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Chapter 2 - Moisture
Metheus
Arrowspear used to be an endless span of desert sands. Hot gusts of wind would overwhelm you as you walk languidly over the unyielding ground. Foreigners could barely survive the heat and the continuous languor that seemed to have embraced the entire continent. No, it was not an embrace. It was a grip.
We were in the grip of a bare-knuckled demon, who was often angry and dissatisfied. Despite that, witches came to our land, mainly when persecution spread through Mogochislenia. They were shellshocked when they arrived, but soon they got used to the heat. They must have missed their forests, but they definitely did not miss the burning pyres and the people screaming, “Burn, witch!”.
Some people believed that the continent was cursed. Perhaps. However, I saw it differently. I saw it as a solid, independent continent, welcoming every race and species. We did not care if you were human, witch, wolf, or bear. You would be welcomed if you promised to live in peace with us.
When I was born, my father, King Doro of Prozeus, said I was the Chosen One who would change the political and physical landscape of Arrowspear. Whenever he said that mere feet away from my presence, I would bow my head in shame. I was not too fond of the attention. Even as a child, I would rather work with my hands than my mouth.
I would say that my father was a very excitable, optimistic man. I was born quite his opposite, sullen and quiet. Work was at the forefront of my concerns. I would rather sweat in the fields than exchange small talk. Of course, it did not mean I did not have a sense of humor, but I reserved it for my close friends.
Twenty-eight years ago, when I was born, they said things changed. The dry soil had started producing and gathering moisture, and trees and bushes began to grow. There was more water. Prozeus became the envy of the rest of Arrowspear. Soon, people visited to ask for magic. Lately, they came for my agricultural knowledge. The dance between science and the supernatural had been happening in our domain for some time.
People said that my father had sold his soul to the devil or that I was the devil incarnate. But they said it was not something they would say “No” to. They were thankful. You see, the people of Arrowspear would readily welcome the devil if he had something to offer.
Like any other day, I was in the fields that afternoon, tilling the soil with peasants. While two men used a bull and a plow, I contented myself with a hoe and a rake. I sometimes got my turn with the plow; it was better exercise than training with swords and daggers. I trained three times a week and read every night. My mind and body were constantly in motion.
Though a prince, I worked with my hands since I was twelve. My palms were rough, and my skin had turned bronze. If you saw me with my father, you would not believe we were father and son. Our features were similar, with the same green eyes and straight nose. My father was a handsome man but pasty white – pale and sickly, always hiding from Arrowspear’s sun. Whenever he was outside, he would fan himself fastidiously. Do not get me wrong. He was a good man, just delicate.
What we did have in common was a taste for something different, something surprising. My father, King Doro, married my ebony-skinned mother, Princess Erani of the kingdom of Rama. He was quite a traveler, and she caught his eyes in no time. It was a happy marriage until she died giving birth to my sister Rowali. Rowali was almost the very image of my mother, dark-skinned and beautiful with large hazel eyes and full lips.
They said my mother was too old when she gave birth to Rowali, who was fifteen years my junior. However, I knew even then that my mother had hoped for another child. She undoubtedly loved me, but she longed for a large group of rowdy children running in the courtyard. My mother was born into a large family. Her father had two wives and twelve children, each wife clearly fertile. She was the third child of the first wife.
During Rowali’s first few years, I taught my little sister everything she knew: reading, arithmetic, languages, and more. It was because of her that I strived to be a good man.
“Metheus!” Cora called, breaking into my reverie.
I knew that she had probably brought me food. She always did. Even when I sometimes blatantly ignored her, she forged on.
Cora was a beautiful, voluptuous woman. She had long curly black hair that reached her waist, a golden brown complexion, and large brown eyes with curly lashes. However, I only saw her as a friend.
It was strange for Prozeus men to think that way. Even the few male friends I had used women indiscriminately, discarding them like playthings. I could not imagine making Cora hope for more and then breaking her heart. She did not seem to understand that as she continued her seduction. Only two years younger than I was, I reminded her once that time was catching up to her. A man might delay marriage and be considered a bachelor. On the other hand, a woman would be viewed as a spinster. Her fertility would be in question, as well.
She would not listen. Here she was again.
“Your Highness, I brought you cheese, bread, and sweetened yams,” she breathlessly said, her chest heaving as she brought me a bowl of her offerings.
“Thank you, Cora. You did not have to do that. I was on my way home,” I said as coldly as possible. It was hard to act like that with her since she had been my friend since childhood. When she turned sixteen, she started having ideas, and I was merely trying to discourage her. Her hope remained alive as I continued my life with no interest in marrying or even courting a woman.
“Your Highness, if you do not want the meal and the company, we will gladly take them for you,” Razuku shouted.
Razuku was my closest friend, thus making him comfortable enough to jest with me. Any other man would have stayed clear, as I was known for quick shifts between my hot temper and cold demeanor. Razuku was only an inch shorter than I was but with broader shoulders. We had almost the same complexion, his only a shade darker, of the same mixed heritage. We both wore our hair in braids, mine longer than his, reaching my shoulders.
“Do not jest like that, Razuku. We are talking about a young maiden here.”
Even though it was a constant jest among the three of us, Cora blushed. She just never learned. I wished I could give her away in marriage to someone. If I did that, as her prince, she would not have a choice. But that was not the way I handled things. She was a free woman. The last slaves had been unshackled as soon as my grandfather took the throne. In a way, I was proud of my heritage and my family.
“It is alright, Your Highness. It is my fault.”
Suddenly, the mixed group of peasants and royals stopped chattering. I was the only quiet one in my group, aside from the mute Ellaria. When everyone became this quiet, it was trouble. Something – or someone – had made people hush for some reason.
I turned to where the rest was gawking. A group of men and women were headed our way. They were dressed in silk and velvet. Foreigners.
When had we last had new immigrants from Mogochislenia?
“They are from Queenspell,” whispered Cora to both Razuku and me. “They had fled the continent because of a raging drought.”
