Chapter Three

Irastenys has seen all of this before, in some form or another. The kingdoms close in on one another and call it pageantry, call it a game. An overture to a peace that can never come while the White Kingdom remains. Irastenys knows this gathering for what it is; a fleeting reprieve before the inevitable return to war. But even knowing this, he is not beyond pretending. A false hope can still be beautiful, like a spark that can’t burn hot enough to catch. His dear ones are beautiful, too, when they move as though this levity might last for the rest of their days. Shifra is happy in his doomed work, and Femi is radiant in her self-satisfaction, and Irastenys cannot help but to adore the sight, ephemeral as it is. So for a little while, when he wakens into himself, Irastenys allows himself to pretend that this is how it’s always been, that none of the ugliness he had endured had ever come to pass. He pretends that this third meeting of the kingdoms is not an affront to all that pain, that it is no surprise, that this can end another way than by bloodshed, and he makes his way to the King’s quarters with a request that he knows will please him. An act of service that will ease the discomfort of these tedious days.

He could enter into King Kalmin’s chambers freely, particularly when there are no Pawns posted outside the doors to see to it that His Majesty and his Queen, Most Revered and Beloved, are not disturbed. He knocks anyway, knuckles tapping softly against the ornate carving. He can wait a long time, when he wants. Kalmin, he knows, will tell him to lighten up, not to brood. He’s been saying some semblance of that for all the long years that they’ve known each other, when Kalmin was just a precocious, bright-eyed boy, hunting for ghosts in old, abandoned places. And now, he is the King of Black. Irastenys’ pride, just for a moment, pulls some of the darkness from his ruminations. It is easiest to pretend when he feels such things, when he sees his dear ones so at ease. Kalmin comes to the door himself, letting out a booming sound of pleasure to find Irastenys waiting there. He’s grown into a man who prefers all of the traditions of Black Kings before his time, so he doesn’t often bother with the flippant hand and foot treatment that comes with his station and when he can get away with it, he attends his wife more than any Pawn in her own retinue. He is as large as his voice, vibrantly happy almost all the time, and just now his delight radiates from him like he is the sun. 

"Irastenys! Come in!" He beckons, stepping aside to allow Irastenys within, closing the door after him. "What word? I did not suspect I’d see you until tonight’s festivities!" He says, making his way back across the room to his wife, lifting her calves gently so that he can sit with her long legs across his lap. He is shameless in his adoration for Erato, his Queen, and always has been openly besotted by her, malleable to her every whim and disinclined to be more than an arm’s length away from her if they are in a room together. This might be a fault, had he not chosen a wise Queen, but Erato is an even-keel, a source of stability and strength. He leans back and strokes his hands along one of her calves in an absently affectionate gesture, his attention easily split between Erato while she relaxes and attends to her make up and Irastenys. "You do know there’s no work to be done, don’t you? No futures to glean or meetings! No business! You ought to be gallivanting, much as you might resist a good gallivant." He says with a teasing chuckle. 

"It’s the terminology which repels me," Irastenys says gamely. "If only it were called something else, I might gallivant, and often." 

"We must invent a new word, then." Erato laughs, stretching out on the couch languidly as she traces over the raised scars on her face with the tips of her fingers. The marks are decorative, and quite lovely; a show of her mettle, as she’d made each mark herself. She reaches for a brush on the end table, dipping it into a pot of gleaming golden powder, smoothing it over the scars until they gleam.

"Surely not for my sake, though I thank you, my Queen, Most Gracious," Irastenys raises a hand, lowering his head in a small motion of deference. "I have not been asked to join the games, this year," he says. "I wondered if perhaps His Majesty had forgotten." Kalmin groans and lets his head fall back in a show of dramatics. 

"I thought I might spare myself the disappointment of such a thing this year! You will only say no, I need no mirror or talent for seeing to know that!" he says, though there is no malice in the way he complains. Kalmin does not know the entirety of Irastenys’ history and nature, but he does know that having lived as long as he has and with his convictions, a fight for the fun of it is not something Irastenys is easily convinced into. They fought up the mountain together to make Kalmin a King, a civil war which brought an unworthy King’s reign to an end, but since then there has been no need for Irastenys to take up the sword and these games have not served as a legitimate reason to show the skill that so many years has earned him. 

The first year Kalmin had begged to the point of being undignified, only because they’d been alone to discuss it and he’d forgotten himself. In pleading for Irastenys to show off he was a boy once more, admiring of his teacher, wanting all to see what he knows Irastenys is capable of. The second games, he’d asked again, but with more reservation and prepared for rejection. This year, it would seem he’d decided asking only to be told no was something he would skip, rather than continue the tradition. He could command Irastenys to obey, it is within his rights and in the Black Kingdom bylaws, to reject such a command might result in court litigation, but Kalmin would never be so petty as that, as much as he has wanted Irastenys to represent his court in the games. He emulates the attitude of Kings before his time and wields his power justly, even if he could have his way, anyway, with everything should he wish it. 

"Have you only come to make certain I know your answer is no? Surely there’s better than that for you to walk all the way here with no wine in hand. Have any gossip? The beginning of the games always comes with a bit of harmless riff-raff! Caught any Pawns toeing the line? Any whispers of secret parties? A moon festival in the woods near the Ghostlands?" Kalmin pats Erato’s leg and leans her way, grinning. "I have heard a pretty piece myself, that the Knight of White has trained your sister for your fight, special. See how that does her, eh? He is a formidable sort, that Kelradest, but there’s no teaching Setsulin what to do with a sword or a glaive." He barks a laugh. The Queen of White is very reliant on her magic when it comes to combat, and against her sister it’s of no use to her. As soon as their eyes meet, Erato’s magic nullifies most talents and that includes her sister’s ability to resonate with crystals to generate magic. Kalmin returns his attention to Irastenys. "Well? What’ve you got?" 

Irastenys considers, just for a moment, inventing some new rumor. The Queen, especially, loves gossip, and he notices when she pauses with her brush. The mischievous impulse passes, even as he knows he is about to say something he won’t be able to take back. 

"I wish to fight a match," he says, and before Kalmin can pick his jaw up off the floor, he continues, "but I have one condition."  Kalmin gasps, and he might have gotten to his feet if it wouldn’t mean jostling his wife while she’s applying her make up. 

"A condition?" he asks. "What condition? Name it!" he says, eager, his orange eyes alight with his excitement. 

"Let me do so as your champion." It is a bold condition to propose. Each year the King of White has had a champion enter the games on his behalf—a necessity, when his power is of a kind that cannot be deployed without massive casualties—and Kalmin has fought them all himself. Even Erato gasps just a little at the request, setting her brush aside, and moving her feet from the King’s lap, perhaps to free him from having to restrain himself. Kalmin does get to his feet and takes ahold of Irastenys’ hands, his expression still full of awe, but more sobered by the context of this offer. It is a great honor to serve as the King’s champion in the games, but Kalmin has never required one or chosen one on his behalf. To allow Irastenys such an honor would be a singular, meaningful gesture and while the courts would believe that the privilege might bolster Irastenys’ reputation, it is more than that between him and his King.

 Kalmin has already done much to honor Irastenys; he has no parents and was raised by the kind and willing citizens of an orphanage in Adzibaran. Irastenys is as close to a father as Kalmin has known, and he chose him for that before he even knew such a sentiment might form between them.

When Kalmin found Irastenys in that old, dilapidated church on the mountain, he might have found him frightening and left him well alone, but instead, he’d come day after day with fruits and chatter and boots and firewood. He’d brushed brambles from Irastenys’ tangled hair, wrapped him in blankets he’d bought with what little coin he called his own, and while it is more typical for a father to adopt a son, it was only a year or so of this continued effort on Kalmin’s part for it to become clear that a son had adopted a father. By being Kalmin’s champion, this is honor returned, shared, and Kalmin understands that without it needing to be said. He is about to accept, but then he looks to Erato. 

"Will it displease you, for me to accept a champion?" He doesn’t need to ask her, really, his will is done, is law, but he would never do such a thing without her approval. In the last two years, he’d fought and earned one win and one loss. When he’d lost, he’d gone across the field and gave Cynevor congratulations as though Cynevor fought Kalmin himself, his ever jovial temperament on display to ease any tension that might have come from seeing a King lose. When he’d won, every honor and accolade he’d put upon his Queen as though she’d been the one to secure his win for him. He cannot accept any gesture or choice that might displease her or put her in a bad light on his behalf, so even as he’s holding Irastenys’ hands reverently, he looks to her and waits for her answer. Erato considers, though it doesn’t take her long at all to make a decision.

"And deny you the opportunity to see the fight you’ve been asking for?" Erato shakes her head. "I’ll leave the matter of your champion to you, my love." Decisively, she picks her brush up again. "It does mean we can spend more time together, if you have one less bout to prepare for…" she mentions without glancing at Kalmin; she knows him far too well to need to see the effect such a proposition would have on him. Kalmin gives her a wolfish grin and might go to her to kiss her a hundred times for her approval and flirtatious suggestion, but he remembers himself and lowers his head, bringing Irastenys’ knuckles to his brow and in a traditional show of appreciation. 

"I accept. You shall be my champion this year. Haha!" He cheers and releases Irastenys’ hands to wrap his arms around him and lift him clean off his feet, shaking his Bishop with outright delight now that the more serious part of this agreement has been seen to. Irastenys is used to this, Kalmin has been picking him up and shaking him in his excitement since he’s been big enough to pull it off, but Kalmin spins him around for extra effect, clearly overjoyed. 

"We must go tell Cynevor the news! I must know who you’ll face! This year will be stupendous! Thank you! Thank you! Ahaha!" He squeezes Irastenys and then sets him down on his feet again. Irastenys smooths his clothes patiently. He’s never been fond of this particular affectation of Kalmin’s, but it is a harmless fault, so he doesn’t complain. Of the imperfections a King may have, this is the least of them.

"Would you like to go now, or shall I await your summons?" Kalmin claps his hands before rubbing them together. 

"We ought to go now! He’s deciding the bouts and you know how he can get about a sudden change of plans." Kalmin huffs a laugh, only lightly poking fun at the man who ought to be his mortal enemy but is, in reality, a friend he has known since childhood. While every few decades there is some emotionally charged conflict across the border, brother against brother, friend against friend, it is a unique era now with the Kings as childhood friends and their wives and Queens sisters. 

Kalmin turns his attention to Erato and kneels down next to the couch, resting his hand on her stomach in a warning that he will wrap his arm around her and she is next to get hoisted if she doesn’t protest.

"Ten minutes?" he asks her, then leaning in to kiss her cheek, he says instead, "fifteen?"

Irastenys doesn’t need to hear the rest, and doesn’t bother to say so before he beats a hasty retreat. The kingdom will benefit from an heir, but he doesn’t need to be present for Kalmin and Erato’s attempts at conceiving. It’s frankly remarkable that they have no children yet, and Irastenys refuses to speculate on why that might be. Instead, he gives the King’s quarters a wide berth. Kalmin and Erato can catch up with him—the meeting rooms are quite a walk from here. 

This fortress, built to accommodate the ranking members of both Kingdoms, is sprawling, but he knows it well enough by now. The guardian Pawns don’t question him. His face is known in a way that it hasn’t been for a very long time. Kalmin has well and truly plucked him out of obscurity, set his feet back on the path to a final victory for the Kingdom of Black. Irastenys can tell when he’s moved into the part of the fortress controlled by the White Kingdom. The Pawns no longer look at him, no longer speak. They are bowed and silenced by the so-called etiquette of their rulers, waiting for permission to raise their heads, to let their voices be heard. Irastenys tempers his revulsion, reminds himself to be patient, that though it has been long on its way, there is an end to this nightmare in sight. He approaches the long hall leading to the meeting chamber where the King of White is wasting his precious time arranging the playful bouts between court members, and once again, he waits. It is most difficult not to drift when he is alone, and even in this fortress, which is not old enough for him to have so many memories here, he can feel himself beginning to slip. He has agreed to fight, and just as it can be easy to pretend these peaceful times will last, he can easily start to forget that these are peaceful times. He can temper himself, and seem like something else, something softer, but he is made for killing. That thought wakes him up again, brings him into the present. 

It is longer than Kalmin suggested, but not by much, and with the joy radiating off of the couple when they finally make it to meet Irastenys, there’s no secrecy about what they spent their ten minutes doing. They don’t require any permission to be here, and after two games without the Kings or Queens attempting to kill one another in a clandestine effort to take advantage of the peace the games bring, no one stops them or runs ahead to warn the King of White that Kalmin and Erato are on their way. There are Pawns at the door, and they announce the three of them, but it only takes a moment before they’re welcomed in and surrounded by Pawns bowing at the waist, utterly silent before their King, their Queen, and the royals of their enemy kingdom. 

"Oh, spare your backs!" Kalmin says, "You can look and talk and move and breathe, be easy, now. Cynevor!" Kalmin turns his attention to the King of White and fearlessly goes to him, wrapping the other, more lithe man in his arms and lifting him clean off the ground in a bearhug much like he had Irastenys. The Queen of White, Setsulin, is ironically a mimicry of her eldest sister just early, laid on her side on a chaise lounge, applying rouge to her lips and rolling her eyes so intensely her pale pink eyelashes flutter. 

"Put him down you fucking brute," she barks, and Kalmin only laughs, and shakes Cynevor in his hold, giving him another good, firm squeeze before putting him back on his feet. Cynevor, to his credit, manages to look entirely unruffled, not one white curl out of place. He cranes his neck to look up at Kalmin, smiling warmly.

"You’ve got that out of your system, now, I hope?" he teases. His voice is soft as the rest of him, a stark contrast to Kalmin. "To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?" He is a perfect diplomat, Irastenys must grant him that much. It won’t be enough, of course, but a fine skill to have, nevertheless. The Bishop watches the two kings, his expression carefully manicured. Not too cold, not too distant. He can be affable long enough not to frighten the children. And they do all look so like children to him when they are at play, like this. When they were young they had been friends, even knowing that their destinies would set them apart… Cynevor had been chosen, groomed and curated to kingship like all Kings of White before him while Kalmin had aspirations to be the King of Black even when he’d been too young to truly understand what that would cost him in blood and battle. Despite the inevitable tragedy of their friendship, it lingers in moments like these. They are boys again, Kalmin’s arm slung around Cynevor’s shoulders with a cheeky grin curling across his lips, Cynevor patient and content to be the quieter half. His wife Setsulin is also loud, though she’s not nearly as friendly or charmingly warm as Kalmin is, more the sort of woman who is brash, unpredictable, and capable of being the fearless leader of any event she attends, festival or warfront. 

"You’ll have to forgive my husband," Erato says breezily, but her eyes are on her sister, who cannot forgive Kalmin for breathing let alone his enthusiasm. "He’s excited about the tidings he has to bear." Setsulin scowls at Erato’s graceful apology, but it is a childish taunt that puts aside their stations as Queens. Setsulin is the younger sister, and often when they are together like this, it shows. 

"I’ve come to tell you Irastenys is in! He shall be my champion this year for the King fight! We’re in for a show, aren’t we?" Kalmin says, jostling Cynevor in his excitement. "I will miss the field, but this is our third year, something new and exciting is in order! Who have you chosen, Cynevor? That Rook of yours, perhaps? Will Kelradest be your champion again? They will face my whole court one of these days, I suspect!" Kalmin laughs and jostles Cynevor some more.  Setsulin rises from her relaxing and walks on ridiculously tall heels to stand next to Erato, giving her sister a sidelong glance that communicates disapproval and a mean, but playful amusement. She lets her eyes wander up and down Erato, assessing her outfit, which is of course extravagant in quality and honorary in its color scheme of black and royal blue. Setsulin’s expression is so honest it’s easy to understand the dialogue going unsaid—Setsulin would never dare to call her sister ugly in front of Kalmin, even in jest, but her face says as much just to be provocative.  Erato, for a moment forgetting her station, sticks her tongue out, forked and twisting. She’d split it herself, and she seldom misses an opportunity to remind everyone that she’d done it. 

"You’re awfully excited to see your Bishop lose. No offense, Irastenys," Setsulin says flippantly, because she doesn’t care if she’s offended him or not. He doesn’t bother to reassure her; she doesn’t need it. And he doesn’t intend to boast, or to surprise any of them with the outcome. Victory is not the purpose of these games. They are meaningless, except in what these mock battles teach them. If he loses the bout, it is only so that he may kill his adversary later. It doesn’t matter to him who it is; he’s forgotten more duels than any of them have ever fought. It’s for the best that Setsulin and her King remain settled in their assessment of him. Erato, however, can’t resist the barb. 

"Keep boasting," she says. "It’ll be even more embarrassing for you, then, when things don’t go like you think." 

"Please," Cynevor slips in between the two Queens, a bold move, given that that is one of the most dangerous places in the kingdoms to place oneself. "We can place our bets once the match has been set." He dares a sidelong glance at Setsulin, and smiles. "I have chosen my Bishop as my champion this year." 

"Oh, thank goodness," Irastenys says, breaking his silence at last. "Dreigas will make it quick for me."

"Fucking right he will, he’s what, twice your height?" Setsulin says smugly. This is an exaggeration on her part even though it’s true that the Bishop of White is an enormous man. The Bishop of White competed the first year against Isbellor, Kalmin’s Rook, and while the match had been spectacular, Isbellor had won out against the Bishop by wearing him down. He’d crushed her weapon of choice with his bare hands, but that hadn’t earned him a victory against her. It could be his blood, or his muscles— perhaps even his bones are altered in some way. It is known that the man is very skilled in crystalline manipulation and utilizes that magical talent to serve Setsulin, but what gives him the brute strength and near impenetrable skin he showed off in his last bout is an unknown. Kalmin had enjoyed that match greatly, even though he’s privately mentioned to Irastenys that Dreigas’ reputation is one that he dislikes. 

"Height isn’t everything! We’ll have a great show no matter who wins, won’t we?" Kalmin says, assisting in Cynevor’s diplomatic efforts. "You’ve got most of the bouts sorted, haven’t you? May I see? Our Second Knights are in the running as well this year! Syl will make an impressive debut!" Kalmin says, laughing brightly in a way that makes Setsulin roll her eyes again. 

"Not impressed? You should be counting your blessings that your Bishop doesn’t have to fight them," Erato says. Setsulin scoffs. 

"Of course he’s excited about that, fucking boulder of a Second Knight. Our Bishop could handle your Second, it’s fucking child’s play to have Firsts fight Seconds," she grouses.

"I can’t say that I blame him," Cynevor admits. "He hasn’t seen how much Scythaline has grown in skill." 

In the previous games, the Seconds did not compete, and even during these games most of them have expressed a disinterest in entering the field. This is a generation where many of the Seconds have dedicated their skills to other values, serving their kingdoms with diplomacy, academic study and magic construction. Isbellor’s Second spends most of his time staring up at the barrier, pondering its mysteries. The Second Bishop of White is a chatty, fashionable sort that seems more interested in the medical benefits of crystalline manipulation than serving in religious leadership and machines of war, Irastenys’ own Second is as diplomatic as the King of White, if not more so—Shifra isn’t meant for combat, much as he might have to learn to be one day soon. Scythaline and Syl are the two most prominently competent Seconds when it comes to combat, and their bout, while meant to be friendly, has been cautiously debated and planned for up to this point. It is known that Scythaline has the ability to borrow the magic talents of others by touching them, and Syl is an enormous armor clad titan, their major ability an unrelenting rage they bring into battle. Their teachers, the Knights of White and Black, have had to determine their preparedness for such a fight and the risk that two such powerful and unpredictable talents might clash in a way that sours the event all together. This year, both have agreed that they are ready. Neither one of them are. The outcome might soon disrupt this pretend peace. Syl’s rage is too deep to contain anywhere but on the field, and Scythaline, simply put, will never be his teacher, strive as he might, and lacks the wherewithal to become something else. They are a spark and powder, and the only point of interest, at least from Irastenys’ purview, is the question of which one of them will incite the kingdoms to violence. 

He listens for awhile longer to the children, fussing over this or that match up, over who will triumph this year, and who will return home with their head low and their eyes blacked. It would be easier if Shifra were with him. The calm that he exudes quiets the cold tactician in Irastenys’ mind that will not be silent, that will not allow him to pretend in earnest that these games are just games, that these peaceful times will last. 

"With my fate so well and truly sealed," Irastenys interjects at last, "I hope you’ll excuse me to ponder it awhile." Kalmin goes to Irastenys and pats him on both shoulders. 

"Yes, of course! Rest a while before the commencement. It’s going to be exciting! Cynevor’s Rook brought the sky fire again this year. I intend to get myself the recipes for those fantastic displays, imagine our holidays with sky fire, Irastenys, imagine it!" he says, shaking Irastenys like he had Cynevor before releasing him. 

"Fireworks," Setsulin corrects with a bland air of judgment. "They’re called fireworks." 

"Who cares what they’re called!" Erato interjects. "Besides, sky fire sounds better." Kalmin only laughs brightly and shouts the word at Setsulin in delight, which causes her to roll her eyes again. 

"See you tonight!" Kalmin says upon Irastenys’ retreat. 

"Only if you promise not to shake me," Irastenys replies. And he leaves the children to their games.

[Previous] [Table of Contents] [Next]