The Radiant City

The Artist

After the troops were safely hidden by the craggy, gray cliffs surrounding Ithwon-Nâdi, Alkanion retired to his room to think. The situation was out of his hands now, even if he had any doubts—which he didn't. Ashtabar needed to know its place.

But until he received word of victory—it would surely be victory—he decided to put the issue out of his mind altogether. There was far too much to do here in Ithwon in the few months before the troops would even arrive in Ashtabar.

He gestured for a servant, who swiftly appeared. "Yes, sir?"

"Bring me some paper and a pen."

After the boy left, Alkanion lowered himself onto his bed and massaged his neck. Holding one's chin up was harder than people thought.

By the time the servant returned, Alkanion had had time to step out of the heavy royal robes one after another: the red and black cape, the white outer robe, the black inner robe, the gold-rimmed shirt and pants, and finally the black underclothes. He changed into a lighter, more comfortable ensemble of a blue shirt and black pants. He liked the shirt more than he'd ever admit; the color made his eyes look magically brilliant. At least, that's what Maraleine had told him when he'd worn it in front of her.

Paper and ink in hand, he sat down at his desk. There had been something on his mind for a while now; something he had to do.

After many long conversations with various people around the castle, from Cleir in the stables to many of his own advisors, he'd managed to uncover that the Chief of Domestic Military Endeavors had some ability in writing and art, not to mention an uncanny ability to weave an argument. As good as the man was as chief, if the things others said of him were true, he would be much better suited for a new task Alkanion had planned.

Dauviro Salias Manson Brevenion, Chief of Domestic Military Endeavors, he wrote.

It has come to my attention that you have some talents which have hithertofore been of little use to the crown, but which may now afford you a unique opportunity, should they be up to the standard at which they've been lauded.

Please be in the strategical conference room the moment the rose chroniker turns scarlet. Bring examples of your work.

His Majesty Alkanion Ephenor

With that, he glanced over the crisp paper and his own spidery print—how messy it seemed for a king's!—folded it, and handed it off to an official message boy with an order to dispatch it immediately. The boy flew off like an arrow.

The rest of the day, the seconds dripped away like water from a leaking bucket. Alkanion practiced his magic for a while (Rohdon had him studying musical theory, since he already knew everything else about the nonmagical arts), but that quickly grew dull. Chords and harmonies couldn't compete with the drumbeat of war.

The rose chroniker shifted through lavender, orange, and silver, and finally landed on the the deep blue of the night sky. Alkanion watched it as he drifted off to sleep, wondering where Co was right then. Could he still see the beacon? Alkanion hoped the winter air wasn't too cold...

By the time he woke up, the rose chroniker was a pale pink. He jumped out of bed and ran over to his clock. Only an hour until the meeting.

Rushing to get dressed, he kept a careful eye on the clock. By the time his breakfast arrived, he had just enough time to hurriedly scarf it down and sprint to the strategy room.

He arrived in the room just a few minutes before the rose chroniker was set to turn scarlet. It took a minute for his eyes to adjust to the darkness; the strategy room was one of only a few rooms in the castle that didn't get natural light. Back when the nations were constantly fighting one another, the room's walls, ceiling, and floor had been covered with layers and layers of metal and stone, then boarded with oak planks five inches thick. The place was a fortress. Walking in felt like crawling into a cave and watching the open skies disappear. The chandelier was bright, but not as bright as the sun, or even a cloudy morning.

Soon enough, the door creaked open, letting in a blinding ray of light, and in stepped Brevenion. Alkanion took a moment to size him up. His dark hair was cleanly pulled away from his face, held back with some kind of holding solution. His skin was white as sea foam, his eyes sunken in like two ships caught in swirling whirlpools. Alkanion had crossed paths with the man a few times over his years in the castle, but they'd never spoken. Even after his coronation, there was too much to worry about with Cassion and Ashtabar for him to watch the Chief of Domestic Military Endeavors too closely. And besides, crime in Ithwon was practically unheard of nowadays.

"Hello," Alkanion said, gesturing to a seat. He leaned back in his as if he'd been lounging there for hours.

"You called for me, Your Majesty?" Brevenion asked, never taking his eyes off Alkanion.

"Yes, there is something I need to discuss with you."

Brevenion stared at him expectantly.

Alkanion cleared his throat. "It has come to my attention that, in addition to your duties as chief, you are also a distinguished writer and artist."

Brevenion started. "Ah, was that the work you wanted me to bring?"

"Yes." On further reflection, perhaps his letter had been a bit vague. "Do you have any materials of that nature with you?"

Brevenion nodded. "I brought everything I could think of." He gestured to the bag at his side. "If you care to take a look."

"I will." Later.

There was a moment of silence; Brevenion's mouth opened and closed at random until, finally, he spoke. "Why, may I ask, do you need them?"

Alkanion steepled his fingers. "I'm looking for someone to fill a very important position, and I think you may be just the man. You have a knowledge of the people already; you know how they think. That's valuable."

"I don't know them that well, Your Majesty."

"Don't be modest; you don't make it as far as you have without talent." This was not necessarily true; the Branch for Domestic Military Endeavors was known to be a cesspit of nepotism and corruption. But Brevenion had always appeared to comport himself with honor, even if his father had been chief before him.

"What is this position?" Brevenion leaned forward.

"I need someone to convince the people of what I already know."

"And that is...?"

"That Ashtabar needs to be stopped."

Brevenion paused, then nodded. "And you think I'm the one to convince them."

"I've heard you can be very persuasive."

"I have made a study of rhetoric, yes."

The two stared at each other with equal intensity, each sizing the other up. Brevenion was older by six or seven years, but he was still young enough to see the value of the determined idealism behind Alkanion's gaze.

"Do you agree?" Alkanion asked.

"I'm sorry?"

"Do you agree that Ashtabar needs to be stopped?"

With a large sigh, Brevenion sat back in his chair, pursing his lips in contemplation. "Yes I do."

Hello all!

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Thank you so much for reading!

-Rose