Vestal Venom - Part 5

Cele found himself heading for the Room of Archives. He was quite familiar with the kingdom of Simo, and that his country and the former had had many disputes throughout the ages. Some say it began centuries ago with Simo’s friendship with their neighboring kingdom and trade powerhouse Burke. The monarchs of Simo would do what they could to thwart negotiations between Ilyos and Burke, and with the kings and occasional queens that Simo would produce – sharp and educated as they were – they would always succeed. But Cele wasn’t convinced. Trade was vital, yes, but only land and honor was truly worthy of bloodshed. It wasn’t trade that pushed conflict between Simo and Ilyos, it was the River Artem, and the land it sat on – Tyton. There hadn’t, however, been many campaigns against Simo in his lifetime, aside from the ninety-first Battle of Tyton. He’d never been to the snowy kingdom, he only spoke basic Simonese (with a specialty only in military vocabulary), and his knowledge on the proclivities of the nobility was lax.

Ask him about the Etruse to the south and he could tell you about the name of the specific kind of scorpion that offed the horse of the king’s mistress. Or Haroma past the Gaei Sea, he could name the emperor and every member on his council, by appearance and name. Simo, while an old enemy, was one that Cele had only faced – and defeated – once.

“General Celestino.” The old archivist spoke when Cele pushed through the wooden doors. The greying man was seated behind a desk, crouched over a piece of parchment with spectacles balanced on the bridge of his nose and a quill in his knotted hand. “What a pleasure this late into the evening.”

“Bernardo.” Cele greeted, approaching the desk. “I’ve come because I have questions.”

“Ah,” The old man said, straightening and placing his quill in the inkwell. He peered at Cele over the spectacles for a moment before taking them off completely and placing them gently on the desk. “Questions are always good.”

“It is in regard to our guest,” Cele continued. “Prince Heiko.”

“Prince Heiko,” Bernardo repeated before exhaling, as if there was nothing to be searched for in the depths of his memories – as if the knowledge had already surfaced. The old man, Cele realized, had been brewing over the prince’s arrival. “Yes, I’m sure there are questions.”

Cele cocked a brow. “Why are you sure?”

“Well, he is a man of…unusual character,” Bernardo replied.

“Cruel character,” Cele corrected. “Tell me what you know of him.”

Bernardo swept his arm, gesturing for a wooden chair tucked into the far corner of the room. Cele crossed for it before pulling it closer to the archivist and sitting, intent eyes on him.

“Prince Heiko is the youngest of his siblings, with the current king, Ingo, thirteen years his elder, and Alfred, seven.” Bernardo began. “As you’ve seen, unlike many Simonese kings and princes, he was blessed with a fine appearance.”

Cele didn’t dignify that with a nod, though he knew it to be true.

“It was soon noted that he had a natural talent for song. His voice like a bird, his fingers, on the harp, like the wind, he was skilled enough to be considered a Muse.”

Cele knew very little of the Simonese Muses. He had heard of them from his father, about how these men and women trained for years in temples to be able to entertain those who they thought worthy enough. Still, Cele couldn’t imagine that princeling anything but prickly and disagreeable.

“The most gifted children are brought to the lavish Temple of Ozik, their god of dance, music, and tradition. Having a child amongst the Muses brings honor to the family for generations to follow. Very often, if applicable, a person of nobility will introduce oneself as a descendent of a Muse before all other titles and honors.”

“Then the princeling was that talented,” Cele pondered, before amending with, “When younger.”

The archivist nodded. “The prince was given to the temple for a year before he fled back to the castle. When asked why, he simply placed blame on ennui.”

“Spoiled.” Cele commented.

Bernardo offered an amused smile.

“And he was sent back, I presume.” Cele said, knowing it wasn’t true. Otherwise the brat wouldn’t have been in Vincente’s palace at that very moment.

“He was loved deeply by his father.” Bernardo informed. “Thus, the whims of Prince Heiko were tended to.”

“It’s no wonder his eldest brother dislikes him.” Cele mumbled.

The archivist laughed. “Do not think the intricacies of Simo are so simple. He was beloved by Ingo. It was Ingo who, when Heiko returned from the temple, instructed him in the military arts. In fact, the rumor goes that Queen Ethel, Ingo’s wife, had a distaste for Heiko long before King Ingo himself.”

Cele cocked a brow, an expression noted by the archivist. Even so, to get in a self-indulgent jab before he could be corrected, he threw out, “Beside from the obvious childish nature of the princeling.”

“Ingo preferred spending his time with Heiko. Despite your best efforts,” Bernardo smiled at Cele the way a parent did when they spoke something both amusing and clearly incorrect - like the rain is the tears of the gods. “No amount of verbal belittling will diminish Prince Heiko’s character. It is the intelligent who possess the most masks, you know.”

The old man leaned back in his chair.

“Still, little is known of the incident that tore the relationship between the brothers asunder. And it is unlikely that it will be ascertained anytime in the near future.”

Cele considered that, letting Bernardo continue his thought, as if he were still trying to piece together the puzzle.

“It was no secret that Prince Heiko was always an intelligent child. He breezed through the tutors of the palace by the age of thirteen and required supplementary instruction. For this supplementary instruction, King Ingo sought a magi of Isar.”

Cele was struck.

“Isar?” The man demanded. “The empire is friendly with no western kingdom? In what deluded stream of thought did Ingo think to test his luck so blatantly?”

“There is no better than the scholars of Isar to teach medicine and mathematics.” Bernardo replied. “And since it was clear Heiko despised being idle, Ingo was more than willing to barter for a scholar.”

“That may be so, but all this just to amuse an idle child?”

Bernardo’s expression was enough of a response.

“And did he receive one?” Cele pressed.

“Aisha ahl’ Akila.” The old man nodded. “She agreed to return with Ingo on the condition that she would receive citizenship and land.”

“So he was taught by an Isari.” Cele mumbled, morbidly curious about how that would present in a man such as Prince Heiko. It was common knowledge that medicine and poison were two sides of the same coin. What was more, medicine and poison of Isar were like miracles of the gods compared to that of the western continent.

“Around the age of fifteen, however – upon the death of their father – Heiko seemed to have a change of disposition. At least that is what I’ve been told.”

Cele cocked his head, intrigued. “Is that so?”

The archivist exhaled heavily, as if he had once been rooting for the Simonese child.

“He began to display reckless behavior. He grew frigid and short tempered. It was around this time that he and King Ingo began to lock horns.”

Cele considered that for a moment. Grief was a wicked thing. And the death of Prince Heiko’s father was certainly sudden. The memory of the lone arrow vaulting through the sky - the very arrow that felled the once great king - appeared in the general’s mind’s eye. The feel of the warm wooden bow, fitted to his palm, made his left hand tingle. He shook both away.

“What do you know of Baptist?”

Bernardo hummed. His information was coming from an inside source, as was expected from the old man. He had them in all surrounding kingdoms, reminiscent not of his curatorial years, but of his espionage ones. As out of place as that child servant looked, it seemed nearly impossible that Bernardo would know nothing of him.

“Admittedly, there is little to be said of him, save for the fact that he has caused nothing but trouble for King Ingo.” Bernardo replied, before expounding upon his suspicions. “It is common custom for Simonese royalty to wed at fifteen. Upon the death of King Gotthard, any proposal or negotiations regarding potential marriage for the youngest prince were put on hold for the Simonese ‘Winter of Grieving’. In this year, Prince Heiko’s… frigid demeanor became well known to the courtiers. King Ingo used this to his advantage by promoting the idea that his youngest brother was mentally and physically unfit for marriage.” Bernardo gave Cele a thoughtful look. “If you are unfit for union you are unfit for ruling.”

It was a common northern ideal that was not lost in Cele’s southern education.

“But when news made it to the courtiers’ den that Heiko kept such a beautiful boy in his bed, the claims of his impotence were considered disproven.”

Cele made a face of disgust.

“It may sound barbaric to an Ilysian,” Bernardo replied with a small, sympathetic smile. “But children as bed-slaves are not unheard of in Simo.”

Having no intelligent response - only the gut feelings of contempt and repulsion, Cele stood with a sigh.

“So, a spoiled prince trained in music, dance, song, medicine, and mathematics. Need I know more?”

The archivist chuckled.

“General, I think you will find Prince Heiko to be much more complex than the list you’ve just compiled.”

He knew it to be true, but Cele had also ardently decided to deny it until it came to pass, and in that thread of thought, he said to the old man,

“If I have any further questions, I’ll be sure to visit you, Bernardo.”

“And I hope,” Replied the archivist as he picked up his spectacles, placing them back on the bridge of his nose. “When that time comes, that I may be of fine service, General Celestino.”

Cele offered only a simple nod of appreciation before exiting the room, into a darkened corridor. Night had come and he hoped the princeling was prickly enough to retire early. Cele wanted to speak with Vincente unencumbered by his presence. It was distracting. Infuriating. What was worse, the general thought as he made his way to an empty garden courtyard - one the queen loved tending to - this damn princeling was reducing him to a roiling sea of unabashed reaction. Generally calm and collected, Cele rarely responded to such blatant provocation. Especially when it came from the mouth of a boy still wet behind the ears.

Cele groaned, shaking his head and running hands through his hair.

“I may not be particularly pious,” He muttered to the sky. “But gods help me.”