Eimerado, 22nd of 10th, 1392 ANS

The forge's heath caressed Thalbas' face but, just like the hands of the many whores he was forced to visit since the Darkest Night, it couldn't chase out of him the coldness left by Darina. It sapped through his clothes and taunted the surface of his skin, but couldn't or wouldn't go beyond. Even then and there, while visiting the forge with his Lord Father and elder brothers, Thalbas had to clench his chattering teeth and pretend that the heath affected him.

His Lady Mother had done everything in her power to give him time and space to grieve Darina, going as far as suggesting to meet a priest to free him from it since the archiaters couldn't drive the chill out of his body. Certainly, someone had cursed her favourite son. It could be an unjust curse—the Curse. After all, didn't the Sacer Heramai prophecy that the Holy Twins and the Sacred Maid had cursed the royal family for the profanation of the Darkest Night? However, the gods would see that Thalbas had been forced to partake in the killing, that all he had gotten from it was pain and the blood of the one he loved on his hands.

Thalbas would rightly deserve the divine punishment. He wasn't as innocent as his Lady Mother wanted to believe. He killed in cold blood Darina, an innocent maiden who had loved him dearly and wished for his happiness—their happiness. He did deserve to be cursed, to spend the rest of his life with chills running through his body and a coldness into his soul.

His Lord Father had already told him thrice to get over it, to kick the wench out of his foolish heart. He had made his desires clear with harsh words and by sending in Thalbas' chambers the prettiest slave girls of his household and the most renowned whores of Eimerado. There would be no fourth warning, his Lord Father would use the cane and the birch to beat Darina's death out of him.

A hand grasped the nape of his neck in an iron grip.

"Are you listening?" his Lord Father hissed, narrowing his eyes at him.

The answer he wished to hear was 'yes Father, I was', but then he would question Thalbas to ascertain he was telling the truth. Thus, he lowered his eyes in shame.

"Useless youth!" his Lord Father hissed in his icy anger, pushing Thalbas as the other youths snickered at him. He tilted his head to one of his eldest sons in a commanding gesture. "Erelbas?"

His second-born sneered at Thalbas, puffing his chest out, arrogant with his Lord Father's favour. Erelbas was his portrait in looks and battling skills.

"Soon, foreigner guests shall arrive to celebrate the three hundredth anniversary of King Saril the First's crowing: it would be profitable to tighten our ties with them. However, if the First and Fifth Prince, our uncles, are planning to ally with our neighbours, our concern shall be the Kwelkotai representatives. Not for the sake of an alliance, rather for gleaning their craftsmanship and science, which shall provide our Lord Father with an advantage."

Lord Father nodded, as a proud sharp smile cut through his visage.

"Yet they have rules," said Ghelbas, the eldest. "They are known not to share their secrets, per agreement with the Faith. If by chance they do, it is nothing useful."

"The usefulness shall be mine to decide," Lord Father hissed, then scoffed in amusement. "Those coming from Tirzawail have brought children with them: a boy of ten-and-seven, I have heard. Some Òrumje wine and a skilled whore shall loosen his tongue: make sure to be there, all three of you, and not to let anyone else hear."

Ah, so the Fourth Prince Adalfeo Gabirai had decided to defy his brothers for the throne, as if the Purge of the Darkest Night wasn't enough. After all, the death of the Third Prince and his sons had moved his Lord Father up in the succession line. Only the First Prince and his sons stood before him and would pose a threat.

Among the sons of Queen Ililsea, Prince Aliareo was the cruellest and most ruthless: washerwomen's whispers claimed he killed his eldest son as the young man defended his beloved spouse from accusation of adultery. However, Thalbas would rather believe that his uncle had acted in a sacrilegious manner, or under the fumes of wine. In any case, many considered this death the proof of the god's wrath.

Did his Lord Father plan to step even lower than his brother and force his hand on the throne? Wouldn't it be safer to rather support Uncle Azimeo? Not only his reign would require a Lord Regent, but he had been sharing his bed with the Marcher of Ibiren's daughter for ten years and no child had come from their union—not even a princess to marry to her royal cousins.

However, Thalbas had no longer any interest in the succession—he would have stepped in if would have allowed him to keep Darina at his side, to protect her. But now she was dead, and he could do was dragging his life and until the day Dame Death would ask him for one last dance.

Thalbas forced himself to stay until his Lord Father dismissed him. The Fourth Prince waited until his oldest sons had both left the forge, then grasped Thalbas' chin and forced him to look into his eyes.

"My patience is running thin, youth," he hissed. "Feelings are a weed and you are a Gabirai: we tear the weeds pestering our hearts. Do not force me to cause sufferance to your mother."

He let him go, lifting his chin as Thalbas took a step back and bowed.

"In any case, your mother's wise words shed sense on your obstinacy, and after meditating upon them, I must but surrender to their sensibility." His Lord Father paused a moment, glaring down at him. "It is not the wench you are missing, and how could you, a grandchild of the realm? It is the impossibility of the match; the thrill of sneaking into her bed without being caught; the daring recklessness of indulging your pleasures while hiding in plain sight. It is the defiance of customs, tradition and laws that your spirit long for. Do not we Gabirai grasp what we desire, no matter what it is?"

Thalbas tightened his lips. He had no idea what his Lady Mother, who loved him the most among her offspring, had told his Lord Father—whatever it was, it was not the truth. He had truly loved Darina, he had truly wished to pay her Bride Price and cut her hair! Was he a craven for not denying his Lady Mother's words that she had spoken to cajole the Fourth Prince into understanding and maybe forgiveness?

"You are like a child whose toy had been taken away, so you shall find yourself another one, as much id not more amusing," his Lord Father continued, his lips twitching into the Gabirai's smile, as sharp as Euhrocian steel. "There are many who will come in Eimerado to celebrate our family: I am sure that you shall find among them at least one young wife left unsatisfied and needy by her older husbans. There shall be some thrill in such game of seduction couple with the unnecessity of spilling seed on the ground: the husband is always the father. Unless he had caught the spouse in adultery, of course."

"I..." Thalbas swallowed, the words that his Lord Father wished to hear were like daggers stabbing his aching heart. "I thank you for your advice, Sir."

At last, Adalfeo Gabirai looked pleased enough with his youngest son to mellow the harshness of his voice.

"The next time I see you, you must have regained your senses. And when you shall have enough of this game, I shall find you a suitable woman: you are a youth of twenty, it is time for you to take in a concubine."

Thalbas waited until all he could hear was the singing of the steel under the blacksmiths' hammers. He swallowed air and walked away from there, forcing his stride to stay dignified and worthy of a prince of the royal house—he wished to run, to leave everything behind, but that chance had been lost in the moment he did not prevent Darina's death.

"Prepare a boat," he commanded to his valet, the only person he trusted with his secrets.

"Fishing again, little brother? I do wonder if your harpoon is sharp enough, though," Erelbas mocked from the other side of the courtyard.

However, Thalbas didn't answer to the provocation. He would follow his Lord Father's command, although whenever a woman lay by his side—whenever he closed his eyes—all Thalbas could see was Darina's doe-like brown eyes, lifeless and sparkless—all he could feel was the coldness of her dead body sapping into his core. Would the audacity of his Lord Father's will change anything? Thalbas had his doubt, but for his Lady Mother's sake he should at least try.

He jumped on the boat, large enough for four people and waited until Shirna had rowed far enough from the palace's dock.

"Where do you wish to go, sir?"

"Not Seshola today. Take me to Marshari."

He didn't want to spend the day in a brothel, trying to chase away a coldness that as settled into his core. If he had to follow his Lord Father's suggestion—or rather, command—he would had to roam the rioteràs and the squared of the mercantile sestier. If he had to make a cuckold of a man, it would be better to avoid an aristocrat, no matter how petty he could be.

"As you wish, sir," Shirna replied.

They passed by a villa belonging to his Lord Father, built on one of the many islets dotting the Laguna. His Lord Father, certainly as a manner to advance his personal agenda, had allowed the Faith to use it for the foreigner visitors' quarantine. Probably the Dalibaïan representative, since they were kin through Thalbas' maternal grandmother. Or maybe those from one of the Kwelkotai, realms beyond Time and Space, or beyond the stars, inhabited not by Demons and Spirits, but creature of blood and flesh with the semblance of Man.

There were some people sitting on the islet's dock. He couldn't see them well from the distance, but all wore breeches and a few long hair. A haunting yet soothing melody drifted to him, coming and going with the caprices of the wind—it was almost like listening once more to Darina's soft laughing voice, gently whispering into his ear. Still, he couldn't see any musical instruments. Was it the Gift? If so, shouldn't only priests and priestess, and sworn clerics able to use it for the glory of the gods? Or perhaps, those Heryossa were practising one of their pagan rites.

Thalbas wished to join them, out of curiosity—would their gods be able to chase the chill out of the marrow of his bones? Would they grant him the forgiveness that the Holy Twins and the Saint Elanne were denying him? 

But then, they were in a quarantine, so it was better to let them be.

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Song: "Funeral March" by Eldrim

Kwelkotai: Vernolian name for the Distant World.

Tirzawail: Vernolian name fot the Earth.

Cut her hair: it is a Vernolian custom that a girl's hair are cut for the first time in her life by her husband, during the wedding ceremony.

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