Chapter 1309: Lost in the fog(1)
Alpheo leaned heavily against the ironwood doorway of his private chambers, a broad shoulder pressed firmly against the polished frame as he quietly regarded his wife.
They had returned to their sanctuary late, long after his new sister-by-marriage had spun her final, exhausting round across the palace lawns. The rest of the court had retired tired but thoroughly satisfied. Well, all save for the King himself. Alpheo had dared to dance only once, making an absolute, toe-crushing botch of it, though his young son Basil had certainly danced enough for both their keep.
The King stood in absolute silence, watching the Queen brush her thick, ravine-black hair before a grand looking-glass. The frantic winds of the garden had left her locks thoroughly matted, and she worked the silver bristles with a steady, practiced rhythm. Alpheo knew for a fact that Jasmine was fully aware of his presence, yet she offered not a single word of greeting, content to let him watch the spectacle in the low candlelit glow.
The King’s sharp eyes, however, soon drifted toward the wrong thing in the room: the mirror itself.
It was a magnificent piece of craftsmanship, one of the luxury wares most desperately desired from the eastern shores of Azania, much like a great deal of the exotic spices currently gracing his high tables. Both commodities had recently come to a roaring, agonizing up-turn in price, all thanks to the sudden, explosive plague of the pirates. It was hard to believe that a grand, ancient empire, the only domain capable of truly rivaling the golden height of old Romelia, had fallen victim to some wet rats tossing torches from the decks of ramshackle ships.
But deny the reality as he wished, the economic bleeding was still undeniably true. The consequences of the fall of Khairo were being felt all the way down to Yarzat, with the volume of wealthy Azanian trading fleets diving down into dismal numbers with each passing moon.
It was a profound misfortune that he possessed no reliable diplomatic contacts in those distant eastern ports. Alpheo would have gladly made an absolute bank if he could have somehow managed to poach even a fraction of the mirror-smiths who legally worked under the exclusive service of the Azanian crown. Though, by the latest grumblings of the dock-masters, he knew for a fact those artisans had been localized entirely in the fallen city of Khairo; by now, they were either rotting in a mass grave or had been sold into miserable chain-slavery by the corsairs.
Still, one man’s agonizing pain was another man’s opportunistic pleasure. Perhaps something of value could indeed be salvaged from the ash. If he couldn’t successfully extract the closely guarded secret of the silvered glass, then at the very least, he might secure the secrets of their unique spices. Perhaps he could buy or smuggle one or two master-cultivators to set up production right here in the rich soils of Yarzat. It was a far-fetched, audacious hope, to be sure, but a warlord’s hopes were always the last to die.
At long last, his attention returned to his wife as a soft, melodic voice came drifting up through the quiet room.
Jasmine had begun to softly sing a low sonnet as she brushed and brushed, critically examining her reflection after every stroke. Alpheo recognized the mournful tune instantly.
The Swann and the Wolf.
"Do you hear the people sing?
Singing the song of lonely men.
It is the music of the people,
Who will not be happy again.
Do you see the swan’s flight?
Making travel of broken love.
It is the sight of longing,
For people who wished for more.
Do you hear the wolf howling,
Singing the song of sadness and woe.
It is the cry of the people,
Who shall do nothing more
Than crying all through the night.
Love to them was denied,
Until their happiness went dry.
So sing, laugh, and cry.
Cry, laugh, and sing, indeed.
For all fables, stories, and songs,
Are bound to their end forevermore."
She hummed the lingering, tragic notes for a moment longer before suddenly stopping as she decided to make his presence known, a cheeky smile breaking across her elegant features that clearly asked if her husband had been properly pleased by the impromptu spectacle.
"You possess a remarkably beautiful voice, my Queen," Alpheo praised softly, stepping away from the threshold.
He walked up behind her seat, his heavy boots silent on the rugs. He reached down, gently took the silver-backed brush straight out of her hand, and seamlessly copied exactly what she had been doing, running the bristles down the long, silky expanse of her black hair with a surprising, uncharacteristic tenderness.
"Don’t go all the way to the dead ends. Stop midway through their length," Jasmine commanded, tilting her chin up slightly to allow the King to continue his unpracticed labor.
"I did not know you were quite so remarkably skilled at singing," Alpheo attempted, his rough voice a jarring contrast to the delicate sonnet that had just filled the chamber.
"One of a thousand hidden talents you know absolutely nothing about, my love," she said triumphantly, her reflection in the grand looking-glass offering him a smug, elegant smirk as the silver bristles slid through her dark waves.
They truly were beautiful hair, lush, heavy, and slightly waving at the very tips. Alpheo paused his brushing for a brief moment, lifting a thick lock near her neck toward his face. Almost fittingly, the dark strands smelled faintly of sweet jasmine and expensive oils.
"I also happen to know a great deal of classical poetry, and I am passably skilled with a canvas and brush," she continued, clearly taking an immense amount of pride in showing off the aristocratic refinements she possessed and he lacked.
"Is that so?" Alpheo murmured, resuming the rhythmic strokes. "I have always deeply misliked painting, personally. If I ever find myself with enough idle time to sit before a canvas and stroke a tiny brush, then something is deeply wrong. Not that I would be any damn good at it anyway."
He held up his left hand beside her cheek, letting her view the stark contrast in the mirror. His skin was crosshatched with faded white scars, his knuckles thick, blunt, and calloused. "These specific tools were not meticulously crafted for such soft, delicate endeavors."
"Really?" Jasmine teased, her green eyes locked onto his reflection. "How about music, then? Singing? Surely you can carry a tune to pass the long winter nights."
She bent her neck back, tilting her head completely up to gaze directly into his dark eyes from below.
"Utterly tone-deaf," the King admitted without a shred of shame. "And entirely mismatched, besides, at attempting to replicate any sound that does not originate from a bronze war-horn."
Jasmine let out a soft snort, her nose wrinkling up in amusement like a rabbit sniffing at fresh grass. "Is there absolutely anything you are exceptionally good at that does not involve the deployment of iron, then?"
The King actually paused at that. He stared at the silver bristles in his hand, his mind drifting back through the long years. He thought for a good, silent length of time.
"I am good at gardening," he said flatly.
Jasmine scoffed, a melodious sound of pure disbelief. "Gardening? Truly? That is hardly a grand, majestic talent a sovereign can proudly show off to his visiting dignitaries."
The King shrugged his broad shoulders, completely unfazed by her mockery. "Most men would not say that if they were actually given a glance at a garden I could tend. It is not so different from ruling, truth be told."
"Most men would hardly say anything ill to your face even if you handed them a patch of dead weeds and called it a paradise," she countered smoothly, though her eyes softened as she turned back to face the glass. "Still... it is rather warming to know that my dear, dear other half, my grand protector, the master of legions, is not flawlessly good at every single thing he touches. It brings about a rare touch of humanity in you, I suppose."
"I am glad my profound lack of grace brings comfort to your soul," Alpheo dryly amused himself, setting the silver brush down onto the marble vanity. He stepped in closer, his large hands resting gently on her bare shoulders, his chin hovering just above her head in the reflection. "Though, if I remember correctly, you didn’t marry me for my ability to play the lute, Queen of Yarzat."
"No," Jasmine murmured, her fingers reaching up to wrap around his wrists, her emerald eyes catching the flickering flame of the bedside candle. ’’No I did not. First time I met you, you appeared so terrible a man.’’ He gave a soft squish to his wrist ’’Never thought you could be so soft’’
’’I suppose there are many things that are not how they appear.’’
’’Speaking of appearing, did something happen?You have been looking troubled half the time during the celebrations. You may have been smiling, but I know you well enough to feel something below it’’
’’Another one of your hidden skill?’’ He attempted with a smile.
’’If you will’’ She said , though he regarded him with no smile this time. ’’Is everything all right?’’
No. It was not.Trouble was brewing on the garden he could look after.