The equanimity that holds

Kalia Aurian went through the latest developments when their host joined in. She noticed nothing of particular interest. New mercantile relations between the Valleys, the portal guild’s expansion request had been permitted, and some new bastard mage had entered their capital. It was nothing unusual, and for that reason, Kalia was confident.

Her kinsmen and women gathered, she scanned them and went over in her head whom she could trust and why. On incense-blessed long tables, which were entrenched in the marble wall, fired bread rested on the side, surrounded by cold cuts and truffle butter in an offering of modest refreshments. Rising from the incense sticks in white rings, lavender fondled the air, but the truer scent was that of familiarity. The flair of her kind foretold the history of a race that had once governed the globe and pacified the venues to the beyond.

Lyrus was seated next to his affiliate Neria, the hourglass of a woman with hair and eyes like his, only longer and darker. His eyes, like gates of the sun, surveyed the room and found many familiar faces among the republicans. After verifying safety in the environment, which Kalia had already made sure of, proving his precaution once more, he spoke. “When he is not enlaced in the arms of his priestess, the King is mostly drinking.”

“I beg your pardon–” started Neria but was immediately interrupted.

“Fate means well with us,” said the philosopher.

“He won’t see it coming,” acknowledged their host Tholos. He was the High Mage of Xeldarion, one of the first who had lost his sovereignty. After Kalia had left the King, Tholos had been gracious enough to take her in so she could take care of the matters of the city states right under his nose. But she’d had an open ear for his ideas long before that.

She had been, after all, a member of Astaros’s inner circle. To them hunting tyrants was almost a sport. Still, Kalia knew the King of the Ancient Lands better than all of them. He was no tyrant. He was an Aurian. He could drink, fuck and rule an empire all at once when he was in the mood for it. He was not to be underestimated.

The rest of the mages, a foray of golden day and purple night, spread on couches and divans. Some of the high breed decided to listen with one ear while they searched the bookshelves full of rare lore, last survivors that had made it through the dark time, when people suffocated the world with the black smoke that came from burning scriptures of science and ken instead of inhaling their illuminating content.

Her study was too small, she acknowledged. Bookshelves, couches, and reading tables, Kalia had meticulously ordered, so that everyone could siphon wisdom from literature while sitting and enjoying themselves with drink and light pastries. Yet some mages chose to stand.

One-eyed Tholos was one of them, who erected himself opposite Kalia. She remained in her purple curule, crafted specifically for the Dame of the Realm. “We want it back, Kalia.”

“So do we,” confirmed Yelwana.

“That’s not how it works, Tholos,” replied Kalia and took notice of the general unease that increased in a people of poise and statesmanship. “Usually, it is upon the conqueror to stipulate the form of government, not the defeated.”

This was to no taste for the veteran with one iolite eye, but she had to speak the truth or else they were bound to wander blinded by dreams of the dead. And even though Tholos didn’t agree, Yelwana looked from her seat to the ground. The rest of the mages remained taciturn at her rebuke, which was appropriate as far as silent confirmations went.

“What has the heir of Idyllion to say to that?” Neria touched her superior and tutor with a sandaled foot.

Lyrus hemmed at his pupil–the only person in this room Kalia didn’t trust, as she did not know her–and watched the Dame of the Realm intently. “What about your cousin?”

A sting went through her. “My cousin is dead,” said Kalia.

“Then what about his legacy?” Now, Kosartes got involved as well. The philosopher and prodigy had arrived only last night from his trip to the southern tyrannies. He was among the most durable and prudent voices of the libertarians. If only he wouldn’t deem politics beneath himself, Kalia thought, he could make a great fortune. But luxury and wealth were also below him. “It is known that it was Astaros’s dream to unify the Ancient Lands into a republic. Wasn’t he the one who waged the civil war that our friends Tholos and Yelwana endured? Didn’t he give up on his princehood so he could father the human assembly? We should bestow all the honors his soul deserves by proving ourselves valuable suitors to freedom, a thing which can hardly blossom in a monarchy.”

“Well said, Kosartes!” Tholos and a few others clapped at the message. “And how are we to accomplish this act of supreme benevolence?”

“You all seem to have eluded one simple fact,” Kalia said, finishing a written account of the Praemarids’ finances–the mages that currently employed her. “That is, not merely to depose the King but also to restructure our government so that no man or woman will ever be a monarch again.”

“We will append the constitution,” said Tholos.

“Not good enough,” replied Kalia who had experience in this. How many city states had she tried to teach better after relieving them of their oppressors? The number of long-term successes was shockingly low. So arduously low. “Especially under the whim of the self-absorbed, paper is among the first things they rip, and ink may dry fast, but egotistical fire consumes it nonetheless.”

“If we run out of ink, blood will do the trick.”

The grumble that went through the crowd of ancient grace implied a general discord. Too many of their grace had died in the recent wars, and their population was exhausted. For whatever reason the birth rates had not replenished their numbers. Humans did well enough but the mages had gotten scarce in the Ancient Lands. The younger ones surely were in the mood to fight, but most feared that open fray would harm them too much and push them towards the irreversible abyss of extinction. Kalia needed to tie the loose ends together.

“Do you really think that, my gracious host?” she asked Tholos. “Why, are we then surrounded by such capable minds if we have to resume to such drastic measures? Do young men and women have to die all over again for something we could accomplish peacefully?”

“You sound like someone that has never seen a war.”

“Aye,” Kalia picked up, inclining her head to the Praemarid with the iolite, “that may be true and yet I ask: is this our last resort?” Tholos nodded his head gravely. “Thank you. Then we ought to try other options first.”

“That was also well spoken!” Kosartes complimented her and smiled.

“The King is old,” said the High Mage of the Valley of Arts. Yelwana put down the biography that Kalia immediately recognized as Kosartes’ Life of Praemarion and patted the cashmere fabric of her pink tagora. From a pale and swan-like neck, thin lips produced dulcet words. “We could simply wait.”

The philosopher and famous historian Kosartes, now, also rose to his feet. His black locks dangled with the agility of his movements and his black eyes lit with mindful agility. The only human among them, he was of no less stance according to the modern voices of the high breed. The days of segregation were over; it was the time of vicissitude and conglomeration. “I’m afraid, dear Yelwana, you will wait a long time. You don’t live in Doomsbane as I do. So let me tell you our great capital brims with the vigor of life just as our monarch rides on his best health. I don’t know how he does it, for I learned the days of centenarian mages are over, but I fear he must be the exception to that rule.”

“What of poison?” the pupil asked.

“You speak of that!” Kalia shouted at Neria and deliberated on how stupid she was. Yes, the crown would go to her most likely but there were other ways than regicide to end a kingdom. Especially, when said king was her last living family. “Moron, killing the King–any king won’t prevent the monarchy. The crown will merely go to the next in line and all royalists will feel like rightful martyrs, invigorating their rigid procedures. Besides, you know my relations with the King, and you had better understand that his death is out of the question!”

“You are right, and I apologize,” Neria, struck by the severity in Kalia’s voice and the calmness with which her tutor Lyrus had accepted them, inclined her head faithfully. “It was a brainstorm.”

“Storm your brain, woman, but keep my uncle from its disproportion.”

Before Neria could retaliate, Tholos pressed two sizzling fingers on his palm. “I say to the Deathhall with the monarchy. Our polis used to be free. We want parity back!”

“Be careful, friend,” said Kosartes, placating the tempers that reminded of the old adage purple eyes and purple faces, “when discussing parity. There is more than one kind of it and while I hope you are talking of its hopeful side let us all reject the one that debases.”

The mages frowned, grumbling in misunderstanding and fetching for answers.

It was his new work. Kalia had already had the chance to read it before it was published, and therefore heavily censored by the King’s cronies. So she knew the point Kosartes was aiming at.

She watched the philosopher with interest. His adult wrinkles were lifted into an expression of assistance. It was as if he was tossing the argument to her. Kalia caught it and delivered. “The parity that elevates,” she mused, “is the only way to build a sound and stable rule that withstands the foe from within and without. It raises the people, it grants them the superiority of action and co-decision while the equality of the degenerates forces superiors into oppression, turning everyone into a slave owned by slaves–the tyranny of the many some would call it.”

“What are you saying?”

Questioning glances, she answered them and displayed her plan thereafter. Mages, philosophers, and archons agreed. If only there were more of them, Kalia wished. More libertarians, more republicans, more… free folk.

Then a storm broke out and the ruler walked in.

The door burst open; a cavalcade of silver and black followed. Everyone leaped to their feet. Instantly, the High Mages were on guard, their magic sheathed but ready to express.

Soldiers–Paladins, wearing polished silver steel, bristle helmets and black cloaks in the hoplite style, moved in. It had been years since she had last seen them.

The King’s elite guard surrounded them in a semi-circle, but nobody charged their energies, for they all felt the person within the mantle of steel. The King shot forth like an arrow darting from their mighty shields.

A storm incarnate, like all Aurians, his magic was utter turmoil, rousing the field around him with electricity that caused small sparks in the air to hiss as they discharged themselves into the atmosphere. He protruded from the field as a master of the high art, a conjurer and conqueror.

King Aevar was what one would call a snow lion. An older male, untarnished from the years he had survived but embellished in experience and relentless study. Beneath a thick layer of cunning anyone who dared to pry farther found a ferocious animal. A beast of antiquity.

But the King was drunk, Kalia could tell. She smelled the wine on his lips as she had done the last time, when they had parted ways. She didn’t even need to check his tagora sleeves, which Aevar was in the habit of using to clean his lips after guzzling his black juice. Surely, they were wine infused as well.

“How is my niece and what would become of the commonwealth’s husbandry without the Dame of the Realm!” declared Aevar with a vicious smile. “Kalia! Long time it has been. Long, long time.”

“The capital is endangered?” she asked, jumping up.

“The capital is fine. Stupendous, actually.”

The furrow of her brow increased, despite her attempts to level her forehead. “Then why do you travel with a squad, armed to the teeth?” Any mage like Aevar needed not fear for a worthy foe. There were none left, for he had battled them all.

“The blades I bring are of metal, aye.” He scanned the mages in the room as if to impregnate his mind with their signatures. “But the ones you have aligned here are far more dangerous, I reckon.”

She remained taciturn and cursed her unwariness.

They arrived at their usual standstill rather quickly. Finally, her body returned under her guidance, and Kalia smoothened her skin. With a smile equally tenacious, she said, “I would receive you with all the honors your title deserves, Your Grace, but your immediate appearance must mean you are in a great hurry.”

Aevar Aurian, the King of the Ancient Lands was in a rebellious mood, it seemed. His teeth flashed–they had given up their pearly white long ago to the sweetness of neat wine–and he threw himself into his eudaimonia. “Nonsense!” He clapped once and the room shook. “The cosmic mage travels at his whim. He cannot at all times expect for his family to wait patiently with a banquet at their hand. Although I can see you are close to establishing one. So many faces… Now!” He snapped his fingers, and purple sparks lit the air, lifting the white mane beneath his dark aureole. “Come with me, dear.”

Kalia took a safe step back. “What about your Paladins?”

He looked around and spoke to the Victorian battle mage. “Lyrus, you here, too? He will open the portals, Niece. Now come. As you rightfully asserted, we’re in a hurry.”

The King felt her hesitation, so he settled his shoulders and relaxed, trying to put some calm into his voice. But his mood was like the tide. Once spurting then ebbing. Right now it decreased into impatience. “Ah, I remember. Still don’t like them, do you? I promise I will be gentle.”

She moved to him, but her nails wouldn’t move. They remained clenched in her fists.

“Kalia. This has been the extent of my patience.”

She abided by his order and felt the disruption not just disturb books, scrolls, and loose sheets but also how it reverberated in her entire system, a dithering clang as though the curtain of the void was ripped to pieces.

It was anything but gentle.