The walk back to the Main Square is silent. I try not to think about Crowyn, whom I realised was there minutes into eating my fish cakes, following behind me in silent and deadly footsteps. I wonder if the royal family even notices their presence most of the time, given how silent they are. I wonder if they feel invisible, and if that invisibility excites or saddens them, perhaps even both.
The streets are filling up quickly with people strolling under the beautiful sun, carrying paper bags of fish cakes and drinking brightly coloured juice, their presence making my brain swirl with ideas.
It's always fascinating to be in Caladia. Their culture is extremely singular. Not only on account of their faith, piousness and understanding of religious life, but their clothing also reflects that piousness. All around me I see women wearing long, sensible dresses, and the majority of working class women have multiple aprons for different occasions, including going out ones, embroidered with flowers, hymns, prayers, names, animals, and all things referred to in the Sacred Pages. They adorn their hair with flowers, although it is usually kept in a long, tight braid, or a crown braid, but braided nonetheless; and the most pious of women, which multiply every time I visit, cover their hair with a colourful lace shawl, pinned at the top of their head to leave only the front of the hair visible. According to Hyde, who was enamoured with the pious life as a child and harbours an insane amount of knowledge on Caladian life, the women who choose to shawl their hair are usually paying off a debt with the Pure One, wether it be because He has saved a loved one, a child, or themselves; or gotten them a very strong desire fulfilled, these debts must be paid by living a simple life and veiling for five years.
I admire this level of commitment, as a child I arrived at a point where I admired it so much I wished to become a Pure Sister, and isolate myself in one of the Clean Harbours which exist in the outskirts of Caladia and Belgravia. I talked to my mother about it, but after she explained that the Sisters are required to give up any contact with the outside world and "impure influences" for five years so they can be properly cleansed of Impurity, I gave up. I could not stand five years without art, even if the idea of waking up at dawn to pray and living a life of sisterhood and peace appealed heavily to me.
There aren't a lot of True Followers in Dravia; father says our connection to art has always made us freer souls than those who seek solace in religion, a comment my late grandmother would've beaten him with a wooden spoon for making, but those few religious people whom I saw growing up, with their long hair in beautiful braids covered by pink, purple, green or blue lace, seemed straight out of a fairy tale. I, too, wanted to be that elusive someday.
I never saw any of these women, of course that includes the Sisters, who must abstain from marriage and child-bearing, accompanied by a family. Once, a rumour circulated in school that the reason they veiled is to apologise for having killed their own children, which I of course never believed.
Children in Caladia seem to follow the same pattern, but they more often than not do not veil, unless it is for make-believe purposes. The children of religious families also wear long dresses, their embroidered aprons holding dolls and colouring pencils. The religious men also stand-out, the most pious having full beards and mustaches, and having a visible body part sport a citation from the Sacred Pages in ink, with them forever. Their clothing is also simple, but colourful, and they wear half-moon shaped hats of felt.
Pious Caladians seem like the stuff of books, colourful and pleasant, always happy to help a lost stranger, and staring sparkly-eyed at paintings of the Oceania family, chosen by the Pure One himself to free Celestia of the evil of the Old Divine. As I watch them, standing against a tree, Crowyn just behind me stiff as a board, his eyes darting around, I see the Elder Tree standing green against a sea of colour, its brown, thick body creating the shade beneath which children ran and played, couples held hands, people prayed. That vision alone causes my hands, having already found my sketchbook, to get to work, and I think of the hundreds of artists who must've been inspired by this beautiful tree and its history.
It is in this position that I'm eventually found; sitting on the grass, legs crossed as I put pencil to paper in an attempt to make my ideas into a concise sketch, not stopping even as I hear fast feet approaching me, until they're covering the sun with their little bodies.
"Good Morrow, Miss Linnea!" Exclaims the youngest member of the Oceania family, his freckled face bending down to sit next to me before he envelops my body in a hug. Laughing, we both fall on the grass.
"Lark, please. This is unbecoming." Says his brother, shaking his head as his hand moves up to pinch his nose bridge under his glasses. He motions the guards, who help both of us up, and I collect my material. "Good Morrow, Miss Olivette. I trust you are well?" The boy, Fern, asks, a grown man's voice attempting to come out of the mouth of a boy barely five-and-ten years old.
"I am, my Prince, thank you. It was so incredibly generous to allow me to get new material this morning, I am more than ready for this trip."
The young boy nods, but his younger brother interrupts him before he can get another word in. "It was my idea! I told Father you'd need an account of your own, so you need not worry about running out of material or not having something to wear."
"A kind thought, Prince Lark, I should've expected it was your idea." I smile, touching his nose. "I'm sure my sister was just as grateful to have received your gifts." I add.
His cheeks turn red, freckles nearly disappearing beneath his embarrassment. "I hope it is not forward to say I plan on writing to her, she did ask me to update her on royal life, and I so long for a friend as intelligent and free as she is! Do you think your parents would mind?"
Yes, I'm sure my mother would pitch a fit. "Of course not, dear Prince. They would be happy to know she's got a new friend, Sybbie has always been a singular soul, it's difficult for her to make friends sometimes, a problem of the Oceania women, I suppose." I laugh. "She'll be ecstatic to hear from you."
He smiles, the redness fading from his cheeks. "Then I shall send a letter tonight! I'll work on it during mothers' visit. I get unbearably bored in those events, I sure hope you're able to bear through."
I scrunch my eyebrows. "To which event do you refer to, my prince?"
This time, Prince Fern chimes in. "Mother has been called to visit the Bluest Sky Clean Harbour, attached to the Cathedral of Saint Cotyne, in North Caladia. I, of course, will be accompanying her, as I have been called for the Pure Life." He seems entirely proud of that statement, the purity of his brown eyes shining under the scorching sun, warming my heart, even when his brother rolls his eyes. "We would like for you to join us, Miss Olivette, as I have heard great things about the Cathedral's art, and I believe it would make for good inspiration, and a wonderful gift for the Pure Sisters from our family."
"It would be my utmost pleasure, Prince Fern, but please, do call me Linnea, there's no need for all this Miss talk." I request, placing a hand on the young boy's shoulder.
He seems surprised at the request, staring at me for a couple seconds before his face turns a dark shade of red. He stares at the ground for a minute or so, formulating his next sentence. For the first time since we met, he seems like an actual young boy. "I believe mother would find this… highly unusual."
"Then you may call me Miss when in formal events, and Linnea in informal ones. How does that sound?"
"I vote yes!" Lark exclaims and I laugh.
"Yes… Me too." Fern smiles, his face turning a slightly less bright shade of red.
The Princes excuse themselves to look around the fair and speak to some of their fervorous public, whom I have pretended not to see this whole time. We promise each other to meet in 30min near the stage for the beginning of the ceremony, and go our separate ways, with Crowyn giving his role to Greg. "Didn't think you'd get rid of me so easily, did you, Miss Olivette?"
I laugh. "Please, not you too." I roll my eyes.
"Of course not, not me." He assures me, shoulders square and eyes moving around while still giving our conversation his full attention. His ability to multitask astounds me. "You were very good with them, just now. They don't get the chance to act like children a lot, especially not Fernicous, that little boy is… very difficult to read. I sometimes think he's a man of six-decades and not a little boy."
I pause, trying not to laugh. "They named him Fernicous?"
He nods, eyes closed for a micro-second, then sighs. "Yes, after the Saint, Fernicous Domicilus, who allegedly gave his life defending Astrella the Great. I'm sure that had something to do with his dropping school to become a Son."
"You know a lot about the family, I'll have to count on you to help me when we get to Acradya." I smile, playfully hitting his shoulder.
"I genuinely hope we can see each other as often as we do here. Remember I told you about your Lady? The one who'll accompany you in your first month in Acradya?" I nod. "I'm sure you'll also be assigned a Royal Guard, most of the Entertainment Staff has one, especially after the last Artist. Who knows, maybe it'll be me." He winks, and I am, for once, happy he cannot see the warmth spreading to my cheeks due to the hue of my skin.
"Sorry, what do you mean, exactly, after the last Artist?" I ask, hoping to change the subject, but nonetheless curious.
He shakes his head and smiles as we pass through an arched tree leading to a beautiful orchard. People's heads turn to watch us, and, much like the shop attendant from earlier, they seem compelled to bow. I smile, and salute back with my head. "Here, they'll get used to our presence if we sit." He spots a picnic bench, one of those double benches with a table in between, where he can see our surroundings better, even if we are closer to the wall, in the far back of the orchard. He guides me to sit with my back to the wall, and sits opposite me. "Well, her name used to be Daphne Stewart, she was a young girl from Ezalya, incredibly smart, even more incredibly beautiful. She taught herself art because her family couldn't afford a Dravian professor to teach her, but everyone said she had talent. Eventually, she started putting her pieces in local galleries, and they sold fairly well. Then other Sektur galleries, until she eventually caught the eye of the Queen when one of her pieces, Under the Moon, was bought by an Acradyan Duke as a present for his wife. The Queen asked for a private audience, and she was hired on the spot, after, of course, a thorough background check which revealed nothing more than a minor incident where she punched a little girl at the age of 10." He laughs. "In her first month in Acradya, she had sold 30 paintings, all to prominent Acradyan families. She used to literally paint day and night, I don't even think she slept… One of these paintings was eventually sold to the Baron of Trently, an older gentleman with two young heirs whose wife had passed away about 3 years earlier, sweet gentleman, easy to please, a lot easier to convince to buy more paintings…"
He stares behind me, beyond me, as if looking for something that wasn't there. "At some point," he continued. "I think we all noticed that the girl who arrived a couple months before was no longer the girl who stood before us. She started having more and more audiences with the Baron, private ones, of course. Painting him, painting his daughters, neglecting her work… Until a public proposal came around, at the Royal Gala for Underprivileged Children, then the Baron chose to donate an outrageous sum of money to said charity, after his bride to be said yes." There's something in his eyes I can't quite catch, a sort of deep sadness, mixed with something else, he shakes his head and focuses once more on me. "Anyway, once the marriage was official, the entire Sektur was in uproar as to how a woman of her background could endear herself so to a Baron, and once the private audiences became public, well, there was no stopping the rumours. To avoid anything of the sort happening, and to protect the chastity of women working for the Oceana family and the reputation of the family themselves, each female member of the Entertainment Staff has been assigned a guard to accompany her in her daily duties. No incidents will happen ever again, or so they hope."
I sit with that information for a while, nails digging into my hands.
I suddenly felt a chill on my spine, a shift in the wind, like a bird about to be caged. I wasn't expecting this to be the story of the last artist, and I wasn't expecting to feel so afraid of how my life in Acradya would be. There would be changes made to the position, of that I'm sure, that went beyond having a companion, but I wonder if the necessity to be so thoroughly trained in all manners relating to class and etiquette were also a consequence of this woman, Daphe's, behaviour. With so much to prove, it suddenly occurred to me that I also had to fight the battles of a ghost woman, who sits calmly in her palace while I face the aftermath of her actions.
It made me feel sick that I could fail. Fail to become a real lady, fail to produce art good enough for the Family and their subjects in the Mainland, fail to keep myself out of trouble.
"Don't overthink it." Gregorym says once he catches my mind slipping away. "You'll do great, of that I'm sure. Daphne was a troubled girl with a troubled childhood. You came from nurture and kindness, you are not alike."
I raise my eyes to meet his, and see nothing but sincerity staring back at me through thick eyelashes and tempestuous green eyes. I smile, realising now where my previous mistake came from when judging his character. "You know I mistook you for a Fortyan when we met?"
He hands me a half-smile, cheeky and sincere, dimples showing. "Did you now?"
I nod, half-embarrassed. "I know of the cultural fight between Galadrya and Fortya, so I do not mean to offend. But your accent is so thick and you roll your r's in such a way that I was certain you had to be Fortyan."
"Perhaps because I was born near the border." He chuckles. "But no, not a simple minded farmer." I roll my eyes and his chuckle turns to laugh. "I jest, of course."
In an act of unnecessary chivalry, Gregorym insists on buying me a cup of cold lemonade, to fight the hot day. I accept, after declining it twice, when he reminds me we essentially get paid from the same bursary, which is true enough. We set off back to the main square with our lemonades in hand, eyes scanning us wherever we go.
I suddenly feel plain in my dress, under all these watchful eyes which seem to expect so much from me, and make a mental note to ask my companion in the Mainland about what kind of fashions I should choose for myself while in service, that way perhaps it becomes more obvious that I am not a person to be gawked at, as I pose no threat to the average citizen.
"I know, it's unsettling at first, like you're being judged." He comments, hand constantly on his sword.
"I have a tendency to get too in my head about things," I explain. "Life constantly feels like I'm being judged."
"You are." He states, eyes constantly scanning our surroundings. "But you need to remind yourself neither them nor their opinions can have any effect on your life. They judge simply out of curiosity, and envy."
I nod, as we approach a closed off section of the Square leading into a makeshift gallery, hopefully a sturdy one. I walk up, Gregorym shooting a sturdy look at one of the local guards who stood at the entrance. He, of course, follows right behind me.
Upstairs, the closed section seems to have led to the Royal Box, and as I stare down from above, I finally understand today's ceremony is to be a joust, in the King's honour.
Flags drape the galleries, colourful and meaningful, the history of our united people under the Crown, each with its own uniqueness and individuality. The coat of arms of the House of Oceana sits neatly on our box, next to the flag of Celestia, their baby blue blending together to the point where one could not tell where Oceana ends and Celestia begins.
I'm led to a seat, behind Their Majesties, and the two boys turn around to eagerly salute me. I smile at them, but before we can get two words in, the master of ceremony begins to speak.
There was a pompous celebration, one which made me grateful to be Dravian, as I watched the little children being paraded in order of piousness, praised for being subjects of the Pure One and of the House of Oceana, adorned with flowers and oggled like objects, while the most religious in the crowd got on their knees to witness them like it was a miracle.
It was odd, and when glancing forward at the family, it was clear they too seemed out of their element. The Queen seemed to be only half-paying attention, doting on her son while the boy eagerly explained to her the symbolism hidden in the clothing and flowers of each child, and praising the Pure One for having made them so clean, so dedicated to their faith. She didn't seem all that interested, however, her eyes focused on the draped flags then on her nails then on the seemingly uncomfortable seat she was in. It seemed she was anywhere but there.
The King, on the other hand, was completely tuned out. He spoke to a man next to him, dressed in a fancier version of Gregorym's uniform, about something I couldn't exactly make out. Lark, on the other hand, wasn't attempting to hide how bored he was. He had his shoulders to the ceremony, speaking instead to his guard, an older gentleman of auburn hair, who had one stripe more than the other guards stitched on his uniform, and who listened attentively to what the young boy was saying.
I look to my left, surprised to catch Gregorym staring right at me, and I cower under his eyes, immediately shifting my gaze to my folded hands. "Sorry, didn't mean to put you on the spot." He apologises.
"It's alright, I'm just…" I start, lowering my tone of voice.
"Surprised they don't care?" He whispers back, a sly smile on his face.
I nod slowly. "Who is that gentleman the King is talking to?" I glance once more at the man next to His Majesty, both so enveloped in their conversation they don't seem to notice anything else.
"That would be Prime Minister Elros Oreon, His Majesty's younger brother." I furrow my eyebrows, confused by this explanation. There aren't many similarities between the two men, with one jovial and energetic and the other sporting dark eyebags under his tired eyes and freckled pale skin. Their eyes also differ, the Prime Minister having a bright shade of green compared to the King's darker nearly light brown eyes; and while the King's hair is greying, though I know it to have been golden as the sun in his youth, the Prime Minister sports a mane of blond hair so light it seems almost white. "He usually handles product management and the sort in the lower Sekturs, but he traveled to speak to his majesty."
I feel a shiver go down my spine as I notice how apprehensive the man looks. "Do you… know what about?"
Gregorym shakes his head. "No, but I can assume it must've something to do with imports and exports." I look confused, so he continues. "Celestia produces most of what we require to live, for all Sekturs except Acradya, they import a lot from Asturia and Valeria, the little luxuries we're unable to produce here, but prices have gone up and our trading stays the same, as people in the lower Sekturs are being expected to produce twice as much in the same timeframe to trade and import half."
I had heard about the strikes, last time my brothers and I played in Fortya, one of the rare moments we could afford to lose money to entertain people. There were strikes happening all over the Sektur, people refusing to work double, triple shifts with no pay. The crowds were getting smaller, and there was talk of workers being held against their will, unable to leave until they finished their daily quota. All rumours, of course. They couldn't possibly be true.
I shake that thought out of my head, archiving it for later, as it ruins my enjoyment and understanding of the celebrations at present.
My eyes focus back onto the joust, trying to get a grasp of Caladian culture through it. The first two horsemen, perhaps even Knights, although I cannot fully comprehend that position, are each dressed in a different shade of blue, darker blue, like the night sky; and light blue, like the morning sky. They stand facing each other from their opposite sides of the improvised tiltyard, I watch as they both make the Sign of Peace, middle and ring finger dragged through the center of the head down towards the heart in a straight line. They fix their helmets, bow their heads towards the Royal Box, and, finally, the master of ceremony screams.
"Let us part!" And the crowd erupts into screams.
What follows seems to happen in the blink of an eye. The two men charge towards each other on their horses, lances pointed straight ahead, and through the cheering of the audience I see one fall of their horse, crimson blood staining his sky blue armour, he removes his helmet and reaches for the sky, while his opponent, the winner, does the same, galloping around his side of the tiltyard with a victorious smile.
A group of women suddenly surrounds the loser, one's hands delicately lifting his breast and stomach plates, while the others lift him onto an improvised stretcher.
I'm gasping for air, hand over my heart as I watch the scene unfold.
"He's not dead." Gregorym whispers to me. "Otherwise the Transient Sisters would've waved his white handkerchief. He's just wounded."
His words made me realise who the group of women was. It's odd seeing them outside, in Dravia they mostly stick to themselves, isolated in their Mortuaries where they study the art of death. In Caladia, their red capes can be seen flying in the wind even on the bleachers, where they sit poised, gaps near them as no one dares to share their space.
I try to get closer to the action, instinctively moving my body forward, but I'm stopped as the Queen turns around, eyes piercing into my skin. "We'll be leaving soon, I can no longer stand this nonsense. But you are, of course, free to stay, dear. Get some inspiration."
"Thank you, Your Majesty. I hope it is alright that the Prince has invited me to join you tomorrow."
"Of course." She nods, even that looking calculated. "I'm happy you show interest in the faith, and besides, it'll be good practice for you. You're not yet used to being a diamond."
Her words confuse me, and as I am not trained, that confusion washes over my face. "Pardon me, my Queen, I do not follow."
"Oh, dear… Look around you." She motions the bleachers. "We are so far from them, from here we must seem ant-sized. And still they gawk, still they strain their eyes to take a peak, still they try their best to get a good look at us, even if from an ocean of distance." She laughs. "Do you know why?"
"You're important, Your Majesty. You're our leaders." I state, hoping to be correct.
She places a hand on mine. "Yes, dear. But more than that, we are special. Finding us is like finding diamonds in the grass. We sparkle. They cannot help but look, for they know even looking at a diamond for a split second, as they light hits it, makes them sparkle too. And everyone wants to sparkle."