Chapter X

What Was Accomplished

Soryne crept down the hallway, away from Thysia’s room. The girl’s door being open was normal; but the voices coming from the room were not. As soon as Soryne realized that it was Fornia, she turned back immediately, knowing that her chance had come.

But without meaning to, she heard the last bit of the conversation: “I lied… because that was what I wanted for you.”

Soryne did not know what to think. The muses were all perfectly fitted into their roles, so molded into their positions, that it had never occurred to her whether or not there could have been someone else in her place.

What if Fornia knew that Soryne would have preferred the temple, but brought her into the palace because a family was what she needed? Because all Soryne had were empty promises of gods who were nothing more than actionless statues, and Fornia wanted to give her a place to have true faith?

This was too much; Soryne shook her head. She must go on and attend to the matter at hand.

Epnotides told her to be strong, so she would. Carefully and quietly as a mouse, Soryne took the poetry out of her girdle and went into Fornia’s room.

It was the same as hers in formulation; but there was also a great bookshelf beside a hearth without a fire because it was summer. The shelf was laden with heavy books, scrolls, and documents, which she hastily began searching through. Soryne could not find the poetry anywhere, not in the chest that was beside Fornia’s bed nor under her mattress or behind the tapestry on the wall. Anywhere that Soryne could think of, she checked, but time made her frantic.

Finally Soryne realized that there was a pile of papers atop the mantelpiece, and she took it down and began reading through it. Indeed, it was the poetry, and Soryne nearly stopped her whole objective because it was so much better than hers.

However, Epnotides’ words arose once more, and she found the appropriate passages to replace.

She took Fornia’s verses and ran out of the room, shutting the door behind her and racing back into her own chambers. Without a moment to lose, she turned out her lamp, closed the shutters, and flew into bed.

About five minutes passed, and she heard Fornia walk up the hall; and then her heart slowed, and her breaths became lighter and steadier.

Yet she was aching inside: so she carefully lit her lamp again and pulled out Fornia’s poetry from under her blankets where it was hidden. In slanted writing read a long passage.

The house of Mortrites will be avenged:
The night shall cease to be
And when all is said and done
Your king,
Your tyrant,
The husband of your queen
Who murdered his eldest child
And sentenced us all to chaos,
Will be dead by your own making.
Will you bring this land to justice?
Will you sacrifice your king to end the curse?
Revenge is sweet,
Like a birdsong on a summer’s day
And the sun after a storm.
Give nothing, if you wish,
But if you chose to,
You may save our kingdom from its final breath.

Soryne glared at it for a moment, letting the verses wash over her.

Revenge was not sweet. Revenge tasted of blood, of tears, of anguish. This much she had deduced from Epnotides. The war in Priam had been built off nothing but this: and though his body was unharmed, his mind would forever be in torment.

Soryne got out of bed and opened the shutters, laying the papers down on the sill. Then, with bated breath, she tilted the flame of the lamp to light the poetry on fire.

It burned slowly, and the embers crested the breeze like dust. A blackened line advanced along the paper, consuming everything in its path. Soon the page was naught but a pile of ashes, and Soryne swept them off in an instant.

There was nothing that could stop her from finishing her work tomorrow. If the king died tomorrow, she would fail.

The next night, Soryne sat on a bench in the midst of a crowd. Servants rushed everywhere getting things ready for the final orations. The king was supposed to arrive with the queen, the prince, and the princess any minute; they were already late by at least two hours.

Soryne knew this meant that Epnotides had been successful and that he had gained the help of his uncle. The royal party was stalled and it was a good thing, too: the queen had ordered far too much to be arranged in such a little amount of time.

Not even the rest of the muses had arrived. Only Soryne and Thysia sat next to each other, watching the chaos around them. Night was falling, and everyone was rushing to light all the torches; it would not be long before the townspeople would go away because their king had not presented himself yet.

Soryne managed to catch snippets of conversation as servants rushed by; one was saying to another, “well, this is nothing like what’s happening in Nymalia right now. Some sort of insurrection.”

The hum of the crowds outside was enough to know that they were getting impatient; and the room behind the curtains was dusty, the floor made of sand and sawdust. It caught in Soryne’s nose and eyes, making her sneeze and blink profusely; she wondered if she looked like she was crying, for she definitely felt like it.

All of a sudden, the rest of the muses walked in, and Fornia beckoned Soryne and Thysia over to the entrance to the amphitheater.

Quietly, Fornia whispered to them, “We will begin the ceremony without the royal family. Their caravan is near, but the crowds grow restless and the queen has sent an order that we are not to tarry any longer.”

Soryne’s stomach twisted as she nodded, and the muses stepped into their three-tiered arrangement and began their first song of the night.

It was a song of thanksgiving, and the verses spoke of being glad in this time of great provision. Soryne’s mind was not on the music, however; she could focus on nothing but the question of whether or not the plot would work.

There were three songs that were to be sung before the poetry began, and nobody knew when the royal family would arrive. All Soryne could do was hope.