Misshapen Star (Part 3)
The mourners beat their chests in front of the palace, as tradition demands, for King Jolen was a good man and a great ruler, no wonder they called him ‘Keeper of Peace’. Maybe because he never wanted to be king, maybe the years spent abroad, living a humble life taught him to seek peace and quiet. Legend has it Jolen lived a life of prayer, in a hut on top of the mountain and was visited by an angel who urged him to return to Gand upon the death of his brother Siran, God bless his soul. All those years ago, many had trouble understanding why King Jolen would not seek revenge upon his brother’s killer, like any man should, but he’d been right. Why start another war? Why shed more blood? And now that his son will take the crown, the people are worried. Young Tarys, they’ve heard nothing but good things about him, but still, you never know.
Few people dare to look a wise woman in the face, at least not while they’re alive. The shape of the black robe is enough to make a man turn his head and shield his eyes, which is why it is impossible to know which one of them is it that has come for the remembrance ritual and now stands by King Jolen’s bed.
The woman doesn’t care, the business of the living rarely concern her. Yet, the dead monarch is an old acquaintance, they’ve crossed paths before and she wonders if she was right the first time she laid eyes upon him.
The departing soul is still hanging by a thread, recoiling under the stare of her cold eyes. Rare are the souls that do not waver at the hour of reckoning.
The wise woman examines the wrinkled face and remembers the first time his brow creased. The day when he came to seek advice about the misshapen sign on his arm. It’s a mistake made by many, thinking the wise women can tell the future, as if the future was written in the stars. She remembers telling young Jolen the only thing she could truthfully say, if he becomes a king he will die on the Black Chair. Undeniable, immutable fact - even a king must die. How he chose to hear her words has nothing to do with her, it was the cowardice in him that had him believe he would be killed. Perhaps he would have, the wise woman knows what people would do for power, she’s been summoned to many a death-bed of a slain royal or minister. Risky line of business.
Her eyes follow each and every line on the dead man’s frozen face. Most tell of fears the man kept locked in his heart. The fear when he fled for his life, the fear one day his secret would be uncovered. For many years his heart cringed when an odd customer would sit at his table. And that was the easy part of his life.
She hasn’t seen the king in a long while, those like her don’t have much of a social life, nor do they care for one. Looking down upon his face, the king has no secrets left. The fluttering soul trying to escape its mortal bounds has no choice but to reveal the torment of not being able to avenge his brother, but Jolen wasn’t born to be a warrior and he would not lead the troops in battle. Everyone cheered when the king made peace with the enemy, but only Jolen saw the taunting in those eyes. The king of Lansing had seen him for what he was, a weakling, ready to bow his head instead of raising the sword. He laughed at him. Almost to his face. The two kingdoms had lived in peace, but what a terrible price the king had to pay. The wise woman is not surprised, she can count but a few truly brave souls that are remembered as such. The rest are no better than this mortal that they called king.
Deeper still, other fears lie hidden. Poor soul, the mighty king was afraid his wife will think he was not man enough, so he learned to raise his voice and speak in harsh words, like a real man would. If he could not be brave, at least he’d be rich and he had his trusted men plunder the treasury to build her a brand new castle, by the sea. Two ships were sent to the Eastern Sea to bring rare flowers and little monkeys with golden fur to adorn the palace grounds. A good thing the people liked to watch the little creatures through the iron gates and nobody asked how he’d paid for everything.
The sunken cheeks and the lines beneath his nose tell of the sheer boredom of the later years, when every damn day he had to listen to grievances of all sorts and problems he was called to solve or at least mumble something, hoping his council will know what to do. As indeed they did. The king would spend long hours drinking wine in his chambers, alone or with some random woman that had been summoned to keep his majesty company. Not that he was much of a womanizer, but at least is was something to do.
The wise woman clearly sees King Jolen had been dead for many years before the infection in his chest got him. Not surprising, that was part of the prophecy, too. Many are dead inside, well before their mortal body starts to spoil and those in power rarely escape this fate.
There is no pity in her eyes, she is not there for absolution, nor is it her job to write a note to open the gates of Heaven for him.
There is no cruel satisfaction in her eyes, either, she takes no pleasure in the failings of these mortals. She’s there just to make sure Jolen of Gand will be remembered for what he truly was. The living fear the women of her kin, but were it not for them there would be nobody left to hold the memory of them, kings and servants alike. Long after the city of Gand will have turned to dust, the wise women will sit under the stars and remember.
Thanks for reading!
