Chapter II

Prince Epnotides

Soryne left the temple shortly after Monepothes did. It took her a moment to sort through the idea of a woman wanting to murder her own husband; but still, she knew it was a fallen world, and that the gods had ordained this to happen. All she could do was pray that the woman would come to her senses and that Myphotos really didn’t want to hang the tapestry of this young man’s father quite yet.

A breeze blew in from the sea as Soryne walked to the north wing of the palace, where the muses’ rooms were. The marble and sandy stones of the pathway through the gardens made her stroll pleasant; the myrtle flowers crept over the walk and delighted her with their periwinkle blossoms. The fig trees provided mild shade and interrupted the glaring sun when she passed by them. Pulling a fig from a branch, she bit into it and sighed; there were few things she liked more than a ripe fig. None of the luxurious foods of the queen’s tables could satisfy her more.

The thought reminded her that before dinner that night, there was to be a concert, and this dampened her spirits. Concerts themselves were not that bad; they were a key function of her position, after all. It was the long and boring dinners that followed that bothered her. Tonight’s banquet would be especially boring, as it was being held to celebrate the prince and would be full to the brim with nobles and all of the queen’s friends. Perhaps Monepothes would be there, she thought; but maybe his parents would bring trouble. This only made her dread the evening more.

Since Soryne was one of nine muses who had been selected for the queen’s entertainment, it was mandatory that she attend. It would not surprise her if she received a talking-to later that evening, delivered by Fornia, the head muse. Soryne knew she would be scolded for skipping the morning celebration, but her duties at the temple were far more important and she was sure that the queen would not be too upset by her absence. Soryne was a wallflower, anyway.

As she went on and entered the palace, she passed two servants tarrying in the hall; they were rattling on about something, and resorted to whispers as soon as Soryne was in their sight. She still heard them, however, and they spoke about how strange it was that the prince should come home early, before his father or older brother. The queen had sent for him, whispered one; but why? asked the other.

Soryne was too far to hear any more; but she also thought it queer that the queen should ask for Prince Epnotides to come home so early. The war was over; but still, the prince came only with a hundred men, and surely there were far more troops still recovering on the battlefield. Soryne did not involve herself much in matters of state, but she knew that Myphotos had been cutting plenty of strings already; she did not wish to begin even thinking about the many who were succumbing to disease and battle wounds as she walked through the palace halls without a care in the world.

“Without a care, really,” she mumbled to herself, and opened the door to her bedroom.

“Soryne!”

Soryne stepped back into the hall to find Fornia beckoning from her door. Well, here came that reprimand Soryne had expected.

The doors were ordered according to age, and Soryne and Fornia had two doors between them; Soryne walked over, dust rising from the stone floor and dancing in the streaks of evening sunlight.

“You missed the celebrations earlier,” said Fornia, and Soryne frowned.

“I was at the temple.”

Fornia sighed, putting a hand to her forehead. “I know that your prayers are very important to you, but surely you understand that greeting the prince should be far more so!”

“Nearly all the Agioi were at the ceremony. I was needed at the temple, and surely the prince was not offended by my absence.”

Fornia looked at Soryne curiously and began to say something, but then stopped. Soryne started to turn away, thinking that Fornia only wished to reprimand her more; but Fornia reached out and caught her by the shoulder.

“Soryne. Listen to me, please.” Fornia’ voice was gentler now, more like the mother she was prone to act as.

Soryne tilted her head, crossing her arms and nodding.

“The queen specifically asked after you today, Soryne. She wanted to know why you weren’t there.”

“My duty is not to the queen. My duty is to the gods,” Soryne mumbled, eyes to the ground. She had no patience for this.

Fornia stepped back, her jaw tightening and her gaze hard. “You had better not let the queen hear that. You must recall that she was the one who brought you here and now provides for you without question. You ought to feel a good amount of duty to her.”

Soryne looked up at Fornia, knowing that she was right. It was a dangerous business, to want one’s own way in the presence of Queen Ponyria. But the queen was not the one who had found her and brought her to the temple: it was Fornia.

“I’m sorry,” Soryne whispered. “But for your sake, not the queen’s.”

Fornia pursed her lips and let go of Soryne’s shoulder.

Soryne turned and rushed down the hall again, the wind blowing from the open windows and brushing her dark hair into her eyes. Soon she entered her own room and shut the door fast after her.

“I’m not being selfish,” Soryne told herself. The queen was not important in the grand scheme of things. And if Soryne had it her way, she would be a priestess, not a muse.

Right after her parents died, Soryne had found sanctuary in the temple. This was when she was about six; and when she was ten, Fornia chanced to see her and took a liking to her. Fornia was kind and good to Soryne, and brought her food and the occasional poem to put to music. It was after a few months of this that Queen Ponyria was informed by the Agioi that this young girl was extremely devoted to serving the temple. The queen evaluated her– quite possibly the most frightening day of Soryne’s life– and then decided that Soryne would be the muse of sacred hymns and poetry, and would from then on reside in the palace. The room that she had been given then was the same she now lived in.

Soryne opened the curtains at the far end of her chamber, throwing a bit of light over the space. On one side was her bed, and on the other was a vanity-table and washbasin; beside the bed was a chest of clothes. Around the room sat personal items: a pot of hyacinths grew in the corner by the window, and a tripod stool with elegant carvings sat by the door. This stool was all that Soryne had left from her previous life, but of it she remembered little. According to the priestesses who took her in, she was the daughter of the carpenter who had made it. It meant little to her, besides the convenience it provided when she wanted to compose verses or prayers for temple ceremonies.

She was not heartless, but had only been orphaned young. When she was ten years old, the war began; and when the king’s men had been removed from the palace, the queen began to gather her muses as a way to amuse herself. Fornia, she had found first, and named her muse of lyrical poetry; this was her favorite art, and thus Fornia had become her favorite muse. It was not six months later that three more had been gathered: Doxa was the muse of history, and Orane was the muse of astronomy. Then Soryne was added, and five more after her: Palysa, Moina, Thymite, Oreva, and Thysia.

“I am not bitter,” Soryne grumbled as she sorted through her chest of clothes, looking for a mantle or something to use for the night’s more formal dress code.

The temple was a far more worthwhile occupation. At least Soryne had been recognized for her dedication during her youth and was chosen as the corresponding muse. Some of the other muses did not have this to boast about. Not that Soryne would boast…

“I would simply have a better answer, were someone to ask me,” she muttered, biting her lip.

Soryne was soon in the dining hall, servants rushing in folds about her, preparing for the great feast. The muses stood around the room idly, talking amongst themselves; but Soryne sat alone in the performance alcove. It was set back from the dining room, facing the head of the table, and it contained three rows. During concerts, muses stood upon it to sing, and they were placed in order of age. Soryne’s place, and where she now sat, was on the far left side of the second step.

A tap on the shoulder plucked Soryne out of her silent observation of the room. Soryne turned to find that Thysia, the youngest muse, was sitting behind her.

Thysia was the muse of comedy, and always had something to laugh about. Indeed she was the sweetest girl Soryne knew, and yet the sight of her shining red hair and her blazing eyes, always delighted, made Soryne feel too solemn for the world. Perhaps she ought never to talk to anyone, nor ever try her hand at anything worthwhile again.

Even now she looked so pleased about something, and the noise of the room caused her to raise her voice as she said, “you did not get to see the prince earlier, did you?”

“No,” Soryne replied, wishing to roll her eyes and turn away; yet she didn’t.

“Well, he was very handsome. A good jaw, you know. Although he is rather tanned, from being at sea and out fighting; and I wonder if he has seen such terrible things? How funny to think about.” Thysia sighed and leaned her head on the heel of her wrist, gazing upwards wistfully.

Now Soryne did roll her eyes; and there was not much time for further reflection, for Fornia came in and gathered all the muses into the alcove to make ready for the concert.

As a rule, Soryne did not look at the audience when singing; she was a little bashful, though she was loath to admit it. The singing was done in as little as ten minutes, though, as the feast waited. There would be more singing when the meal was over.

Introductions must have been made that morning, for when the singing was over the muses followed Fornia to their seats at the table, which lined the nine chairs down the left side. Queen Ponyria sat at the head, and immediately to her right was Princess Kechria; and Soryne drew her eyes to the prince, who was on the left of the queen, and about four seats away from her.

Prince Epnotides had dark hair, like his mother and sister, and perhaps Thysia was right about his face being good-looking. But he looked tired, and as he glanced her way…

Soryne started as he caught her eye in passing, just for an instant. She looked away immediately, abashed, but in his face she saw the same likeness as that of Monepothes from the temple.

It could not be. That was the prince, to be sure; he was seated next to his mother, and Princess Kechria looked so like him that they could be twins. Soryne dared to flick her eyes upwards again, and got a better look at him in the candlelight.

There was no mistaking it. Soryne was not very good at recognizing faces, but she could see in her mind’s eye Monepothes admitting to her what he needed prayers for; and this was the very same man.