Chapter VI
The House of Mortrites
Soryne stood on the dais which overlooked the city square. The stones were cold even through her sandals, and a sea breeze wafted through the crowds as she and the other muses sang before the city. The sun set in front of them and was slowly sinking into the sea; Soryne did not see it, though. She sang with her eyes closed, not only because the sun was too bright, but because she had horrible stage fright.
It was nothing to perform before the queen and a few courtiers, but before the entire kingdom was entirely different. Not to mention the fact that her nerves were already halfway through shattering, since after this piece they would all sit and Fornia would begin her first poetry reading.
With the final notes sung, Soryne wiped her sweaty palms on her chiton and left the stage to Fornia.
“She will be wonderful,” said Thysia, who sat down next to her. “She is such a wonderful poet. I wonder how she got to be so good at writing?”
Soryne smiled tersely. “She probably reads a lot of books by the ancients.”
Thysia hummed and watched Fornia as she began to recite; it truly was phenomenal. It invoked emotions with only one line and painted pictures in the mind far better than a simple narration might.
“And Thiolathis, with his iron hand Did strike the heart of his son And feed him to the gods. Myphotos first discovered the plot (For who can fool death?) And he said to this man, This human who toyed with fate As if it was trash, Food thrown to the dogs: ‘What devil are you that my sister has created? Your tapestry shall be red as blood, Black as starless night, Frayed as an old man, And empty as your heart.’ The gods were filled with the anger of ten thousand men, A thousand bulls prodded, A hundred swords sharpened; A single man did this, Killed his oldest son for a joke, And still he did not weep. But when they had struck him down to hell Cast him out of this world for ever, Placed him in the blackest demise that they could contrive, He wept for himself and no one else; For no one else on this earth Did he love more than himself. And still he is there, Hungering Thirsting For all eternity. And we remember him Only to shame him: And Myphotos smiles upon it.”
There was more, but Soryne was lost in this passage. There was so much depth and richness to the way that Fornia spoke, to her diction and enunciation; and when one got past the might of her voice, there was the poetry itself. The words carried such power that Soryne trembled: and she knew that there was no possible way that this plan of the queen’s could go wrong.
“What is the story that Fornia tells?” Asked Thysia in a low whisper.
“It is of Thiolathis,” said Soryne quietly. “He is King Ophases’ great-grandfather, and Prince Epnotides’ great-great-grandfather. He fed his son to the gods when they invited him to dine with them, and though he had been one of their favorite mortals before, he was then cast into hell and his family given a curse.”
“What is the curse?”
“The curse of the house of Mortrites. Every father has killed his child since Thiolathis…” Soryne stopped and found herself unable to speak for a moment, but recovered quickly. “Or so the legend says. Nobody thinks of the old tales now, though.” Soryne was so startled by what she had just realized that she was unable to cover her emotions as usual.
Thysia took no notice of Soryne’s flustered state, however, and was busy listening once again.
As Soryne began to think more about the family’s curse and the moving poetry, she realized that perhaps she could write a poem like Fornia’s… perhaps she could use her own words to convince the people that Queen Ponyria was actually the one who was evil, and that she deserved the punishment for treason.
It would be difficult. Soryne did not like to stand in front of crowds, and could not be caught dead reading anything out loud. If there was a way to replace Fornia’s poem, or else convince her to read a different one, then Soryne would do it. But from her standpoint, there was no alternate method of this.
And anyway, there was no possibility of her own poetry ever measuring up to Fornia’s. The head muse was on Ponyria’s side, so she would certainly not write a poem in opposition to the queen’s plans.
What if the prince could just give a speech announcing his mother’s plans?
No, that would never work, Soryne thought; the poetry was far more moving and speeches were often so boring that the listeners might miss something. They must do something in kind with Ponyria’s plan if anything would work: they must fight fire with fire.
“I will talk to the prince about this tomorrow,” Soryne muttered to herself.
Later that night as she passed Fornia’s rooms, however, she found that the doors were open. Soryne stopped in the doorway, glancing into the dim lamplight; she wondered if it was possible to ask Fornia about poetry in general, or simply borrow some books?
Fornia soon entered Soryne’s frame of vision and asked, “would you like to come in?”
Soryne knew that if she entered, Fornia would suspect her. The woman never missed a single thing; and Soryne was not fond of entering others’ rooms.
However, she was determined to do it, and so she nodded at Fornia’s invitation; then, when the lady had shut the door behind them, she asked what it was that Soryne would like to discuss.
“I was wondering,” Soryne began, but then fell short. “That is… would you…” She reddened, and started again. “Your poetry was beautiful tonight, and I wish that I knew how you did it.”
Fornia raised her eyebrows and smiled knowingly. “Indeed?”
Soryne nodded again, unsure of how to respond.
“Well, I shall have to show you,” said Fornia. Quietly she moved over to a large shelf that lined one side of the wall and began to run her fingers along the books that it bore. Soryne turned her head upon the rest of the room and saw a great tapestry upon one wall, and besides a bed and a lampstand there was not much to the room.
“If you are going to be a poet, you must learn to notice everything. There is a beauty in the mundane, a life in every object, a verse in every sentence. You must learn to hear the hidden messages, to understand the simplicity of all things.” Fornia’s words became background noise as Soryne moved over to the windows, the deep green shutters already thrown open wide.
The windows showcased the very same view that Soryne’s room did; only, now Soryne seemed to see it out of Fornia’s eyes, and it was no longer the same seacoast. The waves sparkled like a diadem atop a sand-colored head; buildings crested hills in perfect curls; a slow hum from the city made Soryne aware of the many people outside the palace walls who must live so many different lives and bear so many burdens. So many things were in the world; how could people describe it in mere words? It deserved thousands of poems, thousands of songs. So much of this Soryne could not give.
Not yet.
“I will give you these books, and if you read them, you will learn from those who come before us. If you do these two things– see deeper, and read more– you will be just as accomplished as I am. You are dedicated, and this virtue will aid you.” Fornia handed Soryne three volumes of significant weight, and Soryne stooped as they were loaded into her arms.
“Thank you,” Soryne mumbled, and slowly left the room; when she had returned to her chambers, she lost herself in the verses.