The Forgotten King

near Eden, and it surrounded the city on three sides, with the ocean on the other. Between the forest and the city a giant stone wall had been built many centuries prior to this time, making a barrier between civilization and nature that still stood after so many years.

Eden was an ancient city, retaining its former grandeur despite the tyranny it had beheld of late. The houses were still built of mighty timbers from the heart of the forest, and still loomed hundreds of feet above the ground. These lofty houses filled most of the city’s interior, interspersed with shops, which, however, were constructed in almost the same manner.

The cornerstone of each building was not a stone at all, but a log. In Atilta, the land of the forest, the products of the forest were used to construct the buildings. The forest was of purer origins than those on the continent, still retaining the strength of the early world. Thus, the trees did not drop their leaves in winter, nor did they rot. The willows truly weeped, shading whole fields, and the oaks truly towered. The firmus , exclusive to Atilta, was composed of strong, almost metallic fibers: as wood, they were used as the cornerstones of buildings; as fiber, rope.

At each of the four points of the compass – the Atiltians were very strict that each corner of a building faced the four cardinal points – a log was secured into the ground, a log little different than the wild tree: the bark was stripped, the branches were removed, but no other preparation was necessary. Tall and wide, these logs were twenty to thirty feet in diameter. Therefore, much of a building was carved into the four pillars that made its spine, encroaching the interior on every side. Generally, the bedrooms and dining rooms were placed on the corners, to soak in the view. The average Atiltian, therefore, woke from a bed of which even the frame was carved from the inside of a tree, and ate his meals looking out from windows of the same. For these reasons, the island was considered magical by the ignorant.

This formed the basic building, excepting only the walls and ceiling. These were supplied by a vine very common in Atilta, the hanging timber: thick, impenetrable, and nourishing. With these vines for walls, the elements could not penetrate the inside of the building, yet neither were stuffiness and stale air imprisoned within. This was the wonder of Atiltian architecture: portions of the house were closed and comfortable, built into giant timbers; while other portions were open and airy, a natural veranda in the center of a vibrant metropolitan area.

In the center of the city was Castle Plantagenet, close enough to the harbor – or rather, the Floatings, as it was called – that the towers and walls overlooked the water. The castle was named after the royal family of Atilta, though it was now the home of Gylain. It was a magnificent castle, reflecting the economic dominance that Atilta enjoyed at this time, as the hub of the world’s trade. Built of stone, with wooden supports on the inside, the entire structure was contained within a single, massive tower, stretching far below the ground to the dungeons, and far above it to the skies. Around this tower stood a set of square walls, and the space between the two was filled with barracks.

At the same time that Willard fought for the monastery, and that Admiral William Stuart laid out his plans aboard The King’s Arm , a lone figure gazed out the window of the highest room in the castle. It was a woman, an older woman, but one who was still in her prime. Her hair was dark, speckled with white, though from birth rather than age. The contrast between the two shades gave her an enchanting charm, but it was the enchantment of nature, of an eagle flying over a field of wheat, rather than one of man, of a structure of stone. Her most striking feature, however, was her eyes, as black as night but as soft as the stars. She was not shapely, in the vulgar sense, but her beauty seemed flawless nonetheless.

A voice called to her from within the tower; she did not turn her head to listen.

“Celestine, my love,” it said, “I have returned.”

Her eyes were as the stars. Yet a star is a peculiar thing: it can be either soft and pleasing as it twinkles in the night sky, or a flaming ball of gas, a spherical hell that burns and blazes with rage.

“Gylain, you wicked impostor, begone. You are not welcome here.” Her voice was firm and resolute, and any but the most deaf or the most stubborn, would have skulked away. Gylain, apparently, was either one or the other.

“Dear Celestine,” he sounded pleased, “Are there no allusions to the devil? You must be feeling well this evening, my love.”

Gylain approached her with a broad smile on his face, which was not altogether evil. In fact, it seemed an open, honest face.

“Your face will not deceive me, fool, for I know your ways,” Celestine said.

“As well as I know yours. Come, let us set aside our quarrels and have supper, will we not?”

“No.”

“Why not.”

“Because you made a wicked woman of my mother! Because you have cruelly put my father to death, and try everyday to do the same to my husband!”

“If it was good enough for David, it is good enough for me,” he laughed, with apparent sincerity. “Besides, can I be blamed for their insurrection?”

“You can be blamed for your own, and damnation is as bad once as twice.”

“True, true. You have convinced me of the errors of my ways. I repent.”

“Repentance is better shown than confessed.”

“I agree, and so I show it. Would you not love to be reunited with your husband, before this evening has faded into the wastelands of history?”

Celestine’s face pulsated at the thought, and her eyes twinkled once more.

“You would be well advised not to play with the love of a woman, Gylain,” she said. “For I will not tolerate your scoffings, your mockings, your lies any longer.”

“I assure you, Celestine: this is no lie. I am convinced of the evil of my ways, and before the sun has crossed into the underworld, I will have you reunited with your beloved husband.”

She turned and removed herself from the window sill, looking closely into his face as he spoke. Experience convinced her some cruel joke dwelt upon his tongue, yet his honest, almost naive, countenance equally convinced her that there was no joke. His face grew only more sincere as they shared a stare; his fierceness seemed to melt away: he was pure.

But then, the moment passed and he turned his head away to the door.

“Destiny,” he moaned, “I cannot go against its impulses, for it is not in my power to resist fate.”

He clapped his hands loudly and turned toward the only door, which led to the stairway.

It was thrown open from the outside, revealing several soldiers standing there with a man hanging limply in their arms. They marched in, throwing him onto the floor.

“Celestine, I give you your husband.”

Gylain said no more, neither laughing nor enjoying the scene. Then, without turning to watch her face in its emotional paradox – incensed at the wrongs done her lover, but joyous to see him nonetheless – Gylain strode from the room, followed by the soldiers. The door shut abruptly and left the two long-estranged lovers alone in the lofty tower.

“Alfonzo!” she cried, rushing toward him as he lay limply on the ground. “Death itself is worth this one moment of fellowship.”

“And it appears to be the price,” he returned. “But where are my thoughts? I have missed you, but my love has not diminished.”

“An odd way to express it,” laughing.

Alfonzo, badly beaten, had not the strength to raise himself; only with the help of his wife could lumber to the bed. She set about nursing him, comforting him in his pain. He watched her movements intently, smiling and sighing when their eyes would meet.

At last, he said heavily, “I do not know you, Celestine.”

“If time has separated our bodies, our minds are one. We will find our love again, in time.”

“You do not feel it either, then?”

“I feel its memories and its anticipations.”

“As do I. Perhaps it is better this way.”

“That we do not feel love?”

“That we know it without feeling it, for the road is easier for the blind man that knows it well, than for the blind man who merely feels his way along.”