The Prince in Exile

Chapter 18

The sky stretched across the earth before them, the blanket of night embroidered with bright flickering gems amidst hidden hills and fields. At last, with the nearness of midsummer, the secret of the distant stars was revealed:

Fire. Flame in the void.

Erzsebet walked with the prince in the gloom, confounded by her gown and shoes across the uneven, catching ground, grateful for her mantle against the chill of the night air. They walked in silence, keeping their distance from the festival fires, by turns watching the lights before them and the lights above.

Though one could only guess at the bodies which danced, leapt and circled about the great bonfires of the sky, the earthly stars were orbited by people, men and women, bright with laughter and fire reflected. Songs were sung, lacking the refinement of court music, but in the crude mixture of untrained throats something less pure and more true was made. Songs that were human; songs that reached not for heaven but pooled about the earth; songs that breathed and laughed.

They came to a likely vantage and the prince unclasped his mantle. Erzsebet cringed as he set the gorgeous silk and sable atop the ground, but said nothing as he took her hand and eased her down to sit atop it, then joined her. He did not press against her, but she still felt his presence, a weight and nearness and draw and pressure upon her. They said nothing for a time, looking out across the fields, where young women with flower garlands on their heads were dancing and leaping over the fires, where young men clapped and cheered and sang.

"They have celebrated like this for centuries," said the prince, breaking the silence as with a careful sculptor's hammer. "Long before the Church came to these lands."

She might have doubted, but looking upon the revels, it seemed so obviously true. "What was it called, before St. Ivan's night?"

"I do not know. Perhaps it had no name other than 'Midsummer.' The church has claimed the fires for St. Ivan, but they were lit long before word of the baptist came to Hungary."

She sat and thought on his words, watching the distant flames and silhouettes. The night had seemed a dream, even before her dance with the prince. Only now did she feel truly awake, braced by the air and the space and the soil. The storm had quieted–if only because she sat in its whirling eye.

"What did you mean, earlier?" she asked. "How am I so different from other women?"

If the sudden change of topic surprised him, he gave no sign, answering smoothly. "Not just women–your type is a rarity among all humankind."

No doubt, then, that he meant to flatter her. Still she asked, "How so?"

He still looked out over the fields, watching the common folk as he answered. "We are all of us trained from birth, like castle hounds," he explained. "We are taught our place, our role, and given clear boundaries. These vary, of course, from person to person, station to station. A peasant farmer can do far less with his life than his count–but they are both limited, both trained not to venture beyond their domain, and face punishment if they do."

She frowned; already he had lost her. "Counts roam beyond their domain all the time," she argued. "They grasp and vie against one another–"

"They do," the prince allowed, "but only because such grasping is part of their domain. Not the borders of their counties, but the borders of their station. They are expected to strive, to make deals and curry favor, for that is part of their role. Yet you would not see a count give a priestly sermon, invoking God to rouse commoners to riot and seize a neighbor's land–for that would overstep into the realm of the Church. It would be punished, not for the greed of conquest, but because that conquest was outside the proper channels."