MPNS Ch 86

Chapter 86

Nausea surged at once. Nikiel’s face went bloodless. Seeing his half brother for the first time, he was left reeling, unsure whether the vertigo and urge to retch came from the memories he had just witnessed.

Only moments before, the king—so proud of the attention the lords had paid Nikiel—had now fixed all his mind upon his stalwart firstborn.

“Raphael! Come here!”

At his call, Raphael began to descend slowly from the second floor, never once breaking eye contact with Nikiel. All the lords turned to observe Nikiel in that gaze. Lucian seemed to ask if there was any ailment, but Nikiel could not answer.

With the bright face of an excited child, the king beckoned,

“Come, all of you—come greet my firstborn, newly returned to his home after long absence.”

In that “all,” there was no Nikiel. Although it had been almost by Nikiel’s guidance that the lords had been brought thus far, the king saw only the chance to present Raphael to them, as though frantic to ensure power would pass smoothly to the son who would be king.

Raphael neared the throne. Still not taking his eyes from Nikiel, he addressed the king.

“O great Sun, Protector of the Western Continent. Raphael Ossinis, descendant of the Sun God, has at this moment returned to the palace.”

A murmur rippled through the assembly. The Knights of the Holy Order arrayed at the foot of the stairs flinched, startled. Nikiel tilted his head, recalling a passage from a book on court protocol.

The religious order of Ossinis was peculiar. Though the state religion, Soliusism, was centered in a sacred state with its own elected pontiff, the kings of Ossinis invoked the name of Solius—the Sun God—and styled themselves “the Sun” when announcing themselves. For generations, those claiming the blood of Ossinis, the first king, had used this convention.

It might easily be read as blasphemy, yet the Soliusist hierarchy turned a blind eye. Without the Kingdom of Ossinis, Solius might have remained merely one among many Western gods. The rise of that faith had followed the kingdom’s founding and its adoption as state religion; thus, the kings’ self-styling as “the Sun” was glossed as “sons of the god.”

But “the great Sun” was excessive. That title was forbidden even to the pontiff; it was synonymous with Solius, the chief deity, himself. Yet here was Raphael, in the very ballroom where the Holy Order stood in file, addressing his father as “the great Sun.”

Aged nobles gaped in shock; younger ones, though thrilled by Raphael’s audacity, whispered anxiously—could this be permitted? Then the Grand Master of the Holy Order, Oryx Ziments, spoke.

“If Your Majesty so permits, we shall take our leave.”

This abrupt leave-taking startled the court anew. It bore a double edge. It could signal displeasure at the crown prince’s words; or, given the Grand Master’s reputed disdain for disorder, it might be a deferential request for dismissal after paying respects. Those familiar with the proud nature of Chancellor Ziments wavered between the two readings, murmuring in uncertainty.

The king looked discomfited, eager to introduce his heir to the Grand Master.

“Leave? Why, the festivities have hardly begun. Pray remain and enjoy the evening.”

Such a plea ill suited the sovereign hailed as the Western hegemon; it sounded almost abject. Yet the Grand Master, perhaps mindful at last of royal dignity, nodded, then said,

“If it be Your Majesty’s will, then, in place of the great lords gathered here to reminisce with the crown prince just returned from abroad—and in particular on behalf of his partner, Lucian, Duke of Turun—may I request the honor of the first dance with His Highness Prince Nikiel?”

The assembly rustled again, most of all Nikiel himself.

‘Why is my name in this?’

The court ignored his discomposure and swelled from whispers to open buzz. By custom, the escort of the evening’s partner took the first dance; here was the Grand Master asking that honor be ceded. Some allowed that, as a dignitary from the sacred state, he might simply be ignorant of Ossinis ballroom etiquette. So they held their breath for the king’s ruling.

To speak plainly, the king coveted the chance. When the Grand Master had first asked to depart, he had been thrown off. He had not yet contrived a moment for Raphael to converse with him; if the Grand Master left, that chance would vanish. Besides, ignorant as he was of Lucian’s true sentiments, he saw little harm in yielding Nikiel’s first dance.

He misread Lucian’s presence as capitulation to crown power, not as a choice for Nikiel. The great serpent, witnessing this, nearly flooded the hall with pheromones of wrath, then checked himself—this was the midst of a banquet. He was on the brink of denouncing the sudden silver-haired interloper as a thief stealing what was not his—

—but the king, for once timely, spoke before Lucian.

“So be it. If the Grand Master shares the first dance with my witless child, it shall be counted a blessing from the High God. Nikiel, why tarry? Escort the Grand Master at once.”

Nikiel’s heart twisted. His expression hardened.

‘Not a father—a pimp, is he?’

In that instant, the roots of the true Nikiel’s lifelong melancholy were plain. Yet he could not defy the command openly. He lacked grounds to refuse in the center of the hall.

If he rejected a first dance with a foreign Grand Master ignorant of Ossinis court forms, nobles might accuse him of sowing discord between the sacred state and Ossinis. He had not forgotten that the evening’s purpose was to prompt a reevaluation of himself.

Unthinkingly, he looked to Lucian. Lucian seemed to understand. He gave a short nod. His face was set, but his eyes were tender upon Nikiel—an unspoken plea not to invite scandal.

At that moment of quiet gratitude, Raphael’s eyes were upon Nikiel—burning, improper, unfraternal. Nikiel sighed. The deeper he learned of the true Nikiel’s life, the grimmer it appeared; there was ample reason to sour a man.

Then Oryx—no, Naet—descended the stairs with an easy smile and extended his hand. Nikiel, favorably inclined to him, had not expected such brazen insistence; with a faintly reluctant face, he lifted his hand—

—when someone swept in, seized Nikiel’s offered hand, and instead of the Grand Master’s lips, pressed his own to the back of it.

“Only the first dance shall be yielded. Forgive this beast, so petty and small, Your Highness.”

It was Lucian. With eyes bright as rubies, he gazed at Nikiel, lips still upon his hand. His words—gentle yet possessive—sent several young ladies swooning, palming their brows as they collapsed. Having fasted for days for the ball, they now faced a romance for the ages and, overtaken by sudden blood pressure and racing hearts, fainted.

At first, Nikiel was flustered, but he took the gesture as Lucian’s care—a way to soothe his heart—and smiled faintly.

“Come now. My partner tonight is not you, my lord. Once a single waltz has passed, I shall return at once. Do not cast me off as tiresome later.”

Naet coolly cut in, hooking Nikiel’s hand from Lucian’s grasp and looking down upon them both with a blank face.

“Heard that, Duke of Turun? His Highness says your part ends with tonight. If it is only tonight, then do not waste your time in the foolish hope that another chance will come. A serpent, even after a thousand years, remains but an imugi.”

He spoke an obscure word. The nobles watching the three echoed it, “Imu—what?” mangling it in their mouths. Nikiel’s eyes flew wide. That Naet knew of the imugi startled him. The imugi is a creature from Korean myth, after all.

But Naet left no time for questions. He drew Nikiel’s hand and led him to the very center of the floor. In consequence, Nikiel forgot his intention to soothe his partner, Lucian, yet once more.

Footnotes

1. “Imugi” (이무기): A creature in Korean mythology, often a proto-dragon that has not yet ascended; calling someone a serpent that remains an imugi after a thousand years implies they will never become a true dragon—an elegant insult implying permanent inferiority.