Mountains Vast and a Kingdom So Red

Chapter 83

This tension is biting, and he needs to find compassionate words to end it. Xirna has had a taste of glamor–in a derelict village–but nonetheless she deserves the experience she wants, but he hopes she can understand his perspective as well. In the evening he hears the shower run. In his periphery he views the foggy mirror, her body covered by a towel, leaning forward as she removes her earrings. She washes her face and brushes her teeth. Then she shuts the washroom door. He waits for her to reappear and she comes to sit on his bed with a robe.

"I know my posing is silly. It is so silly and perhaps I am enjoying life in this Kingdom before we turn into something else."

"You do not need to murder the male in the pantheon. I will do it."

"I will be your accomplice."

"Not if we succeed and escape."

She stays silent.

"Are you considering not returning to Aux Duvrex?"

"That is not an option. If we kill the bastard we will have to flee."

"But if you had the option, you would stay?"

"Yes. Nirminda, or here or home."

He nods and pats her hand. "I am glad you see the beauty. Mainly, I see corruption. Do you remember what the inn keeper said, about the pantheon trying to kill them?" She nods and he continues. "What if they were behind the plague?"

"It would be highly irrational for them to try and eradicate their own citizens," Xirna proposes.

"I fear they are not rational. And my mother, ageing, I do not understand it."

She opens a new topic. "The artist doing five portraits will slow us down. So I asked him to do three."

Bedivere smiles. "Thank you."

"We will leave in two days," she states. Her eyes are not glowing. They are tired.

"Better I arrange a wagon," Bedivere says, which will be accomplished tomorrow. He looks at his journal, peeking out of the nightstand drawer. In it he has recorded every date they have lived abroad, but he has not written much poetry.

On the stoop of his cottage, Xirna gives Signmour a big kiss on the cheek. It counts as goodbye and thank you. He has given her the name of the art dealer who lives in Polaris and says the art dealer will be in touch. Signmour firmly shakes Beivere's hand who does not fully trust him, but the ascent of his companion's name excuses it. He parts ways with the Effrens and the Viboss who bestow him with humble gifts: a rope, grape vines and skin cream, and Aiix and Jordan apply pressure on Xirna to write to them. The capitol is not exactly calling, it is an impenetrable stone, but the floodgates should burst open soon.

The wagon wheels crunch on the turf, bringing the travelers kilometers closer to the destination. Their rider keeps them entertained with stories within the wooden invention. Xirna and Bedivere debated whether to wear fancy clothes, as they could become rumpled, but the journey will not exceed one hour and a half, so they picked honorable, practically fluorescent outfits, playing the roles assigned. Keeping his shade drawn, Bedivere naps, his dreams start in an easy haze, but end in nightmare. The four mercenaries, but in this retelling, the pitch of his voice fails to save his brother, once his brother is slain, Bedivere wakes in a cold sweat. Xirna tries her best to soothe him in the last ten minutes. He resists eating all the sweet grapes and once they arrive, he pays the rider, and follows his cheerful companion as she absorbs the city life.

"I have never been here before," she says.

"I have, first at a forgettable age and then at fifteen." He remembers careening on his father's shoulders during the lantern show.

"Your wings shine against the sky."

"What did you do during your visits?"

"It was lazing about, similar to Aux Duvrex, however I did not drink. But I believe the city's shifted." This is what Odin had said.

"In my leisure time, I created a profile on each pantheon member. Their conditions, their idiosyncrasies, two of them are related by blood, mother and son. But I have no knowledge of their chosens as this is not in the books."

"May I see that Xirna?" He gestures to her fastened pages. She hands it to him.

"Each pantheon has a Opti chosen whom they consider the best of the best. Best fighter or best jester or sexual slave, what have you. Nine Optis. From there is the middle rank, each pantheon has two Secund chosens, fairies and creatures whom they have grown attached to, or at minimum, do not want to see dead. Bottom rank are Communis chosens, forty of them total, none of them are allowed to mate and produce youth, that is the sacrifice they pay to live in Polaris, and the relationships they maintain with the pantheon are superficial. That is the ladder we climb first," Bedivere tells Xirna.

"We are greater than them," Xirna says.

"I know. But we must prove it. You know there are no hostels?"

She bristles. "Where will we sleep?"

"It is two hours till dark. We must convince a fairie to harbor us from the cold."

"Can I take a mental picture first?" she asks. He smiles, assuming her pull is to the sea glass waters, which is within reach. Bordering the coast are sand castles which refuse to crumble. To the west are galleries which turn in to libraries and to the east are theaters and ballrooms. North is the rulers' palace, a rustic castle with a dome ceiling and modern finishings. South is a dense coniferous forest, a slim geographic line forbidding the Thewren Mountains sight of their metropolis.

"I wish I was in a bikini," she sighs. "I cannot swim in the nude; Aiix helped me into this dress."

His cheeks burn brown. "We have tomorrow to swim. May I have the name of the dealer?"

She mumbles that the card is in the depths of her luggage. Annoyance tinges at his stomach, but he drops the subject and suggests she flies, holding him to his chest.

"Why on Ganymede would I do that?"

"It will catch us saplings of attention." He smirks.