The Tenth of Tal, Sixteen Seventy-Four.
To be in isolation, is a dreary prospect. Veiled in one’s own thoughts you tend to get lost and days may pass in moments and on the next they become a never ending span of decades. Such horrific silence can drive one to desperation and that is where I find myself today my scalp itching and mouth tasting dreadful, I would give away land and title for a bath.
Draped on the bed a vial of clear blue liquid in my hand, it is poison, and what is in the common view is that each death by such fluid is unique. Now that is an old fishwives’ tale, a physician would say that there is only seventeen different ways to expire from this poison and that there is no antidote.
One would ask how a scion of a noble house and a child at that, would find themselves in possession of such a vicious substance. I like to think of it as a form of insurance. A child of Venus may not own land, they may be a tenant but never a land owner, and that puts a child of the starry heavens in an awkward position. Those laws are for the common man, the laws of nobility, gentry, are vast and sadly do not encompass beings such as I. One could argue that I will not rule, that a wedded consort would rule in my stead. If my uncle, the Lord Regent, were a lesser man I would think he plans to wed me, his brothers child. I hold the poison, the venom of a rare spider of the south, only to ensure that if he does plan that, that I shall not be his for long.
Tales speak of the spiders from their southern forest, each tree in this forest hundreds of feet tall and the spiders are the size of lap dogs. The story is told that these great trees were once men born of the star strewn heavens, beings the size of mountains. From the few paintings I’ve seen I’m inclined to agree with the legends, these trees pierce the sky. The earth knew only the cool embrace of the night until one day a burning god-thing came to the sky bringing light and heat. The blessed called out to their progenitors for protection and the fiery god was enrages at their insult.
He cast the Starry Heavens far away from the land making them small pinpricks of light. He cursed the children to only live in his light and horror etched on their faces they became the trees. Man was created for clay moistened from the deep oceans and baked in his glorious light. He blew breath and life into them. The Shining Lord, Life and Light, The Cleansing Fire; All of these and more are his names. So he said; I give to you my children the true inheritors: The Land, Sea, and Sky, to rule; Animals and Plants to eat; And the Children of The Cold Distant Heavens. The priest go on about how The Children are to serve man. They fear us. The Sons of Mars were hunted to extinction but a Son of Great Mars now sits on the throne. Maybe the Heavens aren’t so distant.
I believe he has me sequestered away for nefarious reasons, on the second day of my incarceration, the roaring sound of a herd of motorcars. Their infernal racket roused me from my fitful sleep, I have long since ran out of entertainment, I broke my knitting needle and dropped seven stitches on the lace work I was doing for Margret, that was after I hit yet another wall with Fathers cipher. I don’t know if I can last another day and a half alone. I believe dear uncle is trying to arrange a marriage explaining away the sound of supposed suitors. He must act quickly the stars are returning to their places from when I was born, it is close at hand and I will be of age and able to decide and speak for myself. I will have no use for a Lord Regent anymore.
If it wouldn’t risk his ire and drive away any potential suitors I would climb over the railing of my balcony and onto the one beside. Spirited away to the servants’ hall just for an hour or two would be a welcome relief, just to see people. While I can see the grounds and the grounds keepers from my windows it is far from sufficient. If I could just sneak into Father’s study for a few moments I know the key to the cipher is there sequestered among his papers and books, it has to be.
These days are the days that I miss Margret best. Even if he commanded me to my rooms she was my companion and would always join me. I miss laying by the fire and listening to her read the latest penny book. Torture is preferable to this.
Bend and Break, Twist and Change. The Vessel Is Never The Same.