Angela!”

He begged her to respond, eager to feel her comforting skin, desperate to hear her gentle laugh. Each step took him deeper into murky sediment, but still he failed to close the distance. Before long, he was neck-deep and treading water, unable to see past the wall of fog on either side. He turned, disoriented, but there was no shore. Just limitless black sludge in all directions.

He stopped to gather his wits, now more worried about how to escape than to find the figure. She always stood at the edge of the fog, no matter how far he advanced.

“J ó z e f!”

The voice had changed. It was ghastly and wicked, like a banshee. It hurt his ears just to hear it.

“What are you?” His voice quivered with fear and revilement.

“D o u b t … r e g r e t … d e s p a i r ….”

He shook his head, detesting this dream from which he could not wake. “Why do you haunt me, Spirit? Why do you lead me to these tormented waters?”

The grisly voice seemed happy to respond. “Inquire within, spoiled prince. You entered my embrace willingly. It comforts you.”

He was angry. “Don’t mock me! I could never be comforted by this twisted nightmare? And I don’t need to respond to your taunts. I’ll force myself awake and continue my journey.”

The voice cackled with delight. “You, who called yourself a failure only moments ago? You would continue a journey that you know will end in death? One that will lead those who follow you to their deaths as well?”

The voice was right. “I … I know what I said. But, death is not certain. I must still try!”

“Try all you want,” the voice teased. “The outcome won’t change. You know what you really want, my prince. Give in … and succumb to your desires.”

The voice spoke true. In his heart, he feared death at every turn. He was weak and unseasoned, unlike his father. Henrich was strong, but even he could not stand against Angkor. He failed, and he had help. Jósef couldn’t do better, just by pretending. Hope was an indulgence. It didn’t exist. The reality was that he didn’t stand a chance.

As he doubted, he sank into the water. The aqueous effluvia rose past his neck, numbing his body with its noxious vapors. His head felt airy, and he wondered if this was the deadly embrace the ghastly voice had mentioned. If so, he didn’t have the will to fight it. A watery grave seemed better than facing the trials of a waking world. It would be easier if he slipped away and left the impossible tasks to someone else. By the time the water reached his ears, he closed his eyes, ready and eager to be enveloped by it.

“Józef ….”

No! He couldn’t face the taunting voice any longer! He wanted to sink and forget the suffering that awaited him.

But the banshee was gone, and a far more pleasant voice called out, almost pleading.

“Józef … open your eyes.”

He did, and there before him, floating above the water, was an apparition. It was Angela, but she was translucent, adorned with a bright white robe that flowed in an unseen breeze. Her skin was fair and unmarked, and her face radiated beauty, like an angel.

He had sunk to the point where he struggled just to look at her.

“Take my hand,” she instructed.

Józef reached out with muddy fingers, trying to grasp the delicate, ghostly fingers.

A bright light flashed, leaving him awash in pure white. By the time his eyes adjusted, he found himself on the shore of the lake, with its pristine, mirror-like surface fully restored. Warmth and sunshine returned.

The apparition floated by his side, her feet a short distance from the ground, and her body aglow with a white hue.

He was overcome with gratitude, but also humbled by her presence. “You’re a ghost?”

“No,” she responded.

“You saved me. Why?”

She regarded him sadly. “You saved yourself, Józef. For a while, you thought it would be easier to give up. You even preferred death over the hardships you feared to endure. But, at the last moment, you thought of your family, and it gave you the strength to survive.”

“I did?”

He didn’t recall much. He was sinking, ready to free himself of his miserable duties, and many things ran through his head. He thought of Angela … but, his thoughts also turned to his father. He remembered how much Henrich had taken care of him, especially after his mother’s death. His father had great responsibilities, but he also raised a son in his wife’s absence. Józef always felt loved. He never despaired over his mother’s death, because his father had always been there for him, despite Henrich’s other responsibilities. The burden was heavier than people ever knew. Raising a son while fighting a war nearly broke him. But he endured out of love and duty.

Józef looked at the apparition, realizing he had been wrong. It wasn’t Angela at all. It was his mother. He barely remembered her. He was young when she died, but she also had tight red curls.

“Mama?” His eyes watered. “Forgive me. I tried to be like Papa, but I can’t do what he did. I can’t save our people.”

The apparition reached out, but stopped short of making contact. “Think back,” she pleaded. “You must remember your promise.”

Józef wondered what promise she referred to, but then he remembered the day Henrich had taken him to the lake. His father brought him there on many trips, even though Józef took most of them for granted. At the time, they seemed more like obligations. Henrich would often demand that he put down his instruments to chat, heart to heart. But those kinds of chats between a teenage boy and his father were always so painful.

He looked to his side, where an image of Henrich appeared, right next to an image of his younger self. It was a memory of what happened only a year earlier.

“I heard from your tutors that you haven’t been paying attention.” His father scolded. But his voice was soft and pleasant. It could hardly be considered anger.

The younger Józef explained. “The tutors are boring, Papa. I’m more into … art … and music. I don’t know why I have to sit around and learn about things I’ll probably never use.”

Józef cringed. Those lessons would have come in handy, had he paid attention. The tutors taught him civics, governance, finance, and commerce—all the things a fledgling king needed. He had only paid half-attention, because he daydreamt of verses for a song he wanted to write. He had been so shortsighted.

“I know, Son.”

Henrich put his arm around young Józef’s shoulder. It made older Józef envious. He already missed the comfort and stability of his father’s presence.

He continued. “You might not realize it now, but I won’t always be here for you.”

Young Józef rolled his eyes. “You always threaten me with nonsense. Look how healthy you are. You’ll live as long as Opa, at least.”

Henrich smiled. “That’s not what I meant. I just need you to promise me that you’ll take it seriously. You’ll be king, someday.”

Józef teared up. He thought the day he would inherit the kingdom would take decades to arrive. Naturally, he was willing to give his father empty promises, just so he could go back to studying the lake. He wanted his father to leave him alone, so he could memorize the scene and paint it later. He figured he’d have his whole life ahead of him to learn about royal duties.

Young Józef nodded. “Of course, Papa. I promise.”

Older Józef laughed between the tears. “So, I’m supposed to live up to that promise now?”

His mother’s apparition still hovered close by. “That’s up to you. Just know that there are many who have placed their trust in you. Their lives depend on the choices you make.”

Józef scoffed. “How can they possibly entrust their lives to me? I have made nothing but selfish choices. I couldn’t even make a promise to Papa … not with any sincerity ….”

The apparition looked sad. “Your father believed in you. Despite his responsibilities as king, he still made time for you. He raised you with love.”

Józef’s chest squeezed. “I’m not Papa. I don’t have his strength. I don’t have his skills. I can’t save Kitezh. I can’t even save myself.”

The apparition shook her head. “Those thoughts will only bring you back to the watery grave, My Son. You already possess all the necessary skills. You must try harder to remember the lessons your father provided to you. I cannot make this choice for you, but I am certain that if you fail to believe in yourself, you will surely fail to lead in your father’s footsteps.”

His mother was right. He might have only paid half-attention, but he still learned plenty. He would need to remember those lessons, if he had any chance at all. He wanted to grow up and be the man he promised his father. He had to at least try.

His mother’s apparition seemed pleased.

He wished he had known her better. He easily remembered his father’s embrace, but his mother was but the faintest of memories. He wondered ….

“Mama, I know this place isn’t real. This lake … this valley … it’s something I conjured in my mind. But, you’re different. I hardly remember you at all, but here you stand, as clear to me as if I saw you yesterday. Please, tell me you’re more than just my creation. Tell me you came to help me.”

The apparition smiled. “I’m always with you, my love.” Slowly, her body floated to the shore of the lake. Józef reached out, but his hand passed right through. “The best way to honor my memory is to believe in yourself. Even if we never see each other again in the flesh.”

“Wait … please!” Tears slid down his face. “I need to know that you’ll always be here if I need you!”

“Farewell, Józef. Please don’t cry for me. Remember what I said ….”

The apparition walked backwards along the surface of the lake, slightly above the water’s surface. As she backed away, her body disappeared. The water became placid once again, and he woke from his dream.

He was back in the loft above Swen and Marta’s abode. As his eyes fluttered open, he wondered why his hand felt wet. He lifted it and noticed it was drenched in red. In his palm, he found a razor, which he had squeezed so tightly it sliced into his hand. Panicking, he tossed the blade aside and wrapped his hand in bedsheets to stop the bleeding.

Before leaving the Network, he remembered taking the razor. And he remembered what he wanted to do with it. Ashamed, he started weeping and vowed that he would never again be tempted. He remembered the promise to his father and the love his parents had given him. He couldn’t let them down again. Not ever.