Interlude:

A Faded Interstice

The funeral for the late King and his Queen was a sombre affair for the entire city. They were put to rest following Mizzarosi funeral rites and the rituals associated with the death of the royal family. The King and Queen’s bodies were anointed and prepared by the priestesses of the Temple of Galielylë. Both of them were wrapped in simple linen cloth, belying their high station in life, and their eyes and mouths were stitched closed with delicate thread that was impossible to see even under close scrutiny. Their bodies were then put on pyres adorned with elaborate floral arrangements, purples and blues for the King and white and gold for the Queen. The only worldly possessions they were given to take with them to the heavens were their own crowns, placed upon their breasts, and a piece of gold coin placed over each of their eyes. These pyres were placed at the foot of Galielylë and on the day of the ceremony was opened to the public to pay their respects to their fallen rulers.

Citizens came from all over the city to mourn. They brought more bouquets to throw upon the pyres and small offerings of coin or jewellery to give to the priestesses who had conducted the rites. As the citizens were led in an orderly line from the Temple square in front of the statue to the pyres, they were also brought before their new King, Ciaran, all dressed up in stiff, formal robes and adorned with gold chains and rings, in order to swear fealty to the new ruler as they said goodbye to the previous one. This entire process took hours, but it was the tradition. The entire city had been given time off from work and a national holiday was in effect for the next five days – the customary mourning period for royalty.

Ciaran was completely fine with the ceremony in general, but he was irritated by the roaches that had crawled out of the woodwork after the King’s passing. He was now playing host to a myriad of uncles and aunts he had never even heard of before – dukes and duchesses from the smaller holdings in the Kingdom where the hand of Voltare could not reach within a reasonable time. Family members who were not pertinent or needed in the capital, or so far removed from the line to the throne so as to be obsolete in the long run. There had even been a delegation from Bustavia, family of his stepmother that Ciaran had never met. All these lords and ladies had one purpose: to curry favour with him. They must see me as a weak princeling, someone who can be easily manipulated and used, Ciaran mused to himself.

Galantina was already beginning her descent by the time the High Priestess of Galielylë called an end to the funeral procession. She approached the pyres and stood in front of it, a torch held high in her hand. She was a sight to behold to be sure, a fierce older woman, clad in only a simple white waistcloth, golden armlets and a shell necklace. She looked more like a village shaman than the well-educated religious leader that she was, but it was all part of the ritual. Her face and torso had been painted with purple and gold dye in intricate mosaic patterns that took days to complete solely for this ceremony.

She stood, silent as a sentinel and just as patient, and the entirety of the gathered mass followed her lead. She held such reverence and admiration that even the lords and ladies of the court stopped their chittering and conspiring to behold her and her words. She called out to the solemn crowd as soon as the stillness she wished for had been achieved:

‘Today we lay to rest the bodies of our beloved King, Tiago Lavelle Neto di Mizzaro, by the Grace and Wisdom of Galielylë, High-King of Mizzaro and Sovereign Ruler of all her realms and territories, the Chosen Drake and Lord-High Commander of her armies and navy, and his beautiful Queen, Seleucia Aurora Celeste Adrastea di Mizzaro, née Bustavi, by the Grace and Wisdom of Galielylë and Blessed of Jinéal, High-Queen of Mizzaro and all her realms and territories, the Heavenly Beauty and Cherished First Princess of the nation of Bustavia! We mourn their untimely passing as if they were our own Father and Mother, and ask Galielylë to grant them the peace and everlasting life before His great Throne that they so rightfully deserve! IO, MIZZARO!’

The crowd roared up in response, ‘IO, MIZZARO!’

The High Priestess looked to the lesser priestesses waiting in the wings on both sides of the statue and, on her prompt, they all broke into a chorus of hymn. The entire square was bathed in the song: the Ballad of Galielylë, one of the most important psalms in the religion, praising the God’s grace, valour and wisdom. The High Priestess lit the pyres of the King and Queen, then dropped to her knees in prayer before them. The entire crowd followed her, getting down on their knees and joining in the singing of the hymn. Ciaran had no desire to follow suit, but to not participate would be an unforgivable slight. He got down as swiftly as his awkward attire would allow him to and bowed his head in faux reverence.

The hymn continued to resound throughout the square until the pyres had been completely lit up and had become two towering bonfires. Some kind of spice or mineral had been mixed into the wood and floral arrangements so that the fires themselves were a dark purple hue, an ethereal blaze to send the souls of the departed skywards. The scent of the burning flowers wafted over the square, masking all other smells from the pyre. The priestesses halted their chorus and the High Priestess stood to attention once more. She walked over to Ciaran, who had a position of prominence near the pyres and lifted him from his knees, guiding him out in front of them. The crowd slowly rose once again to its feet and waiting patiently for her to address them again.

‘With the passing of the King, we must now appoint the next ruler in his place. I present to you your new King, Ciaran Aeron Apollos di Mizzaro, by the Grace and Wisdom of Galielylë, the new High-King of Mizzaro and Sovereign Ruler of all her realms and territories, and Lord-High Commander of her armies and navy! May your reign be long and fruitful, my young King and may you earn an epitaph worthy of your ancestors! Blessings of Galielylë be upon you! IO, MIZZARO!’

‘IO, MIZZARO!’ The crowd chanted in unison.

The High Priestess signalled a priestess to come forward who had been previously hidden amongst the other priestesses. She was the virgin bride, the next bride of Galielylë and High Priestess-in-training. She was completely naked, save for the same intricate dye patterns and mosaics that the High Priestess herself wore. In her arms, she carried a velvet cushion, atop which sat a crown. It was a fragile, delicate thing; no more than a circlet of intertwined white-gold, reaching like the branches of a silvery tree upwards to the heavens. It was inset with fabulous jewels and gems that dazzled and shone in the light of the suns. The High Priestess herself would have designed the thing and it was only after accomplishing something noteworthy that the King could redesign or change it to his own whim, almost as if it were some kind of great honour. The virgin bride knelt before the High Priestess and presented her with the crown. The High Priestess lifted it from its cushion gently and turned to Ciaran.

‘Kneel and receive the blessings of Galielylë, my liege,’ she said to him. There was no warmth in her words or her eyes that Ciaran could see, but he obliged and knelt down on one knee.

The High Priestess set the delicate crown atop his head and, with him still kneeling, proclaimed, ‘RISE, MY KING! Rise and accept your throne!’

A cheer went up from the gathered mass of citizens and nobles. Ciaran stood and waved and bowed to them all. He did not have a speech prepared, but the High Priestess looked at him expectantly and so he was forced to make something up on the spot.

‘I promise you justice and fair rule, Mizzaro! I know we are in trying times, but we will come through it stronger than ever! This I hereby swear to you all! Do not mourn the fallen King and Queen, but rejoice that they are at Galielylë’s side!’ Unsure of where this speech was heading or how to end it, he simply proclaimed at the top of his lungs, ‘IO, MIZZARO!’ once more.

The crowd responded in kind. The High Priestess turned to Ciaran and said softly, just loud enough for him to hear her over the roar, ‘We need to talk after this.’

She then turned to the crowd and led them in one last round of prayer hymn. When this had finished, she instructed the gathered crowd to disperse and continue their mourning in private. The ceremony was thus concluded.

The pyres would continue to burn until nothing save ash was left, with people allowed to make final offerings to the flame in the interim. The ashes would be gathered later by the priestesses and interred in the royal family’s private mausoleum within the Temple. The crowd itself trickled off slowly: the citizens heading back to their homes in the city and the nobles to the Palace for the King’s coronation feast. A few stragglers stuck around to try and congratulate the new King, but the High Priestess made it seem like she was still busy with him and did not give them a chance to approach without seeming disrespectful. The other priestesses likewise dispersed back to the Temple, until, finally, only the King and High Priestess remained as the last watchers of the funeral.

She waited there until the majority of the gathering had disbanded before she turned to Ciaran and said, ‘Let us retire to my private chambers.’

‘I have places I need to be, High Priestess. They will be waiting for my arrival in the palace,’ he responded coldly.

‘This will not take overlong.’

She led Ciaran down to the Temple. A shadow made its presence known as soon as the King started moving towards the square, detaching itself from its perch at the bottom of the staircase.

‘A bodyguard?’ the High Priestess asked him.

‘Something of the sort.’ He nodded to the shadow and it followed the pair back to the Temple at a reasonable distance.

The Temple of Galielylë was a garish affair. Ciaran had never particularly liked. It was all marble pillars and statues and elaborate paintings and draperies. Even the ceiling had been painted, a picture of what the followers of Galielylë believed the heavens to be. He had always thought that if Galielylë really existed, He must be a particularly vain and narcissistic god to command all of these unnecessary frills from his devotees. The main effigy of the god stood in the centre of the Temple underneath a large oculus – a marble behemoth lit by a milieu of candles and surrounded by offerings of food, wine and flowers. There was a large marble collection bowl to the right side of the effigy where every visitor to the Temple was expected to leave a monetary offering. Ciaran tossed in a silver piece as the High Priestess led him past it, more from habit than anything else.

The High Priestess led the King to the back of the Temple where the priestesses held private quarters. They walked down a long hallway flanked on all sides by bunk rooms where the priestesses would have to stay four to a room. There were a few of them in their rooms, in various states of undress, changing out of their funeral robes. They bowed to the King and High Priestess shyly as they passed.

When they reached the end of the hallway they came to a large door. The High Priestess pulled a small key out from her arm bracelet and unlocked the door, then held it open for the King to enter her chambers. This one was not like the others. It was lavishly spacious and adorned in all manner of silks, velvet sofas and throw cushions, with an enormous canopy bed in the centre, complete with black lace curtains. It looked more like a Madame’s bordello than a priestess’s room, even being lit by small red candles to give it a hazy, smoky lighting.

‘Your bodyguard will have to wait outside,’ the High Priestess instructed as the man tried to enter the room after his King.

‘He is my shadow. He goes where I do,’ Ciaran said evenly. ‘Or else we can have this conversation in a more public setting like the banquet waiting at the palace?’

‘Very well, he may enter, but I think you will wish to rethink your previous suggestion once you hear what I want to discuss,’ she conceded. The shadow brushed past her and took up position next to his King.

‘At ease, Rook,’ Ciaran whispered to him. ‘Let us hear what she has to say.’

‘Tea?’ the High Priestess asked as she entered the room herself. She locked the door behind them and placed the key back into her bracelet. ‘So no one can interrupt us,’ she said airily at Ciaran’s stone-cold expression. He felt Rook shift next to him.

‘No, thank you. We really must be brief,’ he said through barely grit teeth.

‘Please, make yourself comfortable,’ the High Priestess said, indicating a velvet sofa near where the King was standing. He obliged, while Rook took up a position behind the sofa. She disappeared behind a folding screen near her bed and reappeared with a loose silk robe on. She circled back to the front of the room and picked up a waiting tea tray on a small table by the door, which she brought over to the sofa. She poured herself a cup of tea and then placed the tray on the floor by the sofa before taking a seat next to King. She sat with one leg underneath her on the sofa so she could face him as she spoke.

She made a show of sipping from the teacup before asking, ‘You’re sure you won’t join me?’

‘No, I am fine.’

‘And your friend?’

‘No thank you, your worship,’ Rook responded, his voice like a dagger dipped in syrup.

‘Alright, to business then, your highness,’ she said, placing the cup on the floor and giving the King her full attention. ‘I know what you’ve done.’

‘Excuse me?’ Ciaran responded as flatly as he could manage.

‘I’m going to be frank with you, your highness,’ she said these words almost like an insult. ‘I don’t care about the politics of the city. I don’t care about the fact that you’ve been twiddling your thumbs ever since your father was killed, spouting empty promises and vague patriotic speeches to keep all the spineless politicians satiated. I don’t care that noblemen from your court have mysteriously “retired” and “left the city for better climes”. Whatever games you’re playing with the court has no impact on me. I only care about protecting what’s mine.’

‘What are you insinuating, High Priestess?’ he asked, trying to match her venom.

‘Anybody with half a brain could figure it out. You wanted power – that much is obvious. What I can’t figure out is for what purpose. That is why I wished to speak with you today. Your father and I had an arrangement, you see? He left well enough alone and allowed me to govern the religion as I saw fit, and I, in turn, did favours for him. Spread his good word, if you wish. Took care of him,’ she paused here and shifted in her seat. She made a show of allowing the robe to fall off one of her shoulders. ‘I wish to come to the same arrangement with you, but I will not do that until you tell me exactly why your people have been messing with my Temple.’

‘I don’t know of what you speak,’ Ciaran responded coldly. ‘But these empty threats and insults are starting to wear on my patience.’

‘Don’t be a fool, young King. Religion is a most important tool for a king. It keeps the masses in check. Keeps them honest. Devotion is a powerful conviction and the people are more likely to follow and obey a King endorsed and beloved by the Temple of Galielylë than one who would stand against it. They listen to my words as if I were a prophet. They respect me like no other. Now… am I going to be a useful tool for your reign, or are you going to make me an enemy?’

Rook shifted and Ciaran broke eye contact with the High Priestess to place a hand on his arm. ‘All is well, Rook. We are simply talking,’ he said slowly.

‘Ah, yes, Rook,’ the High Priestess said with a smile. ‘You could kill me, I suppose. The Imperative could quite possibly cover it up well enough to avert suspicion from your employer, but then again, it might not. I am the dearly beloved Bride of Galielylë, little assassin. I have no enemies, only friends and devoted followers.’ She turned to Ciaran, cupped his chin in her hands and whispered sweetly. ‘I am the most powerful woman in Mizzaro, young King. You might have gotten away with regicide, but I don’t think you could handle me. Now, I ask you again… Are we friends or are we to be foes?’

‘Are you threatening me?’ Ciaran asked, wrenching his face from her surprisingly strong grasp.

‘Only suggesting, of course. I have no proof of your deeds after all. Your little assassins and bought off politicians made sure of that. But you’d be surprised by the power words hold.’

The sickly honeyed smile on her face made Ciaran want to throttle her. She was so smug and aloof that it made him physically angry. She had him ensnared and he had no course of action to take but to comply with her wishes.

He grit his teeth and merely said, ‘Of course I wish to be friends…’

‘Good!’ she exclaimed, beaming proudly. ‘I hope we have a long and fruitful partnership then! But before all that, tell me why your assassins have been in my Temple, defiling the statue of Galielylë. What are they searching for?’

Ciaran clenched his jaw and rubbed his face. He looked at her coldly and said, ‘There is something hidden underneath it. Something I have need of.’

‘You’re going to have to be more specific than that, dear friend.’

‘It is… hard to explain,’ Ciaran sighed. ‘Perhaps, it’s better if I showed you. I wished to head there myself before all of this—’ he waved his hand vaguely, ‘happened.’

‘Oh, dear friend, I know already that which you seek,’ the High Priestess said. She stood from the sofa and walked over to a flat wall in the corner of her room. She pressed some hidden switch on the wall that Ciaran could not see and it slid open gently.

‘Come then, young King,’ she said with faux pleasantness.

Ciaran looked at Rook coldly. ‘You didn’t know of this?’

Rook looked away from his King’s cold glare. ‘I am sorry, my liege.’

The pair walked over to the hidden door. The High Priestess took a candelabra from beside her bed and lit it before she led the two through the door. She made sure to shut it securely behind them. They were in a dark stone passageway, the only light being from the three candles the Priestess held. There was no wind or breeze, the only sound the dull echo of their steps and rustle of clothing. She guided them down the passage. Ciaran could not tell what direction they were heading in, they simply followed the walls.

‘This is an escape tunnel, built when the Temple was first constructed,’ the High Priestess said giddily. ‘As you know, Voltare was one of the first cities, and the Temple one of its first constructions. It has been here for millennia, some claim. This tunnel links to the same entrance your people found hidden near the statue of Galielylë, but, of course, it holds other secrets as well.’

Eventually, they reached a dead-end. The High Priestess pushed a stone in the right side wall and the wall in front of them swung open with the heavy creak of stone on stone. She pushed through this wall and into another passageway similar to the one they had just left. She pushed the hidden door closed behind them and it fit so well into place that Ciaran was even unable to say which wall it had been.

‘This is why your people missed my entrance,’ the High Priestess said. ‘To the left here leads back up to the statue, but I know what you seek lies down this right path.’

She led them down the hallway until, eventually, they reached the site of Ciaran’s excavation. His people had been working in secrecy, so there were still barrows full of the stone that had been chipped away which could not be discretely disposed of lying in the passage. As they progressed further past the excavation, the hall started to open up and the walls started to change. It went from the cold stone of construction to muddier, rugged natural red stone and then switched suddenly to a deep, black obsidian that was too smooth to be real and completely unravished by age or dust like the rest of the tunnel had been. It was slippery and looked wet in the light of the candles and Ciaran knew immediately he was in the right place.

‘I have never seen this myself,’ the Priestess mused. ‘Your people are the first to excavate this site. Tell me, how did you know something was here?’

Ciaran sighed. ‘We found a similar site in Camar. It too was hidden, but treasure hunters had excavated it looking for riches and brought it to my attention. We passed it now, but there will have been strange markings and etchings on the stone that was broken down. Symbols not even I am familiar with.’

‘So there are other places like this?’

‘Yes, I believe so.’

‘Is that why you dispatched Lord Romeo and his spies to every corner of the world?’

‘Yes. Although we have found only four altogether.’

‘Just what are you planning, young King?’ the High Priestess asked. She stopped in her tracks to turn to him.

‘You shall see. Come, we’re almost there.’ Ciaran responded, pushing past her, unable to contain his excitement. Rook took the candelabra from her hands despite her protests and followed his King close behind.

The group reached the end of the passage and were greeted by a large double door, made from the same sleek obsidian stone as the rest of the passage. It was flanked by two obsidian statues. Rook gave the candelabra to his King, who inspected the statues closely.

Behind him, he head the Priestess gasp, ‘This is Galielylë! But who is the figure on the other side?’

‘Someone who is clearly part of the story no longer,’ Ciaran ruminated. He found what he was looking for: a small indentation behind the figure of Galielylë on the right side of the door. He placed his hand in the indentation, and, to his surprise, it worked just as it had in Camar. The doors rumbled and slid open slowly on their own.

The group entered the newly-revealed chamber. Someone had built a room in a naturally-occurring underground cavern. It was lit in a strange, low, red light, but the source of it was unknown and unseen, almost as if it were woven into the very stone itself. The cavern that contained the room was massive, stretching up far above their heads and far into the distance, past where they could see in the red light. The constructed room itself only occupied a small portion in front of the doors, however. The obsidian walls stretched up only a few metres before giving way to the natural stone of the cavern. The edge of the precipice ran along the right side of the room, dropping away into a vast black nothingness. Water could be heard trickling somewhere far off in the distance.

The constructed chamber contained a strange device in its centre, a broken circle that stood upright, made from a smooth, cold metal. The pieces that had broken off from the top still lay on the ground. There were two tables of a kind in front of the circle, both containing dirty, cobwebbed apparatus that was wholly alien to the visitors. They almost looked as if they had been carved or melted into it. Besides this, there was nothing else to say that this had ever been anything other than a cave. Rook inspected the edge of the cavern, tracing the precipice, while Ciaran studied and brushed the tables clean. The High Priestess herself was in a state of shock, unsure of what to look at first.

‘This is… this is… impossible,’ she muttered to herself.

Rook found what looked like a metal bridge near the top of the room, but it was broken and impossible to cross. He shone the candelabra outwards to try and see what it could have led to, but all he could see was impenetrable darkness. He returned to his King’s side just as the young man had finished studying the table.

‘I don’t know how much Lance told you, Rook,’ the King said. ‘But you are about to witness something monumental.’

The King laid his hand on a strange indentation carved into the table and the entire room starting buzzing and humming. It was a strange sound, quite unlike anything Rook had ever heard before. It was unnatural and strained. A high pitched whine was the closest he could approximate. The High Priestess came over to the men in fear as the room started trembling lightly. The table started to light up with strange colours, but the group did not even notice as the metal circle before them started to move.

It strained against itself, trying to move pieces that were no longer attached. It gave off a low hissing trill as it separated into two half-circles, one of which swung up to the top, roughly completing the broken ring. This ring then lifted off from its metal stand and hovered there in the air with nothing to hold it in place. There was a loud droning buzz from the circle, and then a sudden, blinding flash of light as the centre of the circle lit up in a burst of lightning. The light, and the boom from the lightning, expanded throughout the room, bathing it in a warm blue glow, then contracted back into the centre of the circle, forming what could only be described as a whirlpool of blue light within the confines of the metal circle.

It was a sight that Rook and the Priestess had never seen before, could barely even fathom. It was strangely beautiful, ethereal even, and they couldn’t help but inch closer to it. The circle hummed softly, a sweet buzz that seemed to call to them to come closer. There was a palpable electricity in the room that made the hairs on the back of their arms stand on end and sent shivers down the spine. They felt like they were looking at something forbidden. A door to another world, a gateway to heaven, a pool that was silently beckoning them to enter it. They both came as close as they dared to it, but both were unable or unwilling to touch it for fear of being sucked into the whirlpool.

‘What… what is this?’ the Priestess asked, her eyes wide and full of fear. She turned to Ciaran, who made his way slowly towards them with a smile on his face. In the blue glow of the whirlpool, he looked like a god, or else a madman.

He took her gently by her shoulders and looked into her eyes.

‘Magic,’ he said simply.

The smile faded from his face and his eyes turned cold and distant. He pushed her into the light and turned away. Her startled scream was heard for only a split second before it vanished forever into the whirlpool.