Page 16 of Aubade Rising

I acknowledge I might be more than a little annoyed at the lack of progress when I come close to burnout for the third time this week.

Pentargon Library declined my request to visit again.

There’s no news from Howl on anything that could progress my research.

Haelyn and I have tentatively made up but she’s starting to get suspicious when I won’t give details on what I’m researching.

I don’t want to lose her again. Above all else, achieving the Gallos feels insurmountable.

I refuse to let my paltry amount of magic be an obstacle for my research.

I don’t even think it’s my magic that’s giving me problems. I can’t visualise it taking any other shape at all.

It’s like imagining your arm is a leg, or something like that.

My mind is completely blank and unless I’m directly looking at something in front of me, then I cannot begin to picture it in my mind.

I spend hours upon hours, late into the night, trying to coax magic out of my body in individual strands so I can mould it in front of me: nothing works.

At least the weather agrees with me; the winter storms have given way to incessant, gloomy rain so after days holed up in my laboratory achieving nothing, I crave a change of scenery.

As the leaden dawn breaks, I take my bad mood out of the palace and away from work to Koes Dowr.

The iron gates welcome me over the bridge to the hidden garden, where a slice of serenity beckons.

Each step over the bridge tempts me to leave my worries behind.

With the changing seasons, what was a gently flowing stream with stone pebbles to walk over, is now a gushing river with large parts of the garden made inaccessible.

The storms are the warning for the annual floods.

Soon the entirety of the city will be swollen with river water.

The reminder of how my parents perished is brutal.

I’m careful to stay on high ground and take a new route through the garden.

The dark grey sky provides little daylight; the sun hasn’t fully surfaced over the high cliffs behind the palace and deep silhouettes drift in the winds.

I focus on breathing slowly, to keep my fear at bay, reminding myself they are trees and branches, nothing more.

Pushing on, I walk further into the garden, ignoring the cold rain on my cheeks.

Though immersed in the little wood, I notice I’m not alone.

The King sits in the riverbed, unbothered by the rushing water or rain, legs crossed and hands submerged.

His eyes are lightly closed and peaceful, but faint lines bracket his mouth and his jaw is tense.

Damp clothes cling to his broad shoulders.

He doesn’t only spend his days politicking in the palace, then.

I’m relieved he’s not able to see my blush as I notice the cut of his arms and shoulders under the wet cotton.

Raindrops runs down his face, changing direction over his sharp cheekbones. Perhaps he was looking for solitude too.I lean against a pine and watch him meditate.

I don’t know what draws his notice but his eyes open and his body tenses. He turns and peers through the trees, now on edge. I move out of his peripheral vision, letting him see me, hands up so he knows I’m not a threat.

His bland half-smile is one I imagine he’s perfected when talking to his subjects. I suspect he expects me to apologise and back off.

But I have nowhere else to go and, besides, the garden’s big enough for us both. I step forwards to continue on my walk but the flooding means I have to venture closer to him first.

I can tell the moment he recognises me because the bland smile disappears and he arches his head. “We have something in common after all, Alchemist. We keep meeting when one or the other of us is in wet clothes.” His dry humour masks his emotions and I can’t tell whether he’s angry or amused.

“At least mine was an accident; intentionally choosing to sit in a river is a strange pastime indeed,” I call as I continue past.

“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.” He adds, “It was peaceful until you came stomping through.”

“Well, I’m sorry to have disturbed you, Your Highness.” I make sure my tone implies it but I am certainly not apologising.

As I walk off, he calls out, “Join me. You look like you need the company. I could push you in if you want it to look like an accident?”

He’s funny – like normal person funny – and I don’t know why I’m so surprised. I turn back towards him intrigued.

He gestures to the water in front of him, challenging me.

I truly have nothing else to do other than wander in the rain avoiding my responsibilities so when I see a smooth stone under the water that will make a good seat, I reconsider.

My clothes are already soaked through so I guess it won’t matter if I wade in.

I’m certainly not getting undressed in front of the King.

Stepping into the water, it’s as cold as I feared.

I won’t be in here long. I ease my way over to the stone, slipping several times before I take a seat, feet seized from the cold and unreliable.

The further I venture into the running water, the higher the King’s eyebrows rise and I see a glimpse of a smile and, before he can wipe his face clean of emotion, I settle facing him.

A violent shiver wracks my whole frame; the parts of me submerged in the river are quickly leaching my body heat and I worry for a moment about catching hypothermia.

I narrow my eyes at the King when I see he looks rosy and warm.

Gradually, a prickling sensation tickles my toes.

The water touching my body warms until steam rises from my clothes.

“Don’t move,” he says. “I’m only keeping a thin layer of water around you warm.” It’s too late. I squeal as icy cold water pours down my back; more hits me as I squirm.

“I warned you.” He throws his head back and laughs and then he’s hit by the cold water too. I get the giggles at the sight of the King of Trevesiga desperately trying not to swear at the cold water, which scrapes like knives along his skin as he fidgets.

Eventually I find I can talk, provided I hold my body completely still under the water and lower myself until I’m submerged to my neck, the current ebbing away to nothing. The warmth is delicious, easing my aching muscles and wiping away the stress of burnout.

“So, what’s brought on the need to come here and escape,” I ask, feeling bold.

He sighs and looks to the skies. “Endless meetings and trying to understand how to dismantle my father’s legacy, coupled with the threat of the rebels.

” He tilts his head back wearily and blinks the raindrops away as they fall onto his eyes.

“Nothing insurmountable but you’ve seen how resistant the Concord is to change.

I should have pushed to be involved before, but how could I sit there being overlooked at every opportunity.

Humiliating. But change is proving exceptionally difficult. Particularly without an Almanac.”

I don’t miss the arch look he gives me, as if I hold the blame.

My body tenses and my breathing quickens.

It takes me a moment to refocus on the clear water in front of me, the grey sky above.

Anything to keep myself present and tell my body I’m not stuck underground with that monster, Lord Bal – I’m safe.

The water now feels like a dead weight, constricting my chest. My lungs suck air painfully as I blink away burning tears, my magic fights for release.

“Have you heard anything from him…”

“No, and I don’t expect to. He’s exiled, probably hiding far away. Hopefully causing trouble in another kingdom.” Panic gives way to irritation at his emotionless tone, his expression haughty and arrogant.

“WelI, I’m so sorry to cause you such an inconvenience,” I bite back, staring him down to be sure he feels the burn from my caustic words.

He rolls his eyes, returning to his thoughts and I observe little fish swimming between us.

“Is it awful that I’m a little jealous of his exile?

I’ve never left Chi An Mor. My father kept me prisoner.

For my own safety. No one can come to harm within the palace walls, except in the dungeons underground, of course.

” His gaze is level; this is as close to an apology as I suspect he can manage.

It leaves a lot to be desired. “Now I’m charged with running a kingdom I know nothing about. ”

I’m shocked at his confession and pity his narrow existence. It puts having to have an escort in the city into perspective.

“I committed to being nothing like my father. I vowed not to be a dictator and to give people choices but…”

His sentence doesn’t need to be finished. I think he lives in such fear of becoming his father that he’s risking the stability of the whole of Trevesiga. I’m surprised when he interrupts the silence.

“What’s worse? Perpetual problems ruling by committee, or a dictatorship?” Perhaps he does understand what he’s risking after all.

The water levels sluggishly rise as the rain continues.

I watch them, taking my time to answer. The stench of damp moss is overriding the scent of petrichor.

Neither appeals. “The world is not always so black and white – you could rule for decades more. Make executive decisions that will win you favour with the people, with your Concord. Then I suspect people will follow your lead when it comes to the committees…” Satisfied with my response, I lean back into the warm water, eyes closed, letting it soothe me.

The pause in conversation lengthens. I sneak a glance at the King and flinch when I see those verdant eyes pinning me in place. His face is predatory and I resist the urge to back away, to run back to my warm, dry rooms.

“Who taught you about power?” His icy whisper travels down my spine.

I shrug off the impact of his stare and break eye contact, examining my shrivelled fingers. “It’s the intelligent response.”

Sensing the conversation is over, I pick my way to the riverbank and haul myself out.

Concern for my family surfaces as I see the water lapping at the underside of the stone bridge.

“The spring floods. You know they’re coming soon.

” I point to the water rushing over the cobbles.

“That’s where I’d start. Protect all of Pentargon and then maybe people will trust you to protect them from the Kevren Gwir. ”