Satern, Thir of Marla: 29 Xiven

Anxiety kept Kayin company as he awaited the day of the ball. Tidesa had yet to report back from whatever visit she had planned, and with Sepik never calling for him to apologize yet, he remained in his room with Ruyer at the door.

Instead, Kayin buried his nose in his stack of fantasy books on his nightstand. These books didn’t have any authors listed, but they all existed in the same realm: a world like this one, with Cigam granted to everyone that lived in these ancient versions of real cities.

The narratives followed so many different kinds of people. One heroine was called a Crestructanim and had the ability to manipulate wood into any shape or object she desired, no matter the kind. Oak, pine, even petrified wood became furniture or weapons at her will. In the final battle, when all hope was lost and everyone fell at the hands of her evil nemesis, she realized that her opponent wore wooden splint armor and used her abilities to crush his chest, killing him and saving her friends in the nick of time.

In another story, the protagonist had a power that was described to be the weakest of all the Cigam types he’d read about so far: He was a Pseudostimul with the ability to change one person’s perception of something. This main character was no hero, and frequently used his ability to play tricks on his friends by making them think they’d sat in dung, or that he had a winning hand at a game of playing cards.

Kayin was only about a quarter of the way through this story, clutching the binding of the book so tightly that his fingers actually ached. The protagonist had just played a trick on a guard to try and slip into a fancy party unnoticed, but had just been caught by another—

“Prince Kayin, the ball is due to begin soon,” called Ruyer on the other side of the door. Kayin blinked himself back into reality, as if waking from a slumber. “May I send in the servants to prepare you?”

“Oh,” Kayin sounded as he glanced to the page number to memorize his spot, “yes, sure.”

Satern, Thir of Marla: 29 Xiven

It didn’t take long to change into the clothes the servants picked out for Kayin. Long trousers, a black cloak with light blue stitching and embroidery. He even wore the simple golden circlet to appease Sepik even though he didn’t want to draw any more attention to himself. Something about having a giant, shiny crown on his head just made his face look even more deformed than usual. The creams the doctor made him apply day and night hardly helped lessen the severity of how the scars practically jumped out of his cheek.

“You look so grown up, My Prince!” exclaimed Ruyer when he’d stepped outside. Kayin shrugged.

“Let’s get this over with,” he said through a sigh. Though it certainly felt like a prisoner’s hand-off, with the way the servant checked with Ruyer before excusing himself. Kayin tried not to stare at the floor as they made their way to the main area of the ball.

Bouncing off the stone walls was a joyous tune sung by a woman with a high voice, followed by a bout of laughter. It seemed like the party was in full swing, with the spicy scent of dinner wafting from the kitchen all the way down the halls.

People dressed in their finest silks and linens, adorned jewelry that maybe would have otherwise been kept in a family heirloom box. Even the servants that weren’t actively working wore fancy outer jackets of bright colors without stains. Some of the guards Kayin recognized were off-duty, but still wore their armor underneath embellished cloaks. The people of the castle, and even a few of the merchants from the village, seemed to hold themselves a little taller, tilt their heads back further as they laughed at a different register. Even though they acted different, looked different, some even smelled different, it was difficult to think of anyone as changed.

The king sat in a smaller version of his throne against the far wall, looking more lucid than normal as he chatted to a few women with their hair twisted in an impractical way. A servant walked around with a tray and a few flamed chars for a gathering in the corner. It helped lessen a bit of Kayin’s stomachache. Maybe he could ask Ruyer to ask his sister to make him some flamed char later.

“Oh, goodness. I haven’t seen him up-close before,” Kayin heard an elderly woman mutter. “Disgusting scars, there. Do you think it’s a sign he’s swayed by Orinel?”

“No, no,” said her companion dismissively. “Princess Sepik will bring the Golden Age. If that means taming whatever he’ll become, I’m sure it will all be well.” For a moment, Kayin fought the urge to turn to the women and ask them what they meant, but they continued to gossip, assuming he wasn’t paying any attention. His heart ached too much for him to move away with any decent speed, though.

“Did you hear about the attack?”

“I heard it was an accident,” the placated one said.

“I don’t know. Both of them were there, but only Princess Sepik got hurt? Sounds like a jealous sibling rivalry to me.”

“You’re just saying that because you tried to drown your baby brother in the river when you were a toddler.” Ruyer was listening too, based on how he exchanged horrified glances with Kayin.

“I was told that was normal behavior for siblings!”

“It is not. There’s just something wrong with you. And maybe something wrong with him….” Kayin uprooted his feet to start toward the other side of the room. On one hand, he couldn’t blame people for assuming he was swayed by the evil moon. On the other, it would have been nice if more people just assumed everything that happened was accidental. Or maybe that he didn’t want to be swayed by the evil moon. He never wanted any of this.

“Are you alright, Prince Kayin?” asked Ruyer.

“I just don’t want to be here,” he grumbled. Ruyer frowned, seemingly sympathetic.

“Your majesty, you could say something, you know. Make them stop gossiping.”

“No, I’m supposed to behave. I’m in enough trouble. I have to be escorted by guards, now.” It was a weak joke that Ruyer didn’t seem to understand.

“I’m here for your protection, Prince Kayin.” Maybe it was alright that Ruyer believed that. “I could say something if you permit me to, Your Grace.” Kayin let the conversation drop, and instead tried to look around for Sepik. The sooner he could publicly apologize and make it look like he did this whole thing for her, the sooner he could go back to his room and see what the Pseudostimul-man in the book did when he got caught by the guard for using Cigam illegally.

It was as if thinking of her suddenly made him aware of everyone’s overdone, boisterous laughter. To his right were the backs of several well-dressed adults, only most of which he recognized at first glance.

“You’re so charming, Princess Sepik!” one teenager said through choppy laughter as he wiped at his eye, faking tears. When an adult finally moved out of the way, Kayin caught sight of the source of entertainment.

Sepik wore a thick, dark pink dress that trailed from the top of her neck, to her wrists, and even dragged on the floor. She was covered completely in that fabric stitched with swirling golden threads, as if to brag about how much gold she could afford to wear. Kayin had no doubt she’d made it specifically for this night. It wasn’t something she ever wore before, and it certainly wasn’t something that could be found in the village market.

As Kayin saw her, she saw him. All joy from cracking whatever joke she said to make people laugh fell from her face. He’d hoped, maybe, that the amount of people would be distracting, or maybe it would make her be less…herself. He wasn’t sure why he thought that could be, though.

“Oh,” started Sepik with a sneer, “I guess someone has to be. I have to, to continue living with that thing.” Perhaps the silence she’d kept the past couple of weeks had compounded. She’d never sounded this venomous before. Any obnoxious twinge in her voice meant to annoy him was overtaken by a deeper rasp. It actually stunned him to silence, made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. “You know why your face is so gross, Kayin?” When she addressed him, the crowd very slowly started to turn, to look where she pointed. He couldn’t shrink away from their stares. Sepik continued, “Because the Gods thought we deserved to know what your soul looks like. Ugly. Evil.”

Kayin’s heartbeat pounded so fast and loud in his ears, it was difficult to tell if everything really was as quiet between Sepik’s words as it felt. Every set of eyes on him was a stone holding him in place. Hands trembling, now wet from wiping tears from his face. Was she talking to the servants? Did they tell her that they thought he was evil? Did the guards talk about how he had to be escorted everywhere he went, now?

“What,” Sepik started again, his hands at her sides now that she didn’t have to point him out, “are we supposed to feel bad for you when you cry? When you don’t feel anything for anyone but yourself?” Her words must have chipped away at his feet, freeing him. Finally, Kayin spun around, stumbling over his shoes, and began to push through the staring crowd to get anywhere but here.

“Be sure to follow him, Patrolman Ruyer! Make sure he doesn’t hurt anyone else.” Sepik’s final call drilled into his chest like a dagger. He couldn’t see who he pushed passed, everything was too blurry, too overwhelming. The candles, the spice, the whispers, the heavy stares. He tasted rust from biting his lip so hard, his shins stabbing in pain from stomping as hard and fast as he could out of the main room.

The hallway came sooner than he anticipated, dimly lit from lack of company.

“Prince Kayin,” Ruyer called, not far behind. Kayin hesitated, sniffling as he wiped the burning away from his eyes. “Prince Kayin….” They stopped in front of his bedroom door, closed, dark, isolated. Kayin normally kept it open for fresh air during the day, but the servants must have closed it to keep the villagers from wandering inside. He reached for the iron handle, but missed by a few inches when he tried to bite back a sob.

“You’re not evil, Prince Kayin,” said Ruyer softly. “Here, let me start the fireplace for you. Maybe you can tell me about the book you’re reading. Or—or even read it to me, if you’d like, Your Majesty.” The young guard gently nudged Kayin back from the door to open it himself. With a deep sigh, he broke away from Kayin and excused himself to push his way into the bedroom.

Kayin used his sleeve to wipe the freshest trail of tears away, struggling to regain some sort of steady vision.

“Th-thank you,” he mumbled. But aside from an odd, choked gasp, Ruyer remained in the doorway, still. Ruyer swayed ever so gently. Before Kayin could ask, he found himself stepping back, out of the way of the guard that now fell. Ruyer, his face still screwed up in shock, collapsed onto his back with a sopping thud. His hands tried to cover his throat, but even before the crimson rivulets began to pool around his head like a halo, Ruyer’s twitching began to die away.

Kayin could hardly even gasp. His knees panged when he fell to Ruyer’s side, his fingers sticky and warm from trying to put more pressure on the slice across his guard’s neck.

“W-wait, Ruyer!” The guard’s fingers lost their strength beneath Kayin’s, limp.

“Curse of Nycaid!” came a harsh whisper from the doorway. Kayin jumped at the sound, squinting into the dark in his room for the voice. In the slightest candlelight, a familiar stranger in brown leather stood, seemingly just as surprised as Kayin was. In her hand, a dagger stained with Ruyer’s blood.

Someone from down the hall in fancy trousers, silhouetted the light from the party, called forth: “What was that—?”

The woman beat Kayin to reacting, screaming at the top of her lungs.

“Help! He’s got a knife!” the woman screamed from his doorway. And, scowling, she tossed the knife to Kayin, underhanded. He tried to shrug away, but his knee slipped on the slick stone floor, and he just fell further back. The dagger left a bloody stain on the swirling blue embroidery before clattering onto the floor.

“Wh-what?” If he hadn’t seen it before, he would not have believed himself, either. But the woman, the very same one from the pantry a couple weeks ago, vanished—again.

“Gods save us!” the man from the other side of the hall cried. “Guards! Guards, help! Th-there’s—there’s been—!” Two more silhouettes appeared beside the man: sturdy, metal-clad guards. Kayin looked down to Ruyer, stared into the eyes that remained open, but unable to catch any light. Kayin struggled to get to his feet, to not slip on any more of the blood, but there was too much. His hands slapped the puddle uselessly; the wall was hardly any help in getting to a standing position to shove his bedroom door open. It was too dark to see.

“Stay there, Your Majesty!” called one of the guards that ran toward him. He stood, slouching against the stone, trembling as if caught in the cold.

“Sh-sh-she—she disappeared!” he stammered, pointing into his room. The second guard, who he recognized as a High Knight named Finead, pulled a candle out of the candelabra closest to them, and kicked the door open wider as he drew out his sword from his sheath.

“Show yourself!” the man demanded as he stormed into the room. The first guard, Perta, was slow to pull her sword out as she stared at her bleeding friend.

The next moment was just as much a blur as the previous, with more sets of guards pouring into the hallway, shouting commands at one another. The song from the party, the smells and chatter, were long gone. Metal against stone, sounds of swords and daggers being released from their sheaths.

Finead finished his search quickly, but after tossing the candle in the fireplace to light the room, he returned to the doorway with his companion, and his sword still drawn out. The two guards stared at each other, communicating silently. Perta’s hands shook as she gripped her short sword with two hands, waiting.

“Where is she?” Kayin could hardly hear himself speak to Finead, who remained silent. Kayin’s quivering only worsened. Quiet shuffling of expensive robes on stone from the other end of the hall gave away the King’s approach.

“What happened?” the old man demanded before he even made it half way to them. The growing glow emanating from Kayin’s room was eclipsed by Finead, whose hand tightened with a squeak on the leather hilt of his sword.

“Th-there was a—”

Finead interrupted Kayin: “My King, please maintain your distance for your safety.” The king froze.

“You found her!” Kayin assumed weakly. He tried to break away from the wall, but his head felt too light to trust his feet to be steady, and he stayed put.

“There was no one there, Your Grace,” answered Finead curtly. Instead of giving any more of an explanation, the man gestured to the floor.

Kayin knew, now that he looked where the man gestured with his sword, what he meant.

Ruyer had drawn his last breath with Kayin at his side; an outline from where Kayin knelt was only disturbed by the dagger that the woman threw. And Kayin stood, covered in Ruyer’s blood, with an invisible woman hiding in his room.

“No—no,” Kayin started, “I know what this looks like—but I—I didn’t!” Standing took too much out of him, and Kayin slid down the wall, reaching toward Ruyer. “I didn’t do this! There was a-a woman, and she was dressed like a guard—and she, she was in my room, and Ruyer went to open it—and—”

“There was no one in the room, My King,” Finead repeated.

“No….” Kayin’s quavering voice fell on deaf ears. “I wouldn’t—Ruyer is…is….”

“Lock down the castle,” commanded the king. “Take him to…you know. Quietly.”

“P-please…,” was the last thing Kayin was allowed to say before Finead and Perta’s swords turned to him.