saw that vendor of curiosities with his peculiar remains, I suppose it all fell into place at once—everything. And I’ll explain it all, afterwards. I really will. . . .
“But first, you, my Lord, must overcome your natural disgust, as you call it, and do the humanly impossible. Bring Nairis the Fabled One back to life.”
III: Deepening
T hey are in a small inner courtyard of the castle, this one a particularly isolated spot the size of a monk’s cell, a narrow space between uninterrupted walls with only one decrepit entrance marked off by a swinging door of ancient wood mounted on rusty iron hinges. The purpose of this outer room open wide to the elements is unknown, buried in the past. Mayhap it once serves as an herb garden, a meeting room for secret lovers or conspirators, a place to isolate unruly children or to keep domesticated beasts and their feed troughs. Now, there is nothing here but beaten dirt for a floor, with possible slabs of stone buried deep underneath, with high walls that are looming above them on all four sides like mountains, engendering the illusion of being at the bottom of a well. There is but a patch of ink sky overhead, with several pinpoints of stars.
The butler, Harmion, directs servants to set up a narrow long table and two chairs. No one is in the mood for sitting, however. The funeral box is placed on the tabletop which is covered by a long spread of chamois cloth, with two candles on both ends, sending tiny feeble light into the nighttime blackness. They are safe from high winds here, the candles and their droplet amber flames. Safe, yet oddly vulnerable to a possible wrath of sky. . . .
“Look, my Lord, no moon tonight . . .” Janerizel says, standing a little to the side. Her words are innocent.
“Really?” Rossian’s voice is drenched in his customary cold sarcasm. “What is this thing, this moon? With so little empty sky in which I can look up, it’s a rarity that I glimpse the moon, even if it is full.”
“I suppose this is but one of the few places within your castle grounds where you get any open sky at all. Be grateful for that much—in my castle where I was imprisoned, I had no such courtyard. I never saw the sky, except out of a window.”
Such a minor observation. And she does not speak bitterly at all. Yet he has to look at her nevertheless, seeing again an instant of pathos in her little figure, her wretched clothing (why does she wear it?), her childish eyes. Again, almost a twinge of pity.
In the meantime, servants depart, closing the heavy wooden door behind them, no doubt wondering at the newest madness of their Duke who is up to something ungodly in the middle of the night.
Rossian watches the last man leave. And then he walks slowly, his movement marking the perimeter of walls, the empty open space beyond which lies more stone, thick as the height of a man or maybe the span of an arm. He thinks of that massive span as he stretches out his hand to touch the wall, brushing fingers against it as he walks, to be repulsed initially by its wet slickness of moss and lichen in spots; stone perspiring everywhere, covered with cold moisture of the night air.
Izelle stands restless, seeming to feel his motion, to mark it; maybe she detects a faint gathering of power. She observes the thin elegant figure of Duke Rossian, and—could it be?—she might suddenly imagine him at the castle gates all those countless times, as he leans against the air , places his body in such a position that he could not be naturally supported, hand outthrust just as it is now, virtually resting against a wall of nothing. She might visualize him pushing while power bounces back and the unbreachable boundary holds, its metaphysical resonances like echoes in his mind. . . .
He lets go of the wall and steps away, turning to her. “Here we are. What comes next?”
“This. You must approach the box filled with death and focus upon it. Invoke your power and the extent
“But first, you, my Lord, must overcome your natural disgust, as you call it, and do the humanly impossible. Bring Nairis the Fabled One back to life.”
III: Deepening
T hey are in a small inner courtyard of the castle, this one a particularly isolated spot the size of a monk’s cell, a narrow space between uninterrupted walls with only one decrepit entrance marked off by a swinging door of ancient wood mounted on rusty iron hinges. The purpose of this outer room open wide to the elements is unknown, buried in the past. Mayhap it once serves as an herb garden, a meeting room for secret lovers or conspirators, a place to isolate unruly children or to keep domesticated beasts and their feed troughs. Now, there is nothing here but beaten dirt for a floor, with possible slabs of stone buried deep underneath, with high walls that are looming above them on all four sides like mountains, engendering the illusion of being at the bottom of a well. There is but a patch of ink sky overhead, with several pinpoints of stars.
The butler, Harmion, directs servants to set up a narrow long table and two chairs. No one is in the mood for sitting, however. The funeral box is placed on the tabletop which is covered by a long spread of chamois cloth, with two candles on both ends, sending tiny feeble light into the nighttime blackness. They are safe from high winds here, the candles and their droplet amber flames. Safe, yet oddly vulnerable to a possible wrath of sky. . . .
“Look, my Lord, no moon tonight . . .” Janerizel says, standing a little to the side. Her words are innocent.
“Really?” Rossian’s voice is drenched in his customary cold sarcasm. “What is this thing, this moon? With so little empty sky in which I can look up, it’s a rarity that I glimpse the moon, even if it is full.”
“I suppose this is but one of the few places within your castle grounds where you get any open sky at all. Be grateful for that much—in my castle where I was imprisoned, I had no such courtyard. I never saw the sky, except out of a window.”
Such a minor observation. And she does not speak bitterly at all. Yet he has to look at her nevertheless, seeing again an instant of pathos in her little figure, her wretched clothing (why does she wear it?), her childish eyes. Again, almost a twinge of pity.
In the meantime, servants depart, closing the heavy wooden door behind them, no doubt wondering at the newest madness of their Duke who is up to something ungodly in the middle of the night.
Rossian watches the last man leave. And then he walks slowly, his movement marking the perimeter of walls, the empty open space beyond which lies more stone, thick as the height of a man or maybe the span of an arm. He thinks of that massive span as he stretches out his hand to touch the wall, brushing fingers against it as he walks, to be repulsed initially by its wet slickness of moss and lichen in spots; stone perspiring everywhere, covered with cold moisture of the night air.
Izelle stands restless, seeming to feel his motion, to mark it; maybe she detects a faint gathering of power. She observes the thin elegant figure of Duke Rossian, and—could it be?—she might suddenly imagine him at the castle gates all those countless times, as he leans against the air , places his body in such a position that he could not be naturally supported, hand outthrust just as it is now, virtually resting against a wall of nothing. She might visualize him pushing while power bounces back and the unbreachable boundary holds, its metaphysical resonances like echoes in his mind. . . .
He lets go of the wall and steps away, turning to her. “Here we are. What comes next?”
“This. You must approach the box filled with death and focus upon it. Invoke your power and the extent
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