Chapter 183

The Queen

Landscape was same, though blurred beyond recognition at times, as M led Sylas on a pair of black-maned horses through the winding, side roads of the Kingdom. Sylas could run faster, but he didn't push—at times, it was alright to slow down and take the sights in, especially if he was taking them in for the first time.

He'd never been this far in, after all, and the starkest difference was not in the topography—as eventually they came across the distant mountains and forests and hills just the same, but in the fact that there was no white. At some point, snow had almost completely vanished—traces here and there, evidence that it was winter still, but the world was nowhere near as dead as it was far up north.

The trees had their canopy, rich and colorful, and the hills weren't shades of white beneath the barely-squeezing sun. They were green and red and white and blue, flowered and bejeweled by the nature's perfect touch. The winds weren't bone-piercing, they weren't chilled and frigid. In the midday, they were even warm and caressing, like the hands of the everafter hugging a soul. The ponds and rivers and tiny streams that they encountered weren't frozen over; instead, they ran, swift and untamed, wild and unbridled, pouring through unmatched. It was the sight of the nature living, and it was a sight that Sylas missed. Missed terribly.

They took breaks often. Though the horses were good, they were still tiring out. The two barely spoke during the breaks, with M usually falling asleep while Sylas rounded the surrounding area, in part enjoying the sights and in part mapping out the kingdom in his mind. He couldn't imagine it all up in flames soon enough, with men, women, and children alike running amok through the fire and blood, slashing and screaming at every step.

Sylas had never been in a war—not a true one, anyway. What he knew were skirmishes, and though beyond tragic they may be, they were not wars. They were not examples of tens of thousands roaring with bloodlust that hardly ever knew reason. Ignorant would die, fighting for a lie, while those who kindled the flames would lurk in the shadows, waiting, biding their time.

He would sigh at the thought—he promised Valen the throne, but he would have to become the bloodied devil everybody feared. When it would all come to an end, how will he be remembered? In histories, Valen might ascribe him the title of a savior—but the folklore will tell otherwise. A monster, mothers would whisper at nighttime, bedeviled and cold, bloodied from head to toe, shall come crawling on all fours, and eat 'till it cannot eat anymore.

"We're a day away," M said as they jumped on their horses, ready to restart the journey. "What... are you going to do? Will you kill her?"

"Hmm," Sylas mused. "I'm not sure. See I ain't much of a planner. My whims are my pens, and they write the story. Don't worry. Once you escort me, you can go wherever you want."

"... you won't kill me?" M asked, sounding somewhat surprised.

"In another lifetime, perhaps."

The two men rode the rest of the way in silence. The place that M led him to wasn't a village or a town or a city—instead, it was a gated mansion well outside the nearest village, a town unto itself from the size and looks of it. Tall walls stood guarded by dozens, piercing towers and spires lurking from within. Sneaking in was virtually impossible—at least for an ordinary person. If he truly desired, he could just go through the front doors and kill whoever stood in his way. But he wasn't here to fight and kill.

"You can leave," Sylas told M as he dismounted. "Good luck."

"... same," M replied, turning his horse around. Without fanfare, he left, thankful he was being spared.

Sylas walked casually toward the massive walls, invisible to the world around him, easily leaping over the twenty-feet tall walls, landing within with the world being none the wiser. He navigated the many narrow and wide streets, smithies, bakeries, and even barracks. It was a massive compound, taking him over ten minutes of casual walk to reach the central building. There, the dead world turned alive—lights shimmered from within, illuminating the night, while the music swelled even grander.

People walked in and out regularly, all dressed regally, some alone though most within pairs. Ignoring them, Sylas walked in through the front doors—invisible still, even if he was sticking out like a sore thumb, wearing ragged pants and not much else. Walking down the first, red-carpeted corridor, he was distracted by the many portraits on the side, though naturally followed the crowd. A minute or so later, he found himself inside a massive, round hall currently blaring with music and conversation. Hundreds of tables and hundreds of people were scattered about, though clearly divided by some pattern—likely that of their position in the hierarchy.

At the far front, a long table extended, one that looked the most luxurious, and, at its center, Sylas saw a woman. Though he didn't recognize her, he recognized her—it couldn't be anyone else. She was a beauty, ebony-haired and blue-eyed, a strange pairing if there ever was one. Her skin was copper-dyed, seemingly without blemishes, and she wore a beautiful, black gown. There was a veil over her face, hiding her features—though Sylas easily saw through it.

She was currently engaged in a conversation with a man seated next to her; he was an older man, white-haired and mustached, appearing jolly from the appearances.

Suddenly, the woman twitched—lifting her head and looking to the front, her eyes widened slightly as her gaze met Sylas'. She saw him, when nobody else could. However, instead of panicking or exposing him, she smiled. it was a strange smile, an uncomfortable smile. Suddenly, she stood up and appeared to excuse herself, leaving through the doors behind her.

A moment later, Sylas followed—she wasn't running away. She was inviting him, and he obeyed. While the rest of the hall remained ignorant and engaged with the music, he crossed to the other end and through the doors that were left open. There, another corridor awaited, flanked with dozens of doors—of which only one was open and was bleeding light.

She was sifting 'neath the candlelight, pouring red wine into two glasses. The room was otherwise barren, made of old and worn stone, akin to a dungeon. And yet, even in such a rustic surrounding, she appeared to shine and glimmer.

"You're long way from home," she said, taking off her veil and looking at him, smiling still. "And yet even longer still."

"How can you see me?” Sylas asked.

"... Wy warned me you might come," she said. "And taught me your signature. Don't fear. I'm no magical being, I'm afraid. Beyond my keen mind, I'm an ordinary woman."

"You're selling yourself short."

"Come on in," she invited. "This is a special, floral wine that you might like. I always found it oddly stifling and sour, but Wy always enjoyed it." Sylas obeyed, entering and sitting down opposite of her. "Is that some sort of a fashion statement or is it possible you cannot even afford clothes?"

"You're not surprised to see me. How did the King think I'd come visit you when I learned you were here just a few days ago?" Sylas asked.

"These things," she said. "Usually have a way of playing themselves out."

"... these things?" Sylas picked up the glass and gave it a sniff. A strange, though relaxing aroma engulfed his lungs and gently kissed them.

"Why are you here, Sylas?" she asked suddenly. "I'm sure that Wy already informed you what you should be doing."

"I am," he said. "Valen's near the Kingdom's first Barony. But... I found it strange. Everywhere I go, there are retired men and women perfect for my cause."

"Fate is funny like that, I have learned. Just causes find themselves compelled by forces beyond to succeed."

"... I don't believe in fate, though," Sylas said. "What I do believe in is the human touch."

"Must be uninspiringly dry to not believe in fate."

"Why did you banish Valen? Why even choose him? Why summon me? What's the point of it all when you could have just ousted those plotting against you?"

"... that is a lot of questions, Sylas."

"And I need some answers."

"Do you?"

"What?"

"Do you truly need the answers?" she asked. "They will not change your understanding of the events much, I can promise you that."

"You speak as if you know me," Sylas said, taking a sip of wine. As she said, it was quite sour. But... he didn't mind.

"Hardly," she said. "It is my first time meeting you, after all."

"And yet there's this tingly feeling in my brain telling me you know almost everything about me while I know next to nothing about you."

“I only know so much as I need to know,” she said, smiling. “Besides, you seem to know me well enough.”

“Only speculatively,” Sylas said. “Which is to say, not at all.”

“Very well. What do you want to know?”

“Why did you send Valen--”

“That is not a question about me,” she interrupted. “But my actions.”

“Aren’t they one and the same?”

“Is your slaughter of the innocent one and the same with who you are at your core?”

“...” the question shook Sylas, causing him to reel back a bit as he stared at her calm and tranquil expression. “You know about that. So, you know about everything?”

“No,” she shook her head. “Just enough... for this conversation.”

“... I won’t get anything out of you, will I?” he quizzed with a helpless smile.

“You don’t need anything out of me,” she said. “I am just a footnote, Sylas, in the tempered scrolls of history. You, on the other hand, are a hero. What can a footnote possibly say to a hero that will matter whatsoever?”

“What woe a peasant would weep if he were to hear his Queen describe herself as a ‘footnote’,” Sylas said. “But fine. At least tell me this--why Valen? There were other candidates, probably better candidates. So, why him? Was it purely because of the Gift?”

“...” she remained silent for nearly ten seconds before replying. “When Valen was three, he snuck out of his room one night. Started roaming the halls of the Palace. Nobody noticed him. There were guards everywhere, maids, butlers... but there he was, a three-year-old boy roaming freely. He came into our room, a room that nobody knew even existed. And he said something to us that made that choice. In fact, it was after that night that we began planning.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing that will have any importance to you,” she replied. “But something that changed our world. And just like him, you surprised me too. You are marching through the winter. How?”

“Hm? What do you mean? Didn’t you send me a Prophet?” Sylas asked.

“... what Prophet?”

“... eh?”