Chapter 12

One night with the High King.

Every candidate is due a day with High King Urus.

I stand on a circular dais before the tall gilt mirror, watching the reflection of the chaos erupting behind me. A flurry of hands and deluxe drapes, an endless procession of handmaidens trailing in dresses, glimmering light refracting against the bezel-set gems and sparkling sequins. Arguments ripple through the bedchamber over the choice of dress, viable suggestions met with distasteful objections.

I had already undergone a complex beauty regime of cleansing, hygienic exfoliation, followed by a refinement with fragrances. My skin is nourished with cassis and myrrh oil. A cluster of handmaidens swarm to me with feverish panic, more fretful than I about my time with the King. Eager hands remove the current gown and help me into a new one. Ornaments of gold upon my apparel. The dress is rich with a jewel tone as if a bullion had been smelted into liquid fabric, gilding the pool that surrounds my feet. I twist my shoulders to angle my back towards the mirror. My tresses fall seamlessly like a river of dark light.

I step off the dais unaided. Deirdre's eyes prick me with a look tinged with reproach.

She guides me to the vanity table arranged with glass-cased cosmetics.

Deirdre crowns my head with a glistening circlet with clusters of genuine cultured rhinestones around the edge. The swirling Terra-like work is made using one continuous length of sterling silver, staying true to the concept of Terren design. The circlet is pearly plated with a faceted teardrop-shaped moonstone pendant right on the centre of my forehead. Another handmaiden slips black and gold shoes onto my feet, strapping the serpentine straps over my ankles, the thin heels are decorated with a vine of gilt flowers.

"Where is she?" A voice booms through the indistinct buzz of distress.

Not long after, another figure appears in the mirror of the vanity table.

"My, my," Duce Merian fawns, placing a dramatic hand on his adorned chest. "You are a sight to behold."

I rise from my seat, with the extra elevation, now a few inches taller than him.

"It was a team effort."

I shoot Deirde a wink. She blushes, smiling bashfully at the ground.

Duce Merian gestures broadly to the overcrowded room. "Hardly noticed." He clasps his hand over the other. "Are you ready? The King awaits."

I try to walk on, but my legs buckle, and I wobble haphazardly on the dangerously thin heels. Duce Merian tries to stabilize me, but I shun his efforts. I try to take all of two steps until my face nearly greets the floor. Deidre is quick to swap out my shoes for flat ones. Duce Merian extends his hand with a flair. He lectures me on a tedious tirade of decorum and etiquette before I jut out my hand just to silence him. He shakes his head disappointedly before he grasps my four fingers delicately, leading me out of the bedchamber. All the busy-bodies part way for our departure.

"What will His Majesty do with me?"

Duce Merian gives me a wide-eyed look. "You make it sound so ominous."

I keep my gaze on the embellished horizon. "How many Herems has he seen?"

"He has conversed with all the candidates. You are the last."

The mere interior of the castle is a glimpse of god-like luxury with shimmering, crystalline floors, domed ceilings and gaping hallways. The entire construction stands as a marvel, an edifice of opulence and grandeur. These stones are encrusted with morsels of gems, their facets catching and refracting light in a dazzling display of color and brilliance, a spectacle that surely consumed the treasury of a mighty kingdom.

The need for an escort of castle guards is rendered moot by the imposing presence of statuesque soldiers. These sentinels, unwavering and formidable, rim the flanks. They stand in a league of maroon, a living stream that flows alongside the magnificent edifice. The gaping length itself is garnished with tapestries, their intricate designs a landscape of red and gold. Each tapestry is a work of art, regaling those who gaze upon them with a different tale.

As the distance dwindles, the oak double-door entrance only grows, soaring to the far-flung ceiling. On our immediate advent, each wooden mammoth groans, eased back by mortal hands. Duce Merian releases me and motions me forward with an encouraging nod. I enter. Soon the oak maw seals shut. The library alone equates to the size of Malachi's prime ship.

The levels of meandering bookcases go up to three—no— four tiers high, the interior belted with railed walkways at the waist. The higher levels are accessed by various modes of ladders and staircases alike. The further I venture, the greater the spread lengthens to the point all sense of navigation is rendered to little to no use. 

I roam the book-swathed expanse for what feels like bitter-sweet hours, too angst-ridden to indulge in this treasure of literary heaven. Stories bound within their pages, waiting for curious eyes to free them. If only Elrin could see this. I wish he could see this.

My eyes cast skyward, adoring the vaulting bookshelves spiralling to celestial firmament, eddying with aged volumes. All of a sudden I come into an area where the bookcases are ordered in a tiered circle. I stumble foolishly into the inner ring. The High King himself is seated at the table. I choke on a gasp, falling to my knees with my head bowed to the ground in absolute venerance.

"Your Eminence, forgive me."

"I find no fault in your wandering," he says, the placidness of his voice magnified by the power of his majesty. "You seemed too peaceful to disturb."

I try to summon my voice, but it defies my demand.

"I watched you from the moment you breached—catching wisps of gold as you floated amid the aisles like a child traipsing through a market. It does not come as a surprise that one of your lineage draws fascination from these books."

A strange form of resentment stitches my lips together.

High King Urus sits at a square-shaped table interspaced between two chairs, his presence lending grandeur. His hand bades me to rise, and he gestures gracefully to the empty chair opposite him. I sweep up like an invisible hand hoists me to my feet, ungluing my shoes from the ground. I move to occupy the seat, settling upon it with wariness. My eyes tied to my lap.

"You needn't be so timid," he says, his tenor bearing a semblance of warmth. "Lift your gaze."

I obey, severing the tie to my lap to look upon jasper-green eyes. A rime of grey grafted into his thick beard, admitting to his true age. Ringlets of walnut hair tumble down to his shoulders, curtaining his shapely face, a well-matured handsomeness.

"Play with me."

Only now do I notice the game board integrated with a birdseye maple box and a wooden drawer with five rectangular pieces and five cylindrical plexiglass pieces.

"I will teach you; it's called Senet. An ancient game played by ancient rulers over three thousand cycles ago. It was said that even past Sanctum members were buried with four senet boards. The exact rules are not definitive; scholars have studied old drawings to speculate on the rules." His voice a smooth baritone that resonated through the hall. "It is a game of both chance and strategy. We each have five pieces. Our aim is to move all our pieces off the board, navigating through the perils and blessings of the path. Do you think you're up for the challenge?"

"A boardgame?" I blurt thoughtlessly.

King Urus leans back into his seat, his lavish-draped frame festoons the armchair.

My eyes dart back to my lap.

"I always value a being of refreshing candour." A smile ornates his face. "Never restrain your words. I wish to hear your every thought. Since it seems a boardgame is no challenge for the likes of you. Let us play."

It is an elaborate play where each player has 5 pieces, initially placed alternating on squares 1 to 10. The rules of engagement are that the players alternate, throwing a set of 4 two sided paddles to move forward.

With a deft flick of his wrist, he sends the paddles spinning into the air. They clatter onto the table, revealing three marked sides. He swiftly moves one of his pieces forward, his movements confident and precise. The defence is that two or more consecutive opponent pieces cannot be attacked. Three or more consecutive opponent pieces cannot be passed; however, blockades may not turn corners.

He speaks as he plays, imparting the finer points of strategy and the significance of certain squares. I listen intently, my eyes never leaving the board, absorbing every detail with the keen intuition honed on the streets.

As the game progresses, innate cunning begins to shine. I begin to anticipate the king's moves with uncanny accuracy, my pieces weaving through the board with an almost predatory grace. My throws of the paddles often resulting in advantageous moves that leaves the king momentarily stunned.

He makes a bold approach; pride precedes a fall, and he falls into my trap; he lands on 27 and goes back to 15. A frown flits across his face. He lost his dominant piece and resigned in 45 moves. Half an hour passes before he takes the exit strategy by conceding defeat.

He looks at me with a flash of shock. "You dare lie to your king. Am I to believe you truly have not played this before?"

I shake my head with a bumbling smile. "A scallywag like me never had the luxury nor the time to be playing boardgames." I connect our gaze. "Senet be a game that dances with the gods of chance and fate—a basic theology of probability. Which is why I assume you wanted to play; it is a test of strategy. Just like when you're in a fight. You can learn much on how one's mind operates, their foremost instinct to be on the defence or attack, to play the long game and wear down one's opponent or just go for an outright attack."

The King rewards me with an astonished smile. "And do you know what I learnt thus far?"

I answer with a quizzical expression.

"You had a chance to win several moves earlier."

I replicate his astonishment. "I don't wish to tempt your anger by defeating a King in his own home."

"And yet you did, eventually." His eyes glittering with interest. He sighs loudly, saying, "Now you must bestow to me the chance to win back my honour and not be left thwarted in your wake."

"Who am I to deny the High King? Even if your request leaves ye weeping like a landlubber in a storm."

"Oo," he breathes deeply. "Look who found their tongue."

We play a third round, and the third becomes the seventh, time blurring with each succeeding round. Over the course of our eleventh round, servants herald in standing candelabras along with an additional table, others bedecking it with platters of impressive dishes that he and I nimble on absently, neither of us wanting to take eyes off the other.

He observes me sombrely, his face unreadable in the flickering of candlelight.

He makes the attack, landing on my piece and I make the disgruntled exchange.

"It seems…I have finally bested you, Aurora."

I lower my gaze, pouting, then my forlorn expression brightens into a fulsome look.

"Have you, Your Majesty?"

I proceed with a rearward attack, getting the pieces arranged in every other square of the first two rows, securing another consecutive triumph. A groan explodes from him, pushing himself back against his seat.

"Though I hold delight in your company. My pride has been wounded enough this day."

He ascends with gradual grandiose. I snap to my feet.

"You may retire to your bedchambers since I have imprisoned you from noontide until nightfall."

"I'd hardly deem it imprisonment, my King," I say, smiling too fondly at him. I remind myself of my place, my gaze straying to the ground. "Today—tonight—was a rare rapture."

"Allow me to extend it by a moment's breath."

The High Ruler escorts me out of the library and to my royal bedchambers with a small troop of burgundy-clad Avangardian soldiers, our footsteps echoing with the on-beat staccato of their march.

"Did you accompany all the other candidates to their chambers or is that honour reserved for me alone?"

The firelight from their torches reaches for his face from the rear.

"What I do for one; I do for all."

"And did your game yield the answers you sought?"

His forehead tautens slightly. "I find myself dissatisfied with the inconclusive result. Therefore, we should play another round so I can assess you further."

A humoured breath escapes me. 

"On a serious note." Solemnity hardens his demeanour. "One thing is apparent to me and that is you do not have an appetite for power. The other Herems played to please me, purposefully overthrowing the game to hand me victory."

I pilfer a glance at him from my periphery. "You can't confirm that from one day together."

"I can," he says with unquestionable certainty. "I know all about your upbringings. A fortnight before my decree was issued, I had sent scouts to spy over each candidate, and each report echoed the last. Most of the Herems act dutifully, upholding the responsibilities of their Regnum, present in courtly affairs and events."

He slows his pace, bringing us all to a standstill.

"I wanted to be apprised of your true selves and of how you all behave when you think no one is watching. Unlike now, you all present your prim and proper selves."

He gives me a long, appraising look. "Unbecoming of a wolf."

A flash of panic, but I keep it from showing with practised ease.

"If you expect me to beg forgiveness for who I am," I begin carefully. "I won't apologize for doing what I had to for my kin."

"And do you believe it makes you benevolent?"

"It makes me devoted."

His eyes give me a full body scan, looking at me anew. "Your platitudes project a certain pomposity."

My brows spring to my hairline.

"It is believed that you are in the practice of claiming to have more noble beliefs than is the case." Under his ponderous stare, his lips twist querulously to the side. "Duce Merian called it an earnest inclination toward faux sanctimony; a subconscious belief of being morally superior to others. You rationalize your transgressions under the guise of noble intentions, carrying an air of arrogance derived from your achievements under the auspices of your father's legacy as the principal provider. He believes you have an exalted view of yourself."

The King glides onwards, and we all follow suit.

"I'll be sure to thank him for his glowing review," I say dryly.

"Rescind your resent," he says with an amused tenor. "The Duce highlighted the strengths and faults of all who passed through my threshold. I think in almost every candidate lies a prospective Dophan. Not all, but most. Each of you is still young and within your right to bear a measure of folly."

I nod stiffly. "But there is one thing I must know."

"Ask."

"Did you fake your defeat just to see if I would let you win or not?"

He gives me an exaggerated shrug. "We will have to play again, so you can deduce for yourself."