Page 22 of Aubade Rising

On the first official day of spring, when the danger of flooding has passed and the swollen rivers have receded, the King makes his annual announcement to the kingdom.

It’s a tradition heralding back to the formation of Trevesiga, from when the Mordros conquered the land west of the Haag.

Aubades and Zephyrs were permitted to continue to remain on the condition they served the Mordros and sacrificed using their magic for the greater benefit of the kingdom.

Farms were required to donate a portion of their crops, the fisherman to share their catch and everyone to pay taxes.

Over time, the Mordros have conceded a little, restoring some rights back to the Zephyrs, permitting them professional roles and allowing them to join the navy but traction is slow and, with the last King, static.

However, the sentiment behind the laws remains the same: using our magic is forbidden.

Each year, in an effort to connect to the people and recognise compliance, the King makes his address, praising the successes of the kingdom, highlighting new laws or changes, conveying new punishments or deterrents.

Growing up in Pentargon meant I often witnessed the live announcement; for others it was transcribed by the librarians and heralded in every city, town, and hamlet by the start of summer.

In the city it was treated as a day of celebration.

A carnival. Pentargon consists mainly of wealthy Mordros families where food and entertainment are in abundance and the King’s address marks the start of the social calendar.

The contents of the announcement make no difference to the Mordros; they purely enjoy the benefits of this national holiday.

As a child, displays from the travelling fairs provided respite from the bitterly cold winds that still blew through the city’s streets.

We would often detour home from school to see the performers, clad in colourful silks and leotards trying to disguise their shivers between performances.

I remember the condensing breath of singing bands and musicians puffing vapour as they played.

One year, after the carnivals finished and the address was over, my father returned home from work with some discarded bunting.

My brother and I cleaned it and hung it about our small house, enjoying the beautiful patterns and colours until the sun bleached the cotton white that summer.

When I grew older, I found the atmosphere of the day jarring, the joyful abundance clashing with poverty.

Half the population were celebrating and the others working twice as hard to compensate.

Often, we would huddle on the edge of the central street as the royal procession passed by, straining to glimpse the old king and his court, half hiding in the shelter of a shop’s awning.

He never acknowledged his subjects, preferring to remain cloistered in the palace, venturing out on Address Day only out of duty and tradition.

I’ve refused to acknowledge Eskar for weeks.

Our tentative friendship crumbled after the revelation that he was the shadow in my nightmares.

He drops by my rooms regularly but I refuse to answer the door.

I can bring myself to be civil for the Concord meetings, when Haelyn is by my side but I cannot bear to be alone with him.

I’ve been arriving later and later, so he is already seated and I can select a seat as far away as possible.

More often than not, in order to avoid him, I’ve taken to hiding in Dervla’s suite.

As the Almanac, her time is precious, and everyone clamours for her attention, but she always makes an effort to help me with the Gallos at the end of her day.

Today though is the day of the address and Dervla will expect me to attend with her and the other Concord members, as we take our place on the dais next to the King.

Avoiding Eskar will be impossible so I’ve made a plan to escape before anyone notices.

The address will be delivered in the city centre and every inch of the palace has been polished and prepped until it sparkles.

Servants dash around, catering to the needs of the influx of guests and visitors.

Every member of the Mordros ruling class and their families have descended on the palace, desperate to be part of the action, no matter that they have fine houses in the city.

No one questions me as I sneak onto the ferry leaving the palace as the sun rises.

It’s already packed and, with my hood raised, the ferryman doesn’t give me a second glance.

Cedar is waiting for me at the city quay.

I cast my eyes at his ill-fitting coat. His belongings are still in our family home; hopefully they’ve survived the winter floods.

He should be able to leave the temporary accommodation provided by the King’s new ruling and return home now the floods have passed through.

That is, if the damage isn’t too bad. This was the first year no one perished but the architecture wasn’t as fortunate: homes and businesses were washed away.

Still, replacing buildings is easy – replacing lives is not.

Cedar and I linger at some of the carnival stages, eating an early lunch from street vendors before the crowds get too intense.

The choice is overwhelming. Aromatic spices linger as we pass the barbeque stalls, grills crackling and flashes of flames popping from fats and juices dripping off the meat.

For once I don’t miss the fresh fish and vegetables from the palace, and indulge in strips of meat wrapped in flatbreads covered in yoghurt and sesame seeds.

One vendor sells hot drinks and we choose different concoctions.

Cedar opts for a frothy milk foam that towers over the top of his cup, threatening to spill onto the floor.

Mine is a sour apple cider which clashes with the honey syrup I add – heavenly.

Before food comas send us soporific, Cedar and I find a spot in the central square to watch the pageantry. The area is already lined with revellers, more interested in getting drunk and causing disruption than in watching the King’s address. Perhaps this spot was not such a good idea.

Cedar is in his element, accepting drinks from a stranger and joining in with the celebrations.

I linger, pressing my back into the solid Guildhall wall and try not to panic.

I don’t mind crowds but this is a cacophony and there’s nowhere to hear the address without descending into the melee.

The reason why the crowd is celebrating is lost on me; the rebels are still at large; winter has been long and cruel with many suffering from a poor harvest and being locked down after the attack.

But then, today signifies a change in seasons.

So maybe a change in mood is coming? Or perhaps the alcohol is just about strong enough to ward off the winter chill.

“Can I escort you back to the palace?” In shock I spin at Eskar’s soft voice behind me. He’s not dressed in his ceremonial robes; his black overcoat allows him to blend into the crowd.

Cedar’s forgotten my existence, happily dancing with a group of men. I brace myself, still avoiding Eskar’s direct gaze.

“I’ve been looking for you all day. Your absence will be noticed.” Eskar’s voice is gentle, as if he’s trying not to spook me.

I look over his shoulder. “There are plenty of other members of the Concord – the King won’t miss me today.”

“Sage, you didn’t tell me you were meant to be part of the procession,” Cedar whines from behind me and I jump in surprise, causing him to spill his drink over himself. Not that he’s bothered.

“She was. And the King will not be pleased if she misses it.” Eskar’s tone is full of reproach.

“Doesn’t he have more pressing things to concern himself with?” I counter, angry at being exposed.

“Sage, think of all the people that will see you up there.” Cedar sounds regretful, pleading.

“Precisely why I want to avoid it.” I’ve spent months learning how the Concord operates. I have no desire to join them in the pointless pageantry.

Huffing at my irritation, Cedar flounces back into the crowd in search of anther drink, leaving me staring into Eskar’s eyes. This is the last place I want to have this conversation. I turn and run.