Authors: Licia Troisi
Laio looked down at the boy, his pale face imploring mercy, blood pouring from his thigh into a small puddle on the dirt. It was he who’d spilled that blood. He who’d inflicted that pain.
“No!” he shouted, tossing his sword a distance away. Then he shoved his father backward and shouted again, “No!” at the top of his lungs, the word resounding, loud enough to burst his vocal chords.
Pewar stared, at a loss for words.
“Why not just kill me, instead?” Laio yelled. He ran over to where his sword lay and picked it up by the blade, slicing his fingers. He handed it to his father. “If killing someone means so little to you, then kill me. But I won’t turn myself into a murderer. I’m not like you. Don’t you see that? I’m not going to kill this soldier, and I’m not going to train again as a warrior. I’m going to be a squire, whether you like it or not.”
Laio stopped speaking, his breathing still heavy. Blood dripped slowly to the earth from where he held the blade clenched in his hands.
The general made no movement. Meanwhile, Nihal gripped the handle of her sword, ready to step in.
Time stood still for a moment. Then Laio threw down his sword and strode toward Nihal under the portico.
“Let’s go,” he said. “Take me back to the base.”
He didn’t even bother to grab his belongings.
With Nihal following behind him, Laio marched through the door, determined never to lay eyes on his father again.
“You may go now.” Nereo had entered the room, followed by a swarm of guards and a throng of tense ministers. His attendants regarded him, perplexed. “Out, I said!” he shouted.
Alone with Sennar, the boy king stood wan-faced before the sorcerer, scepter in hand.
After his clash with Rodhan, Sennar had been taken to a sorcerer from the region, but the wound could not be cured with a simple healing spell.
“The spell he cast was of the highest order.” Sennar pronounced this phrase with his last ounce of strength. “To cure it, one must be capable of—”
A jolt of pain stole the words from his mouth. It felt as if some internal flame were consuming his flesh. The lesion ran the entire length of his leg, radiating outward. It was an atrocious spell, the fruit of forbidden magic. They’d brought Sennar to the royal palace, where the court healer spent an entire night applying hot and cold compresses and muttering prayers to liberate the sorcerer from the painful curse eating away at his leg. Only with the approach of dawn did the pain subside, and Sennar slipped into a deep sleep.
He woke the next day in an elegant canopy bed, beneath brocade covers. He was in a spacious room with walls covered in mosaic. Tiny, iridescent shells of every shade of pink gave off a soft, relaxing glow. Through a round window he could just make out the palace’s lowest spires.
For several hours, Sennar remained in a semi-conscious state, tormented by the image of Rodhan’s grinning face. He’d see the lance descend and hear again the words of the soldier: “War is war.”
He’d remained in this state for the rest of the following day, and now the king stood before him.
“I have to thank you, Councilor.”
“I did nothing out of the ordinary,” said Sennar, struggling to speak, but Nereo gestured him to be silent.
“I must thank you, and ask for your pardon. You were right. Danger was brewing all along and we were completely unaware.”
The king began to pace up and down the room in thought, his scepter knocking rhythmically against the floor. “How many men does the Tyrant have in the field?”
“Many, Sire. Hundreds of thousands of warriors. A seemingly inexhaustible force.” Sennar spoke with a frail, depleted voice.
“And for weaponry?” asked Nereo, the expression on his face growing more severe.
“All the well-known weapons. His warriors stick mostly to swords or lances, while the Fammin are at their best with axes.”
The king paused before the window. “Do you think they’ll come?” he asked finally.
Sennar regarded his silhouette against the blue. “I don’t know, Your Majesty. Even for the Tyrant, to fight a war on two fronts would be difficult, but that doesn’t mean he won’t try.”
The king turned and addressed Sennar in a solemn voice. “That alone is enough. I’ve decided to send an ambassador with you to the surface. He’ll take part in your Council’s meetings and he will have full authority. His decisions will be my decisions. He’ll be the one responsible for determining what portion of our armies will be deployed. You’re not alone anymore, Councilor.”
He glanced once more at Sennar, and exited the room without any further instruction.
Sennar wished he were in better spirits, that he could have enjoyed the moment. But he couldn’t. It wasn’t his leg or the exhaustion that held him back. “War is war,” the soldier had said. The help they were offering wasn’t a victory for peace, but another triumph for war. And Sennar couldn’t deny that he’d contributed to Zalenia’s decision.
When Ondine entered his room, her eyes were red, her face worn and sleep-deprived. She had been forced to wait three days before receiving permission to visit. The guards had become suspicious, and Sennar was an easy target.
She sat down on the bed, impatient. “What did they do to you?”
“It’s all over with now,” Sennar reassured her.
“Everything I heard about you was so mixed up! Some said you were dead, others that you’d lost your leg. … It was terrible, Sennar. I thought I was going to lose my mind.”
He let her vent. “And now I’m doing just fine, right? Soon I’ll be able to stand again,” he said. Back on his feet, indeed.
Ondine looked him in the eyes. “What did the king say?”
“That you’ll help us.”
Ondine threw her arms around him. “So you did it!” she exclaimed. “You see? I was right all along.”
“It’s true, you were right,” Sennar murmured.
She sat back and began caressing his face, smiling. Sennar lowered his gaze.
Ondine, will you ever forgive me?
He remained in bed for a week. After lying so still for so long, his leg was not his own, and had the habit of locking up under the weight of his body. Luckily, he had Ondine at his side, steadying him, encouraging him, supporting him with absolute dedication. Sennar couldn’t ignore how wonderful it made him feel when she was around, so much so that he began to think he’d been mistaken. Maybe his happiness was somehow linked to Ondine. Maybe it wasn’t so impossible to imagine a life with her. But these were only brief moments, and Sennar knew it. What he truly desired was far away from that abyss, up above in plain sunlight, and it was useless to go on fooling himself. He had been foolish. Foolish and superficial. And now he’d have to pay the price.
The date of departure was set, and he passed his final days in meetings with the king and his dignitaries. Sennar filled them in on the details of the war and the state of the Army of the Free Lands, and then they set about drafting a hypothetical alliance between Zalenia and the Overworld.
He also had the chance to meet Pelamas, the ambassador who’d be accompanying him. He was middle-aged, phlegmatic—a hard-to-read man who saved his words only for diplomatic concerns. He clearly regarded Sennar with a certain admiration, and treated him with respect, but nonetheless seemed to be constantly suppressing his disgust for the young councilor’s tan skin and red hair.
Sennar spent every free moment with Ondine. He’d have liked to let her down gradually, to back off one step at a time, but he couldn’t manage it. He tried acting cold toward her, even when it took effort, but Ondine accepted his need for distance without question.
When his last evening at the palace arrived, Sennar wanted to spend it in one of the surrounding gardens—the one just beneath the central column, where the wind whistled by on its way up. The muted dripping of a small fountain blended with that solemn, almost mournful sound. Melancholy pervaded the air, and Sennar thought it an appropriate place for bidding adieu to the Underworld. Sitting across from the fountain, he stared into the easy, constant flow of the water jet. He thought of everything he’d gone through, of the fear he suffered throughout the entire journey, of the mind-numbing terror as he descended the whirlpool, of the pirates, of Aires, of Ondine’s tenderness—tonight, he’d see her for the last time.
Soon after, Ondine arrived, and Sennar was happy she’d come, happy to break off his steady stream of memories. Just before she reached him she paused, and in that moment, framed by the moonlight, Sennar saw her just as she had been the first time he met her, when she’d approached the bars of his cell with a tray in her hands. Only now she wasn’t smiling.
“You’re leaving tomorrow,” she said.
“Yes, I think I’m finally fit to travel again,” Sennar muttered.
For a while, Ondine was silent. Then she cleared her throat and took a deep breath. “I’ve been thinking a lot these days, Sennar.” She lifted her head, her expression earnest. “I want to come with you to the Overworld.”
Sennar looked her in the eyes. “Ondine, I …” She met his gaze. “My country is at war. You know that. I’m in charge of the army of the Land of the Wind. That is where my duty lies. I don’t want you to have to see what it’s like up there, I don’t want you to—”
Ondine spoke up suddenly. “Stop with this nonsense. Don’t treat me like I’m stupid, Sennar!”
She’s right. She saved my life, she stood by me. She deserves the truth, not these pathetic lies.
But Sennar couldn’t do it. He was paralyzed. He met Ondine’s tender gaze and his voice died in his throat.
She took his hands. “What do you want, Sennar? I have to know. Do you want me to come with you?”
Water flowed slowly from the fountain and the wind went on with its lament.
Sennar closed his eyes. “No, Ondine,” he whispered. “Tomorrow, I’m leaving alone.”
Ondine’s grip began to slacken. Her hands fell to her sides. She stood there, not saying a word.
“Ondine, listen to me, please. I care about you so much. You’re an amazing girl. You supported me. You’ve been with me through all of this. So many times I’ve thought of staying here with you, of how wonderful it would be. Because I know when I’m with you I’m happy. … I really am. But deep inside, I know I can’t.”
“Do you remember that night in the cell?” she asked faintly. “When a man kisses a woman, that means he loves her. Why did you kiss me, Sennar?”
Sennar felt a lump in his throat. “Because you’re beautiful, Ondine, as beautiful as anyone I’ve ever seen. And you’re special, truly. After so many deaths, so much suffering, I needed—” He cut himself off. “There’s someone in the Overworld, someone I want to see when I return, Ondine.”
She didn’t move, her eyes glued to his.
“I don’t know how to explain it to you; I don’t even know if I’m really in love with her. When I was with you, I even thought I’d forgotten her. Then one day, all of a sudden, the thought of it began to pain me. I knew I was lying to myself. That I was lying to you.”
Ondine tightened her fists. Tears streamed slowly, silently over her cheeks.
Sennar reached out to caress her face, but she took a step beck. The garden’s exit was just behind her.
“Farewell, Sennar,” she said softly, and walked off without looking back.
The light shone clearly again the next day. When Sennar arrived at the caravan, his head was still buzzing with the thoughts that had kept him awake all night—the image of Ondine, crying silently, fixed in his mind.
Count Varen came to see him off, and Sennar started in before he could even say a word. “I want you to look after Ondine on the journey home, Count.”
Varen nodded and Sennar knew he’d understood.
“Thank you for believing in me, Varen,” he said, extending a hand.
The count returned the gesture, forcing himself to smile. “I’m the one who should be thanking you. You reminded me of so many things I’d lost. And, after all,” he said, trying to act cheerful, “this may not be our final good-bye. We’re allies now, remember. Who knows, we may meet again, sooner or later.”
“That’s true. Who knows?” replied Sennar. Then he walked over to join the caravan that would carry him away from Zalenia forever.
The journey began. Sennar’s heart was heavy. After so many unforgettable moments, he was departing the depths of the sea. But what was he really leaving behind? Ondine’s sorrowful face. A scrape with death.
When he saw her waiting by the curb, his heart leaped.
“Hold on for a moment, please,” he said to Ambassador Pelamas, who rode at his side. The entire caravan halted behind them.
The sorcerer stepped down from his horse. For a while, they stared at one another.
She was the first to speak. “What’s her name, this woman of yours?”
“She’s not my woman. …”
“I want to know her name.”
“Nihal.”
“You have to promise me something,” she said, her tone sincere.
“What?”
“If it means so much to you, so much that you’d let go of me for her … you have to promise me that you’ll do everything you can to find happiness with her. And if I find out you don’t, I’ll never forgive you. You owe me, Sennar. Remember? I saved your life. Now promise me.”
Sennar smiled. “I promise.”
Ondine nodded. Then she turned and left, cutting across the field back to the road.
Sennar watched as she shrunk, smaller and smaller, until she was a dot on the horizon.
He climbed back on his horse. “Ok, we can go now,” he said to the ambassador.
The caravan was on its way again. Sennar closed his eyes—he couldn’t bear to look at that land any longer.
“You may go now.” Nereo had entered the room, followed by a swarm of guards and a throng of tense ministers. His attendants regarded him, perplexed. “Out, I said!” he shouted.
Alone with Sennar, the boy king stood wan-faced before the sorcerer, scepter in hand.
After his clash with Rodhan, Sennar had been taken to a sorcerer from the region, but the wound could not be cured with a simple healing spell.