Chapter VIII

Prince Kaioryses

“Fornia, so kind of you to join us. I have good news and bad news; I will allow you to choose which I tell first, since my children will not speak up.” The queen paced her chambers that night as Fornia entered, having been called in just minutes ago.

Fornia bowed, then said, “the good news first, I suppose, my lady.”

Queen Ponyria pursed her lips, faking a smile. “Well, the king will be coming home tomorrow night. I have just received word.” She waved a letter in the air, which had been crushed in her grasp as if she were trying to strangle it.

“And the bad news?” Asked Prince Epnotides.

“Your brother Prince Kaioryses is dead.”

Princess Kechria stared at her mother for a moment, and then spat, “what?”

Prince Epnotides said nothing, only sat down to look out the window towards the sea.

“It is true. The reason for their delay was that his injuries were taking longer to heal than expected; and he took a turn for the worse and died while we waited for word of their return. Now your father arrives home with the rest of the troops tomorrow evening, and we will meet them as they arrive and bury your brother by the shore.”

Fornia looked down at her sandals. The queen did not sound as if she were mourning her son; she was gritting her teeth and her eyes were fiery. It was obvious that she blamed King Ophases.

Presently Fornia looked up at the princess– this meant that the young girl was next in line to the throne. It was clear that Kechria had already thought of this herself: for she too bore no sign of remorse, but instead her eyes blazed like her mothers. Finally, in what Fornia knew was an effort to keep up appearances, she sat down in a red chair by the window across from her brother.

It was apt that the sunset was bathing the sea in a reddened glare. It looked like a bloodbath, and it was about to be one.

“I must have your word that the poetry will be perfected by then,” the queen continued.

“I promise that it is already near perfection as we speak,” Fornia assured her.

The queen dismissed her then, and Fornia knew that she did not have much time: she must learn why Soryne wanted to write poetry before she condemned herself to death.

Dusk had not yet fallen when Epnotides found Soryne in the gardens. She had been reading over her verses when he came, and she thought he would be excited to hear more; but he was forced to disappoint her.

“I’m sorry, Soryne. My father comes home tomorrow night and my brother is dead. My uncle has told me that he will stall the king as long as he can, but our plan depends mostly on you. Have you finished your poetry? There is not much time.”

Soryne showed him her finished work. “I would have liked to try a few more times. I thought we had another week.”

“I did too, but I was wrong. And I think that my mother’s anger will be more than enough to make you understand that you are my last hope. She accuses my father of killing Kaioryses, and I do not know what to think.”

Soryne studied the prince’s face as he confessed this to her. She had never seen him weep, but now he began to; and it was bitter, full of the pain that a soldier must bear when the war is not truly on the battlefield but in the heart.

“You loved your brother greatly, I think,” murmured Soryne, trying to comfort him.

“Yes,” Epnotides blurted, looking away and blinking away his tears. “Yes, besides my father he was my closest friend. He would have been a better king than my father ever has been, and we hoped he would be blessed with peace.”

“He has the greatest peace now,” said Soryne, and took his hand. “Myphotos has hung his tapestry high in his halls, and we will all remember him for his valor and strength.”

Epnotides sat down on a stone bench, and Soryne followed suit.

“I thank you for writing your poetry. It is the greatest service that anyone has ever done to me.”

Soryne smiled weakly. “It will not be as good as Fornia’s.”

“It will be enough, and that is what I need. Anyway, it is better than I could have done it.” Epnotides laughed, and it was sour; but still Soryne knew he was trying to be cheerful for her. It was difficult not to remind him of the stakes that were so high.

“What’s wrong?” The prince asked, and Soryne realized that she had been staring blankly at the ground.

“I am frightened,” Soryne whispered, and Epnotides took her hand.

“You must tell me why,” he said.

“I must still switch the poems, and even then, we do not know if Fornia will notice or not. What if she changes them out again, and accuses me of treason? She knows I have been writing poetry; I asked her for help–” as she continued on, her heart raced wildly and the one thing that grounded her were Epnotides’ eyes, blue as the sea and just as deep.

“But there still may be a chance that Fornia is good, Soryne,” said Epnotides, looking down at her gently. “She has never seemed happy to do my mother’s bidding. There may still be something in her heart that gives her reason to fight for what is right.”

Soryne wiped her eyes and nodded, fighting back the anxiety that had so suddenly claimed her.

Epnotides lifted a hand to touch her cheek. “Everything will be fine. The gods sent you to help me; I do not think that they will let us fail now.”

Then he kissed her, and Soryne returned it; then he wrapped his arms around her and let her rest against him until she was calm.

Soryne wished that she really believed his words: but there was fear in her heart, so that when she returned to her room that night and thought about him, she mourned.