Jonathan Dunn - The Forgotten King

Cybele had been raised from youth to be a powerful queen. Her mother was bitter, though she only warred against herself: her love had soured and with it her whole person. Cybele was thus in daily communication with manifested misery. She was still young when her mother’s death placed her on the throne, but she was not ruled by the legions of officials who thought to govern in her stead. Rather, she burned even from the womb with a passion for power that had not smoldered with age. By this time, she was twenty and her rule as uncontested as her beauty. The latter was that of youth, of newness, of spring. Yet the whiteness of her hair and the strange determination of her spirit gave her the beauty of old age, of life, of wisdom, of winter. These two sources of beauty were married in her and she was left a goddess. She was in every sense a woman.

As they rowed, the two did not speak, nor did their faces express their thoughts. Their countenances were as silent as their tongues.

Chapter 74

A man stood in front of the window and another was motionless on the bed several yards to the left. Twilight came through the window. A lamp hung by the door. The room was made of stone, though the walls were covered with tapestries and the floor with a rug. Outside the windows was a castle, beyond that a small town; beyond the town lived an expansive meadow, stretching for a mile in every direction until it struck the edge of the forest. To the north was Thunder Bay, upon which busy men could be seen.

“Alfonzo,” said the man on the bed. He spoke weakly, on the verge of sleep or death. “Tell me, in my final hours, what is passing in my world.”

“Milada!” Alfonzo entreated, “You will not be killed so easily, will you? Why are you so eager to quit the battle?”

“Because, friend, I am not fooled by your supposed optimism. Look,” he gestured to his stomach, “The wound eats my strength.” He paused. “As I said, give me the last glimpse I will have of Atilta.”

“We are building defenses around the castle. The rebels are gathering here in constant streams. The king is in France, but we have heard nothing of him.”

“Perhaps we were wrong,” Milada said slowly. “If he had stayed, his presence would have strengthened our ranks. Instead he searches for a cure for an useless old man!”

“Do not say such things, Milada. We cannot change what has been set in motion. We can only commit our fate to God.”

“You are as lightheaded about such things as my daughter.”

“We will see.”

“You will, at least,” Milada moaned, “For I will not live. Go, and leave me to my fate.”

Alfonzo looked over the dying man, then left the room, leaving the plans he had drawn sitting on the table. No one greeted him in the armory and the guards below were not at their posts. He passed through the room without seeing anything, absorbed in the deluge which surrounded him. It was not until he reached the door that the spell was broken by a windy voice.

“I am a patient man,” it said, “But what is this? Can you pass by your friends without even an acknowledgment? By the patent sobriety of my kin, I am outraged, Alfonzo of Melborough: outraged and incensed!” The speech could only have been more fervent if the speaker had not broken into a laugh at the end, leapt from his chair, and charged toward Alfonzo with open arms – a strange appearance, for he was an oddly shaped man.

“The Fardys!” Alfonzo cried, grasping the blond brother by the hand.

“And they are not alone,” Meredith said, advancing to his old friend. The two embraced.

Behind Meredith stood the Admiral. He shook Alfonzo’s hand stoically; both held themselves tightly. Throughout all the greetings, Alfonzo did not betray his ardor, keeping his stature mature and his air commanding. But that changed in an instant. He looked beyond and saw Celestine standing sweetly in the rear, waiting for the others to present themselves. Their love was not a painting in public, only to be seen and never felt; nor was it a sculpture in private, rigid and unmoving.

“My love!” and he could not disguise his rapture. He ran to her and she to him, and together they became lovers. “All is well,” he said, “For I am whole once more, not to be overtaken.”

“Not by men, in any regard,” Celestine smiled.

“And if by God, then I am willing,” Alfonzo returned. Then, looking her over, “You look pale and worn. What has overtaken you?”

“I was scourged, then rowed in the galley.”

“In the galley!” Alfonzo turned to the Admiral. “I will have a word with you, in a moment.”

“She chose it herself. She is a woman. Who am I to tell her as if a child?”

“What fools and heathens!” mocked a voice to the left. Cybele came forward. “While others deny their actions, I embrace mine, I flout them proudly. What fools, that evil is a thing to be abhorred. For evil is considered such only by the power of God and God has no power that I have seen.”

Alfonzo faced her. “If it is sin to boast about good deeds, how much more about evil ones. What you say to anger me only drives me to compassion, that one could be so proud to cast away her sister. Do you think debts are not to be repaid? Mercy is not eternal.”

“Nor is it here, for there is no such thing. Where there is forgiveness, there is a pride that dictates it. What mercy is there when the strong are respected for their mere strength and the weak destroyed for their mere weakness? What mercy is there from God, whose purpose is only to glorify himself? As is God so is man, I say: given to their own glory. And you are also a man.”

“If there were no mercy, where would you be? And what has Celestine gained in her dealings with you? Good will lead to good, and evil to evil.”

Cybele drew her beauty from its sheath and smote them with a poignant smile. “Then let it be: she has forgiven me without selfish motives. But what will her forgiveness lead to if I make my escape? Will I not return to evil deeds and to persecuting your rebellion? It will not lead to good, and the evil will be your own reward.”

Celestine advanced toward her sister. “You see only what you look for. Life is more than cause and effect, for there are infinite causes and infinite effects.”

“Yet if God is merciful, why would he inflict evil on all only to give reprieve to some? If we are known by our actions and the fruit of our labor, then who is God?”

“ Quos vult perdere – dementat ,” Celestine whispered.

“Perhaps,” Cybele returned, “But, insanus medio flumine quaerit aquam .”

“Then open your eyes and see, for you are mad! If you seek God, do not look to the circles of the godless. You will find the contrast, but not the vision; the darkness, not the light. God will show himself if you look.”

“Will he? Then let Lord Milada, who lays dying not far from us, be healed. Give me a sign and I will believe.”

“What of the sign on the Marin? There you asked and it was given.”

“That was coincidence. A sign must be something entirely impossible. Lord Milada must walk to me – upright and full of vigor – and kiss me upon the lips. Then I will believe.”

“That is not such a terrible prospect,” laughed a voice from behind them.

“My God!” cried the Admiral, “How can you be walking, Milada?”

“How? William, do you not remember that I have a Godly daughter – praise be to God. Not two minutes ago, I was overcome with warmth and healed. I do not know how, but I do know why.”

He jigged and jibed his way to Cybele, giving her a gentle kiss on the lips.

“The proof is given,” he laughed. Then, winking, “Unless you require more?”

She was silent for a moment, then whispered to herself, “Still, I will not believe!”