Temerior groaned when he lifted the heavy chest. When he got close to Radalar’s armchair, he placed it at his feet.
The only thing rustier than the key were the hinges. As Radalar lifted the old lid, a cacophony of shrieks filled the room. When the inside was revealed, a cloud of dust emerged. Below it, dozens of old tomes laid in piles. Between the leather and wooden covers, stray parchments rotted. Some were bitten. “Damned bugs!”
Temerior looked inside with apprehension. Radalar figured he was thinking he had his work cut out for him.
“Few were the days of my adult life in which I didn’t sit down and write before falling asleep.”
The boy scratched his chin.
“It was a ritual.” Radalar added. “It kept the mind busy. Healthy! Useful thoughts survived the passing of the weeks. Impractical and harmful worries were destroyed by daily reflection.”
“What in god’s good grace is this rattle?” Cassidas reappeared, staring wide-eyed at the bowels of the opened container.
“Ah, brother!” said Radalar. “I was just about to call you.”
“What is it, your excellency?” the monk asked, still eying the dusty books.
“This isn’t enough.” announced Radarlar before taking a handful of additional keys from his pockets. “I need you to fetch the rest of my belongings.”
“All of them?”
“Well, there should be around ten more of these.” Radalar pointed at the open chest and gave Cassidas a most serious look. “I want them all here, now.”
The monk nodded nervously. Temerior stood still, fixated on the terrifying density of sources for his work.
“Why are you still here?” Radalar asked him. “You should be getting your writing materials. And you’re going to need a table and a proper seat. Find the slosabas[1] and take what you need. Have Cassidas go with you.”
***
It took the monks a good while to haul everything up the narrow stairways and into Radalar’s quarters.
“Leave that one on top of the bed.” ordered Radalar, as the last heavy chest crossed the door, held by three monks. “I’ll sleep on my chair.”
“But, excellency” mumbled Cassidas. “Your back…”
“Oh, cut it, brother.” he looked around, making sure all he asked for had been brought up. “Good work. Now, leave me alone with the boy.”
The small room was absolutely overflowing. Temerior’s desk was in front of Radalar’s chair, leaving them sitting opposite of each other. Hunched over the wooden table, with his seat crammed against the wall, the boy could barely get up and sit down. Around them, the chests piled up on top of each other. Only the top half of the bookcases was visible among the chaos. The tide of dust could be smelled even through Temerior’s strong perfume.
“Let us begin.” Radalar decided.
Temerior wetted his quill in black ink and waited.
“I was born in the Kingdom of Lassaralia in the 387th year of the Efarid Conquest.[2]”
“Of the Aspian Interregnum, you mean.” Temerior raised his eyebrows.
“What?”
“The Age of the Efarid Conquest has been out of use for almost twenty years now, excellency. It’s not just a whim of the chancellery or the chroniclers. It’s an Imperial Decree and the fine for going against it is far from cheap.”
Radalar chuckled.
“Well then: I was born in the 387th year of the Aspian Interregnum in Lassaralia.[3] That’s a curious renaming. Do you have any idea of how the world in which I was born worked? Of the state in which the Aspian Kingdom was?”
“I don’t get why you’re so surprised that the victors renamed the ages to what best suits them.”
“Well, I had just never heard it before.”
“Can we move on?”
Radalar sighed and proceeded.
“I have no recollection of my father. He was called Ivasad Voladas and I know he was a sergeant in the army of the County of Mamerron[4]. It was he who decided to name me Radalar, after a great uncle of his who’d been knighted for defeating some famous rider in a tourney.
There’s little more I can say about him. He left Mamerron when I was two or three years old and never came back. I don’t even remember why he did it, neither did I see him leave myself – I always took my family’s word for it.
My mother was the only daughter of a farmer that worked the count’s land and had a small parcel of his own. I was raised there, in a small wooden cottage. I can still see its falling culm roof and rotting old planks.”
Temerior never lifted his eyes from the parchment but Radalar could feel his desperation. He was caught between boredom and awkwardness.
“My first memory of my mother is also the last. She was dying on a hay mattress close to a window. That strong summer light of the West made everything white – her head and her hands… the grimy covers, the filthy floor… There were pink flowers on the parapet. That’s the only image I have of the whole thing. I don’t recall if I kissed her, hugged her or if I cried in her lap.”
“I thought these were political memoirs.” The boy finally interrupted. “I mean no disrespect, excellency, but does that scene really have a place in them?”
“They are political, yes.” Radalar answered, serenely. “Didn’t Peridas I[5] describe his mother’s death bed? Just because mine’s wasn’t covered in impeccable sheets, gold and piles of incense or surrounded by a regiment of physicians and an army of mourners, it doesn’t make it less relevant. I want the reader to know where I came from. To know that my mother died in the same sty in which she birthed and raised me. That should be stated clearly.”
Radalar pressed on, as if the boy’s hand was his and didn’t belong to someone who would judge every word uttered. Lomasas must have known what he was doing when he sent him. It was a leap of faith.
“I had an older brother, of whom I have little memory and whose name fails me. As the eldest, he inherited the ancient patch of land, the hens, the pigs: everything. Such was the law in the County of Mamerron. My father’s father, Hanrad, came to get me. He had a big nose and, although he had a lot of wrinkles, his hair was still almost completely black.
Normally, he’d take me to a monastery just like this one, to live a long life of celibacy, chanting, prayer and love for our good lord. Turns out the good lord wasn’t interested in my steadfast and continuous love. Old Hanrad was one of the count’s most esteemed servants and had just received a most honourable task.
The count had just betrothed his daughter, Sibil of Mamerron, to Redissas of Lilanor[6], a young Aspian noble. The kingdoms were in good terms and it was very common to Lassaralian noblewomen to marry across the border and vice versa. Even so, it was a great match, very prestigious. The dowry must have been enormous.
In any case, my grandfather was tasked with accompanying Sibil’s retinue to Lilanor. The count’s youngest son would also accompany his sister, but he’d leave after the wedding. Hanrad would stay in Aspia and help the girl with whatever her maids couldn’t.
Given my misfortune, my grandfather decided to take me with him as his page. He gave me a short dagger, a small donkey, a spiffing green jacket, and a hat with a pheasant feather. A pair of boots, too. Made of leather and very durable. I remember wearing them until my feet grew enough to make them hurt.
We left on a clear morning, It’s like I’m seeing it now. The roof of the cottage disappearing over the hills as we rode through the muddy road to Mamerron. I was only seven.
Sibil’s cortege left shortly after. It was decided that we should follow the ancient cobbled road that went Southeast through the coast to avoid submitting the women and children to the mountainous paths. For weeks, we led the girl’s carriage through sheep-filled meadows, always in sight of the sea. I had never seen it and was awed by it. I loved how blue it was, how it seemed infinite. For many nights, I fell asleep to the sound of the waves.
One day, the princess asked to eat by the sea and we made camp in a small beach. Soon, I was diving beneath the waves with the other pages and some of the younger maids and soldiers.”
Radalar reached for one of the lockers that had been fetched by the monks and opened it. Among the books and other memorabilia, there was a big white conch. He took it out and showed it to Temerior.
“My grandfather gave this to me that day.” Radalar couldn’t avoid a big smile. “He said it would allow me to listen to the waves wherever I was. It’s amazing that I still have it after all this time. For many years I didn’t even remember it existed...”
“Mhm.” Temerior forced a mild grin.
“We crossed the border with Aspia at Kaiar Ilafas.[7] Remember that until my grandfather took me from home, I’d never traveled more than a day’s journey from it. Now I was leaving Lassaralia itself.
Everything was different in Aspia. The language, the people, the clothes. But mainly the landscape.
Lassaralia is green, covered in well-kept woods, flowery meadows, trimmed vines, colourful orchards, and orderly fields of wheat and barley. Many castles and cities, forgetful of the hardships of war, have opened themselves to light, luxury and comfort.
Aspia, on the other hand, has an austere and untamed wild nature, noticeable as soon as you cross the border.
Most of the terrain is rugged and arid. Even when it rains a lot, the earth doesn’t keep the water for long. The nobles, always suspicious of each other and ready for foreign invaders, leave the roads, bridges and forests unattended. Enormous boars, wolves and bears still prowl the dark woods and rugged hills, terrorizing the peasants and providing sport to their lords. The castles have impressive towers and high walls, closing themselves to the world.
Only the big cities are different, but I’ll get to those soon enough.
On the way to Lilanor, several Aspian aristocrats who had been invited to the wedding joined the bride’s entourage. I hadn’t seen a lot of nobles in my life at the time, but I could already notice the difference between Sibil’s cortege and their counterparts from this foreign land.
The Lassarians wore vibrant clothes and talked in a calm, pondered manner, embellishing each sentence with fancy words and hiding their emotions. The Aspians used mostly black and red. When they weren’t yelling angrily at each other or crying with laughter, they were murmuring in circles and giving those they distrusted nervous but defiant stares.”
Temerior was keeping up with the dictation. “Well, he writes fast, I’ll give him that”.
Radalar told him that they’d take a break soon. The boy simply nodded, looking bored.
“My grandfather told me there were rumors that Emilar III, the Aspian king himself, might come to Lilanor and bless the wedding. When we got to Bradara, the biggest city in northern Aspia, the news were confirmed.
You see, Emilar wasn’t only king of Aspia. His father, Enrior II, had taken Imerria from the Efarid Empire, crowning himself its sovereign. Ruling both lands as a United Kingdom, Emilar travelled a lot between them. His eldest son, prince Filior, hadn’t yet be sworn as the heir to Imerria.
So, at that time, Emilar’s court was riding north to solve the issue. Lilanor was a natural stop. Since there was a wedding, his Highness thought he’d honour the couple with his presence.
You can imagine the chaos when we got to the castle. It was a slim, tall citadel on top of a rocky cliff. The king had already arrived. His court occupied what little space there was inside the towers. Crammed against each other, the guests’ camps swallowed the surrounding land and mingled with the humble tents of the common folk that flocked to the area, yearning for the free food and wine.
A reception was prepared for Sibil. We were greeted with euphoric joy. There were wooden arches covered in flowers signalling the way inside the castle. Along the camps and atop the walls, drums and trumpets were played while rockets were launched into the sky.
In the courtyard, the king awaited her at the groom’s family’s side. That’s the first time I saw Emilar. He was tall and well built, with the same long black hair and beard of his vassals. One could see a ferocious but subtle intelligence in his shining brown his eyes.
The feasts were lavish, as was required by the royal presence. In each, there were one hundred toasts to the bride, the groom, the king, the faith, Aspia, Imerria and Lassaralia. On both sides of the wall, mimes, poets and theatre troupes entertained the host of guests, aided in their efforts by the free flowing wine.
There were also constant bullfights, which I’d never seen before. I can’t say I’ve ever liked them very much, but nothing noteworthy happens in Aspia without one to commemorate it.
During the day, I’d take advantage of my grandfather’s busyness to escape his ever watchful gaze. Together with the other Lassaralian pages and many Aspian boys, I’d run outside and play in the camps and surrounding countryside.
One of those times, I was playing near the banks of the Midaro, just to the east of the walls. The river is quite calm downstream but, in those northern highlands, it has a strong current.
I was chasing around goats with a bunch of other little ruffians when the shepherd’s dogs jumped out of some bushes. In that region, they have these ferocious hounds that are built like bulls, strong enough to chase away wolf packs.
In panic, we split up and ran as fast as we could to whatever direction seemed best. I was lucky and soon found myself with no dogs chasing me. When I reached the river, I stopped to catch my breath.
That’s when I heard someone screaming for help in Aspian upstream. It was a boy, stuck atop a mound next to the water, watching in terror as two of the monsters closed in on him. The fear had his legs betray him and he fell into the raging currents.
There wasn’t a single adult in sight. Looking west, I saw some high rocks in the water. I don’t know why, but the hopelessness in the poor boy’s voice as he drowned swept away any fear I had.
I ran as fast as I could and jumped to the rock that was closest to the bank, making my way through the others. I still don’t know how I didn’t meet my slippery end there. Clinging to a branch that was stuck between two of the boulders, I reached out to the water.
“Here!” I yelled. “Hey! Here.” I was shouting in Lassaralian, for I could remember none of the little Aspian I knew.
He could barely keep his head above the water, and I remember the horrified look on his eyes. All he could do was wave his arms around and hope that one of his hands would meet mine. It did.
I tried to pull him up, but he was too heavy. Meanwhile, the branch’s rotting wood was slowly giving in to his weight.
“You’re too heavy!” I cried, still in Lassaralian.
He squirmed, moaning in despair and trying to achieve something with his free arm under the water.
There was a sudden weight loss and I managed to pull him up. When his legs left the water, I saw the reason: he had taken off his boots.
I carried him to dry land and laid him down. He curled sideways and coughed, gushes of water coming out of his mouth. Before long, he turned on his back and opened his black jacked and white shirt with my help. With each quick breath, his chest moved up and down like a pair of bellows.
He was around my age. His hair was black and long, his eyes brown. Over his chest, a golden medallion with an engraved hawk shone in the afternoon sun.
“What’s your name?” I asked in Aspian.
“Filior.” he said between gasps. “Filior Astalis[8], the prince of Aspia.”
Temerior chuckled.
“What is it?” Radalar asked.
“Well, if I’m following you, you just told me that you saved the life of Filior of Aspia. The great Filior… the future -”
“Yes.” Radalar said. “I did. And it wasn’t the last time.”
Temerior laughed
“Well, your excellency,” he said “I came here supposing you’d tell me boring tales of how you managed to get the taxes high enough to keep the peasants so famished they wouldn’t even revolt. What I didn’t expect was you trying to sell me your fantasies.”
“Look, son.” Radalar hunched over the desk, facing Temerior eye-to-eye. “If you trust bedarikor Lomasas’ judgement, you either believe me or write him a letter informing him that I am senile.”
The boy opened his mouth but Radalar continued.
“If you don’t trust Lomasas, you’ve wasted his time, as well as mine. Or, to put it in a way that you can appreciate– you’re wasting yours.”
Temerior looked bitterly at the floor.
“Come back tomorrow, I bet your hands can use a rest as much as my head does.”
Radalar faced the window while the boy left. The dark clouds announced a blizzard. He could see monks rushing supplies across the slippery path for one last time. Soon, the cobblestones would be drowned in white.
[1] The scriptorium.
[2] An era that started with the Efarid Conquest of Palas, ending the age of the Second Palatian Empire.
[3] A kingdom in Western Auracia.
[4] A rural county in southwestern Lassaralia.
[5] A notorious Palatian Emperor from the age of the First Palatian Empire.
[6] A county in northern Aspia.
[7] A monastery in northern Aspia.
[8] The Royal House of Aspia. 
Primicerius
Words of the Forgotten | Chapter XI.1
Frothy Goodness
Primicerius
Domesticus
Praefectus
Domesticus
Citizen
I use them as a way to define lore on the go when I write these. I forgot to take them out when I pasted the first part into TWC. I thought that they didn't look bad and NorseThing and Axis Sunsoar liked them, so I kept them. But I do agree with you - if one's reading this in TWC, it's annoying to keep scrolling up and down. The problems with getting their content into the text itself are: a) these chapters are already large and I don't want to scare away readers who aren't looking for more depth; b) Radalar and Temerior are cultured people who have no need to trade explanations about these matters (it would be an "as you know, Bob" situation). I hope to get rid of them almost completely as the reader gains a better understanding of the world. This will soon be aided with a big post about the history, politics and culture of the region where the action is set. I can guarantee the inclusion of maps (which I guess will be pretty handy haha) and perhaps the portraits I teased before. If I have time and my scarce talent doesn't fail me, some landscapes and clothing/armour. No promises.
to rede I me delyte
The contrast between the two main characters is great, and the idea of Radalar having been written out of history, and wanting to write himself back in with his memoirs, is wonderful!
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