The Forgotten King

arrived. She came clad as a simple peasant – homely in dress and in bearing – and no one lowered themselves to question her.

******

“I am not your slave, Gylain, nor are my armies. If you wish my aid, than you must seek it as an ally, not a lover.”

“Yet we are both, since my heart and my confidence are equally yours. My life is given to you.”

“Indeed? Or is it given against my father?” Cybele flushed. She quickly added, in a whisper, “No, do not answer! I do not want to know.” She paused again, then, “For I am no different, though I am a woman as well: seeking love while seeking power.”

“One cannot have both,” Gylain smiled.

“What is power but the hatred of freedom? And hate and love are not at war. Each is a way of pleasing oneself: the first through self-service, the second self-sacrifice. I have power, and thus hate; but I also have a bosom, and thus love.”

“The contrast!” Gylain moaned, “Without hate you cannot enjoy love; and without tyranny the people cannot enjoy their freedom.”

“Is that your sleeping potion, then?”

“Come, you jest with me.” He sighed, seeing she did not. “We are creatures of analogy, and we can only know things by comparing them against others. To those who live in luxury, only greater luxury can bring momentary contentment. For those in poverty, a slight reprieve is paradise. And so it is with freedom: it must always grow more abundant, lest it does not satisfy. And when it flows too freely those who wield it self-destruct, for in freeing men you also free their evil. The rebels fight for freedom, but with it Atilta would subside, even as Rome before her. So I give them tyranny, and tyranny gives them both power and freedom.”

“And you love them as well?”

“I love no one, for love is emotion.”

“Indeed,” she smiled, “And there can be no emotion in the affairs of state: for which reason I will not be played as a pawn.”

“War is dangerous, for a woman of beauty. The queen of Saxony you are, my Cybele, but your mother you are not.”

“Nor am I yours, outright.”

“No?”

Cybele pressed her lips. “I will accompany the fleet.”

Gylain closed his eyes and stood a statue. Then, with a pleasant smile, “Of course, Cybele, and for that reason I have prepared a Marin to be your headquarters during the campaign.”

“My trust is not placed in vain.”

“I know.”

“As in everything else. I will occupy it immediately.”

“You will find it in good repair,” and Gylain turned to the Floatings. They were walking on the inner wall of the castle, fifty feet above the bustling streets. In the distance, the harbor city could be seen.

“Left that way by the Fardy brothers, then? A shame, for they amused me with their foolishness.” She paused. “How can idiots become wealthy? Were they not born poor?”

“Above all, yes: the sons of a glider merchant. Yet they are not fools, as you say. For how do we judge a man’s worth, but by his actions? And those by their results? The Fardy brothers have done more than many who are thought wise, as if placed by feudal fate to humble me: to show me that before God I have no more power than three bumbling idiots. They are fools, you say, but fate does not discount them; and fate is all that matters in such things. Vitam regit Fortuna, non Sapientia .”

“ Stulti timent Fortunam, sapientes ferunt ,” she retorted.

He sighed, as if looking upon foolishness in wisdom’s garb. “To whom it is not given, it is not known,” and he was silent.

Seeing Gylain eloping with his own mind, she bowed. “Tomorrow, then, for I must prepare my affairs.” He did not seem to hear, so she left and walked briskly to the inner courtyard.

Cybele was sharply beautiful in the morning light, a sword into the hearts of man. She wore a simple silk doublet with trousers beneath. It was not the dress of a queen of court, but she herself was not one, either. Her arms and neck were bare, her head covered only by her cloudy hair with its slight curls: enough that it was not wispy, yet not so much as to make it reckless. Her face was long, her features proportionate. Her nose bridged between her curious eyes and her storm-cloud lips, blossoming into a round bell flower near her mouth. She was tall, even for a man, and her form august and inaccessible. She was firm in her bearing, while not pedantic in her movement; accented in speech, while not vainly rhetorical. In a word, she valued substance over perception: cultivating the former without excuse, while not abdicating it in reaction to the latter.

Her carriage was brought out: narrow above while hollow and rounded below. It was at once carriage and boat, and could change from one to the other without stopping: Atiltian built, rather than Saxonian, since Atiltian horses could swim as easily as they could run. The rails swiveled on an axis not far from the coachman, allowing him to detach them for rowing – in the same fashion as the Lipels of the Floatings. Indeed, the carriage was but an elongated Lipel with wheels.

It was thus that Cybele crossed the harbor without leaving her carriage. She was also lost in the maze of her own mind during the journey, and only came to as they abutted the landing platform on the first floor, which was then above water. She leapt out and hurriedly entered the Marin, asking the short officer, Timultin, to take her to the captain’s room. He did, and she did not speak along the way. When they reached the bridge – adjacent to the captain’s room – several of her officers were assembled, taking charge of the crew.

“Gylain assembled you?” she asked.

“Yes, your majesty.”

“Very well, prepare the headquarters as you will.”

They stood back, surprised she did not superintend them, for she was normally an energetic leader. She saw their hesitation and added, as she turned to enter her room, “I have seen something while I passed through Eden, and I cannot remove her face from my mind.”

With that, she closed the door and took a seat in the far corner of her room. An expansive window graced the outer wall, looking over the inner circle of the Marin. From that side, the room tapered into a narrow way and reached across to the outer wall, where another window – albeit smaller – opened onto the Floatings beyond. The room was weighted toward the inner side and could only be reached by passing through the bridge.

“What will I do about her ?” she whispered in a violent agitation, “She has tainted me thus far, in mind if not in body. The conscience is a dangerous foe.” She was interrupted by a sharp knock on the door.

“The someone has come,” one of the officers said from the other side.

Cybele shot up and looked about the room with a wild expression. Her face was the shadows cast by a candle: once shaded, then bright; once light, then dark. Her expressions changed like water flowing over a bed of rocks.

“Is it her ?” she asked at last and her voice trickled with power – synthetic hatred.

“It is I,” Celestine’s voice returned.

Silence nestled down on either side.

At last, “Enter, my sister: enter and be mine!”

Chapter 62

Cybele jumped from her seat as she told Celestine to enter, then she regained her stolid outsides and returned to her seat. A table stood beside her, bolted to the floor with a chart of soundings spread upon it. She leaned over under the pretense of examining it.

“Come in,” and she did not look up as Celestine entered, still covered in the peasant’s cloak. For a moment she pretended preoccupation, then stood, kissed her sister’s hand, and seated her at the table. Celestine faced the window overlooking the inner Marin.

“Your highness,” and Celestine lowered her head.

“Cybele; for I am your sister.”