On This Day
By R.R. Wolfgang
Here I
sit, quill in hand, and I am aware. I feel at peace. I feel
everything. The quill is light in my hand, its feather soft
against my cheek. As I write, I feel and hear the scratch of the nib
against the parchment. I feel the smudges of ink drying on my
fingers. I feel the breeze drifting through the window, and close my
eyes. For a moment - just a moment - I almost forget there are bars
in the window, casting long shadows on the solid dusty granite floor
of my cell.
Still,
today, I tell myself I do not see the bars. Today, I feel the pen in
my hand and know that soon I will be free.
Of course,
I could write these words with a thought, a whisper or thrill of my
mind, but then I would not feel the lightness of the quill or the dry
parchment. I would feel nothing. Still, a voice in my head rages at
this mundanity. It rages at my fate.
I am,
after all, Queen Syrices. I have a myriad of other names, of course.
The Dread Queen, Dark Queen, Queen of Shadows, and of course, the
Deathspeaker. The list of my pseudonyms was read aloud at the Grand
Hearing, along with the list of my alleged crimes. Some charges were
fair. Perhaps even just. I could deny the charges, like so many do,
with their dying breath crying their innocence. But I know who I am.
I know what I am, and I know what I have done.
Kin-slaying.
That was the first of my charges, and the most egregious, according
to the laws and customs of this land. Of my land. I cringe to even
write the word. It haunts me. I did not speak the word that ended my
sister’s life, as I was accused. But I might as well have, for I
did not speak the word that would have saved her. I saw her death in
my dreams, as true a dream as I ever had, but I said nothing. I did
nothing. And in my inaction, I condemned her to a death both long and
painful.
As an apprentice in the Arts, I was taught the same rules as my brothers and sisters at the Academy. There is no greater power than to know what the future holds. To know what is to come, what will be or what may be, to hold a person's life in your hands - there is great power and great responsibility. For every vision a wizard sees, the wizard has a choice - to pluck from that vision the truth and to give the subjects of the vision a chance to change their fate, or to follow the darker path. The path of inaction - to see a death and do nothing. That is murder, according to the laws of my people. By those laws, I might as well have cast the ill-fated spell that ended my sister's life.
As an apprentice in the Arts, I was taught the same rules as my brothers and sisters at the Academy. There is no greater power than to know what the future holds. To know what is to come, what will be or what may be, to hold a person's life in your hands - there is great power and great responsibility. For every vision a wizard sees, the wizard has a choice - to pluck from that vision the truth and to give the subjects of the vision a chance to change their fate, or to follow the darker path. The path of inaction - to see a death and do nothing. That is murder, according to the laws of my people. By those laws, I might as well have cast the ill-fated spell that ended my sister's life.
Of course,
my guilt in her murder is relative. While I did not speak the word
that killed my sister, I can truly say that if given the chance, I
would have. I would have weaved a spell of such agony and treachery,
she would have been days dying, not mere hours. Dear Cherys, she
would experience the sorrow, helplessness and rage I felt as I
watched my beloved people die. The people she had condemned to death,
for nothing more than a title, a ruined building and a silver
circlet. I would have killed her with my own hands, if given the
chance. I would have reveled in the warmth of her blood running down
my hands, staining my gown.
But that
opportunity never surfaced. Years went by, and not once did she send
a message, magical or otherwise. I glimpsed her in my dreams at
times, the only magic that she allowed me to keep. And eventually, my
anger diminished and I felt sorrow at her death.
Regicide.
That is another of my charges. Did I slay King Gerad? Yes. Yes. Many
times yes. And with great pleasure. I killed the ignorant pig, and
his cousin, and even his wretched mother. I spoke the words, the
Words of Death, in plain view of my hand-maids, the cooks, and the
guards. Even the stable boy probably heard me through the window
overlooking the common yard.
Yet not
one of those souls did anything to stop me. It took three breaths to
chant the full Words of Death, and not one soldier raised a sword,
not one laid a hand on me, or shouted a word of interruption. Perhaps
they, like the king, did not realize my magic had returned. Or,
perhaps the rumors of my magic had spread to them and they feared me.
I like to believe they, too, felt relief when that man and his
pitiful family choked on their expensive wine, and died in a pool of
their own vomit and blood.
By that
act, I bound myself to this fate. The fate of all magic-wielders in
these dark times. Some say the king looked beyond the dark stain of
magic when he chose me as his queen. I know for a fact, however, that
he chose me after looking upon my visage in the scrying pool of a
hedge witch. A witch he later had murdered for the crime of using
magic. I was fated to be his queen, she had told him. The most
beautiful woman in all the lands. I like to believe this hedge witch
had seen her own death. That somehow, she believed that by sending
King Gerad to me, she was sending him to his own death.
Of course,
King Gerad began his courtship quite politely by asking for my hand
in marriage. But his reputation as a mage-slayer proceeded him and I
refused. I knew him to be a tyrant who used his magicians for his own
ends, and killed all those who would not bow to him.
Somehow,
each refusal made me all the more enticing. I captivated him. Perhaps
I was that obstinate nag that needed to be broken. Perhaps he was
simply curious to see if he could deceive the High Sorceress, rumored
to be the most powerful wizard in the whole of the Thirteen Lands. To
this day, I do not know what he hoped to achieve. Any soothsayer he
hired no doubt told him of the many weavings this future would hold.
Yet when
King Gerad came humbly into my throne room, and kneeled before me and
the council of wizards, something seemed changed. When he presented
that ring to me, all those years ago - oh, how it sang to me! Such a
bittersweet tune. And the auras weaved such an intricate net, veins
of silver and gold twisted together around the most brilliant ruby I
had ever seen. I was instantly intrigued. More than intrigued - I was
enchanted. I had never seen a magic quite like it. To this day, I do
not know how my sister managed that spell. She could not have been
alone - how many of my brethren, my sisters, how many conspired with
her? I asked that question many times over the years, and I cannot
fathom the answer. What did the king promise them? Riches, power? Or,
more likely, that he would free their beloved from captivity?
Still,
when he gave me the opportunity to try the ring, I could not resist
it. Every fiber in my being screamed a warning, but how could it
possibly be a threat to me? There I stood, in the middle of the
Wizard’s Hold, dozens of wizards, witches and sorcerers there to
come to my aid. What hurt could possibly come from trying on one tiny
ring, just to feel and explore whatever magic it might have held?
But as
soon as that ring was on my finger, I was powerless to remove it. Nor
could I use my magic to stop what happened next. I watched,
helplessly, as King Gerad's men and his own wizards destroyed
everything I loved and held dear. I, the High Sorceress of the
Wizard’s Hold, watched my Hold, my Alabaster Tower destroyed. My
sister, Cherys, was paid her fee and rose in my place as the High
Sorceress of the Wizard’s Hold, and the few wizards and witches
remaining. To this day, I do not know if they rebuilt my Alabaster
Tower.
After that
day, I became the king’s prisoner. Later, his captive queen.
Of my many
sins, no doubt you wonder if I regret the murder of my King? He
brought ruin down on everyone I held dear and opened my eyes to the
pleasure in the world of darkness.
So, my
answer is no. Even at the brink of peace, I do not regret killing
that man. I remember it with glee. Many of my wizards looked to me,
waiting for me to speak a Word that would save them, but I found I
had no voice to speak. If I had been able to undo that spell, well,
the king would have been dead sooner, and I would have more friends
in this world. But I could not undo that spell, try as I might. In
the end, it was through the king's own folly I escaped my bonds, not
through any craft on my part. He became wary of the empire my sister
was slowly rebuilding and sent for her death. I could have told him
of the consequence of his actions, but I did not. I rejoiced when I
dreamed my dream, and planned my revenge. Had he truly expected the
bond to hold, after the sorceress who cast the spell died, taking all
her magic with her? Did he really, after all these years, know so
little of magic? Or did he tire of life?
Do I
regret what I did afterward? Yes. I suppose I do. That charge brings
a new sorrow, a new guilt. I cannot explain my actions, any more than
I cannot excuse them. With my eyes open as they are now, I can only
say that this last charge - this I do regret.
Tyranny.
When King Gerad's guards fell to their knees and swore allegiance to
me, I cannot explain the darkness that filled my soul. Here were my
captors, either silent observers in my abuse, or men who spat on my
skirts when the king was not looking. These people had brought
sorcerers and witches to the common hall and made me watch as they
tortured and murdered them. And now, bowed at my feet, they expected
mercy?
I granted
no mercy that day. I heard the tales and whispers around the city and
the countryside. I knew it was called the Red Day. They say I made a
crown from the teeth of my victims and a bodice from the skins of the
guards. That on that day, the blood of my enemies came to my hips,
and I drank from the bitter pool. Those are crude, silly lies. I did
no such thing. There was nothing left of the men and women I killed.
Nor did I bathe in nor drink the blood of my vanquished enemies.
Their
deaths were quick and hollow, those guards and maidens who laughed
and threw food at my fallen brethren. At the time, I thought I
relished each kill. In truth, I was no more happy when I went to bed
that night, surrounded by my new guards, and my loyal handmaidens. My
sleep was fitful, but I awoke and my rage was still unquenched. I
sent my men, sworn by magic and true to my soul, out with warrants
for all the lords and ladies loyal to my dead husband. Oh, my men
were fast. They beat the horses of all the other rumor-mongers.
When the
lords and ladies arrived, expecting a fine ball in honor of the
king's anniversary, how surprised they were! I alone greeted them, on
my new alabaster throne, surrounded by unfamiliar faces.
I lined
the walls of the castle with their corpses, of course. As anyone who
reads this little missive already knows. Contrary to popular opinion,
I did not kill the pregnant mothers or babes. No, only those of age
were on the end of my Word.
I think it
was years before my rage subsided. My handmaiden, my closest
confidante, she warned me I was becoming soft. That my softness was a
weakness in this world, but I do not believe that is so. I suppose my
end began when I remembered my Master's voice once more, telling me
of the Rules of Magic. When the memory of the screams of my friends
dying slowly became mere echoes. When I no longer saw their blood on
the walls every time I closed my eyes. Only then could I begin to
remember what it was to have friends. To love. To feel the joy of
life.
If that is
a weakness, I am glad I weakened. I am glad that I no longer wake up
each morning, wondering whose death will be on my conscience by the
day's end. This morning, I woke up before the sun and felt relief for
the first time in a decade.
Ah, there
is the gentle tap at my door. Dear, timid Arcimen has come for me. As
he promised, he has brought me my judgment. A small vial of simple
crystal resting on a velvet pillow. He also brought a chalice filled
with the Akiarian wine I so adored while I ruled as the Dread Queen.
Dear boy. So brave, but I could see his hand shake as I reached
towards him. I took the vial but waved away the wine. I saw no
purpose in ruining such a lovely wine with the bitterness of this
foul cocktail. I uncorked the vial and downed the liquid with one drought.
As Arcimen
promised, I feel it working immediately. Gratefully, he relieves
me of the vial and backs carefully out of my cell, locking it firmly behind
him. I cannot help but smile. Even today, I am feared, in a cell, in
the highest tower, engraved with magic solely intended to keep me inside. But that does not bother me. Not today.
I fear that
I must lay down soon. The quill grows so heavy in my hand, but that is of no matter. In writing this simple missive, I have but one simple wish.
Know this,
dear Reader - on this day, I, Syrices, the Deathspeaker, will finally be free.
wow. amazing story.
ReplyDeleteYour writing transports me and puts me into the realm with syrices.
Thank you.
Dear Mithran-Dad: Thank you. That is the highest praise any writer could hope for... So, thank you!
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