The king’s residence was encased entirely within walls of white stone, which were topped at even intervals by iron urns within which torches blazed. All the area seemed entirely untouched by shadow or night. And yet, despite the fire and the light, it also felt untouched by warmth. There was no part of the entire Palace that seemed as cold and vacant as the king’s residence.
From without, the residence itself was not visible. Walls within walls within walls protected the person of the king. After the attack nine years ago more walls had been added. More walls and more fire and more steel. But Ŏvor doubted the king would ever again feel safe. Perhaps not safe, precisely, as safety itself was a condition foreign to a monarch. To a king, safe was not a state of being, but rather an act. Surrounded as he was by the memory of his slain family, the king was reminded also of his failure in this regard, his failure to protect them.
What was safety but the one and only requirement upon any man, that he protect the safety of his family? Ovor’s father had told him, on the night before he had married Sen Lan, that safety was not a man’s right, but his obligation. A man should not expect safety that he did not himself provide. After all, what need was there of a man’s life if by it he had not fulfilled this simplest commission, to protect his family?
And, of course, as much as the king was the king, he was also a man. Were those not his own family who had been killed? Was that not their blood that had been spilled on these very grounds?
Without his family, with so many of his own blood buried now beneath stone, was a king less able to promise safety to his people? It was against Láokoth law for an unwed man to take the throne. It was unheard of for an unmarried man to become a Housemaster in any part of the country. If Láokoth was its Houses and each House was its families, what of a king who had failed to protect his family? Had he also failed to protect his House? Or Láokoth?
Of course, the king still had one son. There was hope, according to the message Bo Han had received. But what if something happened to the prince? What would become of the king? What would become of Láokoth?
Ŏvor considered this as they neared the residence’s narrow wooden gate — which was guarded by six swords — and he stole a glance at Bo Han.
It had been whispered in the Lăsoth estate that Bo Han had been here after everything had happened nine years ago. No one had forbidden him entrance when he came to find his sister. That is what was said. The king’s Oak Hand had been doing what he could to restore order to the devastated Palace, and so for a time all gates were sealed. But when Bo Han Lăsoth had arrived, he had been allowed entrance without hesitation. That is what they said. Some thought it had been Kío En Tolen’s order, that Bo Han was to be permitted to see his sister. Some believed, though few would dare to say so aloud, that Bo Han had had more power in the Palace than the king, at least in those days. Much had changed since then.
Whatever the reason, when he had come nine years ago they had opened the gates for him. And he had sat with his sister while they washed the blood off her body and wrapped her in blue. Some said that he had done this himself. She had been the last of his family.
How must it have been for the king, then, to wake from unconsciousness and find himself whole, but his wife, his daughter, and one of his sons dead? How much more precious to him, now, was his last son?
The armored sword who drove their carriage gestured to the ones who guarded the king’s gate as he pulled on the reigns. Ŏvor alighted first and held out an arm for Bo Han. The rain had become a misting drizzle that was sharply cold. Gusts of wind blew icy moisture into their faces though they tried to turn away from it.
An old servant met them at the gate — which was opened upon their arrival — and escorted them inside the walls.
Within sprawled a low, confusing array of corridors and chambers all connected by passageways that seemed to overlap and intersect at random. The servant led them to a set of stone stairs which culminated in a small porch where an opened doorway was lit by some six or seven shining lanterns.
Once through the narrow doorway, they were met by several more servants, some women and some men, all of them wearing the white and black of the Palace House. They bowed slightly as Bo Han passed. A few stared, eyes wide, when they realized who he was. Ŏvor heard a few of them whisper to each other before the aged servant who escorted them turned and gestured a fierce warning.
Ŏvor walked a little behind Bo Han, who moved with ease and confidence through the narrow corridors of the king’s residence, the hem of his long green cloak trailing behind him. The corridors, like the rest of the Palace, were well-lit, but frigidly cold. The only warmth seemed to emanate from the lanterns and candles.
Like most structures within the Palace — besides, of course, the king’s Hall — the many interconnected corridors and chambers were made mostly of wood. This was common in the Palace to allow buildings to be moved or altered as necessary. Walls were always stone, but structures were often little more than wooden frames.
Ŏvor had heard that the Four Little Palaces had been made entirely of stone, a detail that did not surprise him. The king likely would have had them made out of steel if he had been able to do so.
As they turned yet another corner and emerged in yet another chamber, they were greeted by an array of candles clustered in a room that was otherwise filled with servants. They stood like figures of stone in rows of four, bowing slightly with their hands clasped at their waists. In a darkened doorway behind them, Ŏvor made out at least three swords, which surprised him greatly. He had not realized that swords were permitted inside the king’s residence. But it did make sense that the recent attack on the princes would have changed things.
Yet there was something strange about this chamber and its little army of servants. Ŏvor watched as Bo Han glanced at them. He watched as the Housemaster’s hand reached down and clutched tightly the edge of his cloak, knuckles white. A chill slid through Ŏvor as he beheld all the motionless, bowing figures lighted as they were by hundreds of flickering candles.
He was glad to leave this chamber and move into the dimly lit corridor beyond. But the unsettled anxiety did not leave his heart. He could not forget the words of Bo Han which echoed in his mind with increasing intensity: There is something wrong with the Palace.
The servant who led them stopped suddenly and put up a hand. He went ahead several steps, into a large chamber which was glowing with the light of many colored lanterns, and bowed to a great black screen that was embroidered all over with hemlock and falcons. Ŏvor saw a swallow among them and found himself remembering again the message he had read in the carriage.
“Your Majesty,” the servant said softly. “The Lăsoth Housemaster has arrived.”
They heard no reply. But presently a pale young maid with large, vacant eyes appeared and whispered something to the servant while staring blankly at Bo Han and Ŏvor. The servant turned and glanced at Bo Han, then nodded. The maid bowed and went back inside.
The servant gestured Bo Han to approach. He said softly, “His Majesty is very tired, but has a great desire to see you regardless. Please keep the meeting brief. Here, I will take your cloak.”
“I will keep it, thank you.”
The servant froze with his hands extended to receive the cloak. Then he set his jaw and drew his hands back into his sleeves. With a deep bow he said, “Of course, my lord.”
He led them around the screen which stretched as high as the ceiling. The floor and walls were all simple, darkly polished wood that shone like water and reflected the colored light from the dozens of lanterns that hung from the ceiling and from frames near the walls.
Ŏvor did not realize until they were well within the room that it was the king’s bedchamber. His large wooden bed sat in a far corner, abutting the wall and connected by flues to a stove in the opposite room. This chamber, consequently, was much warmer than the rest of the residence.
Besides the pale little maid, four other servants occupied the king’s bedchamber. Three additional vacant-eyed creatures stood in slight bows in three corners while a fourth maid stood near the king’s wooden bed.
This fourth was different from the others and wore all black. Ŏvor found himself struggling not to stare at her. Not because she was beautiful — which she was — but because it was apparent that she was not entirely Láokothian. Her green eyes and unusual features stood out in the king’s chamber, as did her confident smile, and the fact that she was not, like the rest of the maids, standing in a partial bow, but rather upright. She was tall, her black golt fine and perfectly fitted, her long hair loose and shining copper in the chamber’s abundant lantern light.
The moment Bo Han turned his eyes upon her, she offered him a smile and the sight of it filled Ŏvor with sick anxiety. He wondered if Bo Han felt the same way, but the Housemaster’s face was utterly unmoved.
The servant who had escorted them gestured to two thick velvet cushions which had been placed near the center of the room, a little ways from the king’s bed. The servant continued to bow deeply as he backed away and returned to the other side of the screen.
Bo Han and Ŏvor knelt. Then Bo Han lowered himself until his head touched the floor and Ŏvor quickly followed. They stayed this way until a weak voice said, “You may rise.”
It was not until then that the king at last appeared.
He had been reclining within his large wooden bed, hidden in the shadows within it, his voice muffled by the velvet curtains and the wooden screens.
But now he sat on the edge, dressed in a simple dark blue linen golt bound with a tie at his waist. On his feet he wore silk socks. When he stood, Ŏvor was surprised at how tall he was, but also at how thin he seemed to be. His golt hung loosely on his narrow frame. In the colored light he appeared pale, his black hair thin and dull. Untied it hung almost to his waist which lent a strange frailty to his appearance. There were shocks of white in his short beard. It was all Ŏvor could do to conceal his shock.
As he approached kneeling Bo Han, the king seemed to be in some pain, as if his legs were injured. Ŏvor remembered that the king’s legs had been broken nine years ago; it seemed that they had not healed quite right and they still troubled him. His steps were even, but slow and careful. He seemed tired and weak, but still he possessed terrible dignity. His back was straight and his face severe, eyes flashing, mouth set in a firm line. Kneeling, Ŏvor felt very small next to the king.
When he reached Bo Han, he bent down suddenly and clasped his hands.
“My lord Bo Han, but no, for you are my brother. My brother. Did you think I had forgotten? How could I forget, my brother? She binds us, does she not, whether here or in the House of Ávoth, she binds us. And you are my brother.”
Ŏvor remained kneeling, trying not to stare in shock at the pale figure of the king. How strange to hear such a torrent of rapid, almost nonsensical speech from the mouth of such an imposing figure. There seemed to be a sharp contradiction between the man who stood before them and the one who spoke.
He pulled Bo Han’s hands and went on, “Please, stand. You mustn’t kneel, for you are my brother. Come and sit by my side.”
Bo Han let himself be taken by the king back to the edge of his wooden bed and there sat next to him, his green cloak pooling all around him. Next to the Housemaster, the king seemed suddenly small and frail. Bo Han was tall, but not large and yet he seemed so. The king had not let go of his hands but sat clasping them as if it had been many years since they had seen each other.
“I was thinking of her this morning,” the king went on. “I think of her most days, of course. But just this morning I was remembering her again and the way she used to cook cakes for me. Did you know that she did that?”
Bo Han smiled warmly and nodded once.
“The memory made me melancholy and I had a great wish to see her or to remember her. And I realized that there was another in this city who would likely wish that as much as I do.”
“Indeed I do, Your Majesty.”
“And so, selfishly, I have called for you on this terrible evening and you have been made to walk in the rain and in the cold. Because I wished to talk to one who could remember with me my beautiful Nă Mor1.”
“I am at Your Majesty’s service.”
“You mustn’t say that. Not you. You were her brother. Or, you are still. Just as I am still her husband. It is for her that I built those stone palaces, that little courtyard. I knelt before her tomb and swore to her that I would protect her last living child. And so I built my Four Little Palaces.”
“She would have been pleased to see it, Your Majesty.”
The king’s face darkened. Though Ŏvor tried to keep his head respectfully bowed where he knelt on his velvet cushion, he still watched the scene before him with great interest. The king seemed strange indeed, but from time to time he would cast a furtive glance around his chamber and then tighten his grip on Bo Han’s hands. In those moments — which were brief and passed so quickly Ŏvor almost thought he’d imagined them — the king seemed afraid.
“After the fire,” he said peering sharply into Bo Han’s eyes, “After this wretched fire, the night after they finally managed to put it out, I had the most terrible dream. In my dream I went as I have so often wished I could to the gates of the Spring Courtyard but there were no guards. The swords were all gone away to tend to the fire, I think. The whole Palace was filled with smoke and I could barely see my hand in front of me.
“Once I went through the gate, which was unlocked, if you can imagine such a thing, the Spring Courtyard was utterly silent. But I walked forward, carefully, quietly. I had the sense, you see, that I would disturb or even frighten my son if I came upon him too suddenly. And so I walked and walked for what felt like days. My legs were sore from all the walking, my throat was parched and the smoke had begun to sting my eyes.
“When suddenly I had to stop. Do you know why I had to stop, brother? It was because I had come across a river. A river! It ran so thickly, like oil, but was dark as night and gleaming. The water shone like evening clouds. So soundless the river flowed. The whole world was soundless.
“On the other side of the river I could see him: my son. He wore the mask I ordered him to wear and he wore blue silk, all in blue, not green. A prince, all in blue! I called to him ‘my son!’ I called, but he did not hear me. But then he disappeared in the smoke and suddenly he was standing on my side of the river. I looked again and he still stood on the other side. And yet here he was next to me. They were the same, the very same. The two moved as one, as if one was the reflection of the other. As if it was my son doubled, one on either side of the river. Suddenly, I didn’t know which was which. Which one was my son, Bo Han? The one on this side of the river, or the one the other side of the river?
“The moment I woke from this dream I sent for you. You must tell me, Bo Han. You must tell me and you cannot lie to me for I am the king and also your brother. Which of these was my son?”
“Your Majesty, all the princes were unharmed in the fire. It was just a dream. Your son remains safe.”
“Indeed, indeed.” He patted Bo Han’s hands and then finally released them.
The maid in black, the beautiful woman with long brown hair, approached bowing slightly. “Your Majesty,” she said in a thin, syrupy voice that was as pleasant as honey or warm cream. “Shall I have them bring tea for Lord Bo Han?”
He waved his hand at her. “No, no. He will not be staying. I have sent for him that I may see him. He has already set my mind at ease, don’t you see? Who else can I speak to about the queen consort? You?”
The servant bowed deeply and returned to her place at the foot of the bed with a strange, almost angry smile on her face. Ŏvor watched her secretly, for she was most strange and he couldn’t entirely account for the strangeness. There was a quality about her that he couldn’t place, something at once alluring and frightening. Her beauty seemed to coat something sharp, like honey on the edge of a knife.
The king began to cough. He bent over his knees and coughed so violently his body trembled. Bo Han held his arm to prevent him from collapsing. The brown-haired servant motioned to the maids who rushed over with silk towels and a clay cup of water. The king drank and his coughing fit abated. He wiped his lips with the towel and then looked again at Bo Han.
“It is in you, my brother. In you and in my son whom I may not see, that she continues to live. You must take care of your health. Nothing can happen to you or to him, so that her memory may go on living in this terrible world.”
“Your Majesty,” Bo Han answered, “It is you who must look after your health.”
The king laughed and turned to the servant at the foot of the bed. “Do you see?” he said, jovially. “Only he dares to tell me, the king of Láokoth, what to do.” Then he turned back to Bo Han and again patted his hands. “Never mind. I shall obey you. Bring the medicine, Éna Lí. And then I will sleep.”
The brown-haired servant bowed and moved to obey.
Bo Han stood from the bed and returned to his place next to Ŏvor where he knelt and then lowered himself to the floor. Ŏvor did the same. Then they both stood and the old servant from before emerged from behind the black screen to take them out.
Tova had returned by the time they emerged from the Palace’s west gate. It was raining heavily and he came with an umbrella to meet them. When he saw Bo Han, he nodded once as if answering a question, but said nothing.
As they climbed into their carriage, Bo Han paused and glanced back at the distant rooftops of the Palace peeking over the tall, white walls. His face was ashen and his eyes dark.
He said, “It is worse than I feared.”
It wasn’t until they were in the carriage that Ŏvor noticed that the folded message Bo Han had hidden in his sleeve was gone.
When Éna Lí returned to the room with the king’s medicine, she saw the thin ribbon of white smoke curling up from the open lantern which rested on the floor at his feet. With a cry she dropped the tray and lunged forward to retrieve the paper from the flame, but it was only ash and sparking embers which blackened her fingers when she struggled in vain to put it back together.
The king laughed at her. He laughed while tears wet his cheeks. He laughed at her anger and her frustration.
He said, “Though you will try for a hundred years, you will never win.” He clenched his fist and pressed it to his heart. “There is hope.”
She watched him, her smooth, porcelain face terrible with rage. When she spoke it was through bared teeth: “Before long, you will see how wrong you are.”
Or, if you’d prefer to leave a small one-time token of support, you could:
Nee-yah-MOHR
Something is rotten in the state of Láokoth...
Very interesting chapter. I especially enjoyed the king’s prophetic dream about two princes.
I also loved the big reveal that the king is under the thumb of the palace house.