Chapter Five
"Syriana!
Beauteous land of forests,
waterfalls, lakes, rivers, mountains—it is the capital of our land,
and deserves a special place in our hearts.
Nothing could sever our ties with our homeland,
as no one could cut the apron-strings from our dear mother—Syriana.
It is the example we look to when we think of perfection,
yet it cannot be replicated.
And we adore it that way.
As lovely …"
--The Pasegean Scrolls
A tall, green eyed girl of sixteen stood at her small balcony, her sheet of golden hair fluttering in the autumn breeze. The drop was far, but she was trying to will herself to jump it. As the previous times, she could not bring herself to free fall into the crocodile infested moat—or the rock-hard, drought-ridden ground.
Towering over the rest of the town, Princess Alena’s sandstone prison left much to be desired. The turret in which she had lived for over two months now was decidedly worse for wear. The smell was horrible, as her last bath had been over two-and-a-half weeks before. Luckily, the guards outside let her out for toilet breaks. Otherwise she’d really have been in trouble.
And now the big day had finally arrived. Chunia would triumph over her people, and kill her father, King Isiona of Syriana. Her death would success this, but not for twelve days. The festival of Elanora would soon be occurring, and it was sinful to commit an act of sacrifice during her birthday. At least, a human sacrifice.
However, Alena had other plans. Uncemented as they were, she had a fair idea that no townspeople would be watching her swift demise twelve days hence. By then, the acceptance of a new dynasty would have pacified their former rages.
Midday was not far away. The sun was high, the sky cornflower blue. "A doomsday for the empire, yet many care not. Or know not. Either way, it does not effect them and this overthrow of rulership, piteous as it may be, it is still an overthrow."
Sighing, she rested her pale cheek upon her princess hand—soft and smooth, untouched by the hardships of a farming life. And she would die like that—if Chunia had her way. "She shall not!" Alena cried out to the sparrow-finches that frequented the sill below her. "I shall rule, like my forefather’s and …" pausing to compose her emotions, then whispering softly; "my mother."
Wiping away the lone tear which streaked her delicately made face, Alena stared out into Thurbush Forest. A movement had alerted her eyes to a camouflaged army tent that was being erected. "The Tusheban emblem! But why would they be here? Reinforcements for Chunia and her men? No! Tusheba has more quarrels with Chail from all the power struggles in the past years. So why?"
Pondering the answer, she realised that it was now high-noon. The sun shone in her face, and she shielded it with a veil from her dressing table.
Alena leant over the balcony, nearly falling off this time and laughing at the fact that she had wanted jump so much only a short while earlier, and now she was avoiding the prospect.
The guards were only just setting up the area for the execution. Alena spotted the blade which would disembowel her father forever … he who had given her life would die for his people, and his land. It was serrated, a highly unusual factor, but the Chailan empire always had been barbaric. It was just a part of their life—and history.
The rope was attached to the blade, and to the wooden platform. She watched, fixated with the object that would destroy the only love she had left in the world. It fascinated her, yet repulsed her all at once. The frame was constructed before her very eyes, and the bell was rung. Isiona’s number was up.
Her father, ever dignified and calm in his manner, was a sight of misery. His shirt was torn with the whippings he had received, several of them re-opened and bleeding. His hair was in dreadlocks, matted and weaved with foliage.
His face was defiant, until the point when they began to strap him to the haphazard wooden bench. He begged them like a madman, crazy with fear that his life would end within the hour.
The rope was cut, and the blade began to swing. Alena watched the serrated pendulum swing past her father, lower and lower, each oscillation making his insanity worse. He cried out to the guards, to Chunia, to the gods. Then, looking towards the castle, he saw his daughter.
"You!" he cried madly, "you have killed me. Watching me here, that sereneness over your face hiding your pleasure in this act of hatred. Why don’t you help me, daughter? Did I ever hurt you, sweet child? You were always my pretty one … my Allie. Now you forsake me with your look as well as your actions. You are traitorous, and I," he screamed as the blade swung up for the second-last time, "No longer call you my own! MURDERER!"
Alena only heard his last utterance, for she turned away as the sharp edged metal cut into her father’s neck. There was a gurgle, and a howl from the crowd.
The King … was dead.
Later, after her weeping had subsided, Alena returned to the alcove-like balcony. She knew that Chunia would call her to the dungeons soon, but she still had at least one day to appreciate the beauty of her homeland.
Again she wondered about the Tusheban tent. It was concealed by the dark cloak of night, and it was strange to her that it had not been mentioned by any of the door guards.
A rustle was heard. Suspiciously Alena turned her head downwards, to the edge of the forest near the moat. A piece of cloth was caught on a tree branch, which Alena could only just make out. She was thankful for her marvellous eyesight, and focussed her attention now on the tree holding the fabric up. No more movements occurred. "Am I going mad?" Alena thought wildly.
Another murmur in the bushes showed her that whatever it was couldn’t be fake. In a low whisper she called out to the retreating shadow in the trees, "hello?"
The person walked quicker, starting into a jog. Alena tried again. "Stay. Please?"
No answer. Running now, he was getting out of earshot. Her voice became urgent as she said: "Help me … whoever you are."
The noises stopped. Then they returned, louder and louder as the man re-entered the small clearing. He stopped in a shadowed part, away from the moonlight. He paused for but a second, then entreated her, "the real question would have to be: who are you?"
Alena was stunned. This caused her to be slow in responding, and the man became impatient. She slowly formed the words, excited to be talking with another human being—not just a soldier from Chail who only told her ‘Quiet in there, evil girl’. "I am the lady of this castle" —hearing a gasp and a turn to leave— "Princess Alena of Syriana."
Spinning back around, the man spoke uncertainly. "What did you say?" Alena repeated herself, and heard a small exclamation of joy.
Alena could not stand any more suspense, so she asked the man, more patiently than his question, "tell me your name, for you speak not like one from these parts. Yet you are not Tusheban or otherwise. Whence came you here, and why?"
"Alentio," spoke he, after a pause, "and my namesake would be Caverton. Jareth Caverton. I am here to serve you, my liege."
Alena laughed, then chastised herself for being so stupid. What if the outside guard heard? Then she’d really be gone. But this was the first actual comment (not insult, mind you) that had been spoken with any form of awe for quite a while.
She spoke more with him, of trivial things, and when asking what was his purpose there, she learnt of his quest. Overjoyed with the good luck bestowed to her that night, she asked the man to free her from Chunia’s evil clutches. Jareth told her that he would converse with his friends on the matter, and they talked until the peachy-grey colours of the pre-dawn were upon them. He bade her farewell, and promised her to tell her of the outcome the next night.
Alena waved reluctantly as he disappeared into the undergrowth of the wood, and settled down to another boring day of captive life.
"I tell you, she’s the princess! How can you just ignore that and leave her to die?!"
Jareth’s pleas seemed to be getting the argument nowhere. Conner decided to end it once and for all. "Look, Jareth," he said slowly, "we know that she might be important to you—but it just isn’t worth it. What if she turns out as an imposter … or maybe she’s sold out to the enemy? Do you really want the lives of two-hundred men on your conscience?"
Catrin spoke up quickly, agreeing with Conner’s statement in all it entirety. Jareth grimaced, then sighed. "Look, I know it sounds bogus, but does that really matter when a monarch’s life is at risk? I mean—"
"Yeah!" Lokath’s voice interrupted Jareth, and Syrah shushed him. Jareth grinned at them, not minding much at all. Conner whispered something in Catrin’s ear, and she giggled. With fire in his ocean-blue eyes, Jareth stormed from the makeshift headquarters.
Syrah gave Conner a look of disdain, and, with Lokath, followed Jareth from the room. "He’s right, you know," said she to Lokath, "this woman is important, and should be saved. Why won’t Conner listen?"
They sat on a small boulder on the outskirts of the camp, pondering the words.
A wise look overclouded Lokath’s normally joking face, maturing before Syrah’s eyes. He brushed his ebony-coloured hair from his eyes, and spoke seriously. "He wishes to claim Catrin’s heart. He sees Jareth as a threat—which he is, in a way. Yet Catrin feels friendly with Conner but he wants more. You cannot have more in such a situation. There is love, or there is not love. You cannot earn love just through kind deeds and actions. Fools love too, and more strongly thus."
Syrah stared at Lokath for a long time, and he was silent. She stood, and knelt beside him, bewitched with his insightful words. His head faced downwards, towards the dry, cracked ground. Her hand found its way to his jawbone, and stayed there. She pulled his face close to hers and their lips touched. Lokath responded for but a moment, then pulled away quickly.
He looked at her, understanding in his chestnut brown eyes, and ran away into the trees. Syrah watched him go, then sat again, wondering at his actions—and why she had felt such a close connection with his heart for an instant. She sat there till night fell, and saw only Jareth pass her by. Lokath did not come back that night.
Alena impatiently paced her small tower room, wondering at Jareth and his strange ways—especially his lateness! "Where can he be? Danchi is high, and I fear Chunia plots my demise as I think! But calm yourself, Alena—your saviour will come."
As the minutes passed by, she lay on her bed and thought of him. He was indeed a strange man, to make such appointments then ignore his entrance time as such! But she could not think badly of him at this time … and she knew not why.
A splash came from the moat below—the signal! Alena rushed to the balcony, and flung open the glass doors to greet the night—and Jareth.
"Hello … Jareth, are you here?" Alena spoke softly, and his pricked up at her gentle overtones.
"Yes, my—," he paused, thinking of what he had nearly spoken to this woman he barely knew. "Yes, Alena … it is I."
"Do you have news of my escape?"
He hated to disappoint her then, but he had no chance to. A banging was heard from within the castle—from Alena’s bedroom door! Three guards came in, muttering about how badly their lives had turned out, and noticed Alena on the balcony. "Hey! I thought the mistress told you to stay in room. Now you go—to dungeons!"
They laughed at nothing in particular, insipid as they were, they had no idea of what the spoke of. Alena was grasped at the wrists, and cried out in pain as they twisted it behind her back. "Why are you taking me?"
"You are to be executed on the stroke of midnight—two hours hence. At least your death shall be more merciful than the king’s!"
Alena gasped. She stared down at the forest floor, checking for any sign of her only friend in the world. He was gone. "Now I have no one … and tonight I shall breathe my last!"
They roughly escorted her to the dungeons where she was dressed in purple silk as a sign of her ‘royalty’. She watched as they began to construct another bench, much less elaborate than her father’s had been, but still, it symbolised her last moment on earth, and the creeping realisation that she would no longer be alive on the morrow.
Pushing branches away from him as he stumbled through the woods, he thought about his options. Should he put himself in danger just to save a random girl? "I cannot let her die!"
But who could help him save her? "Lokath!" He had spotted him nearby the waterfall on his way to the castle, but had left him be. One, he was in a hurry; two, Lokath had looked like he wanted to be left alone. But whatever he wanted right now was not the issue. Jareth headed for the waterfall.
It took Jareth ample time to find Lokath, having lost his bearings due to the original mad dash away from Castle Syriana, but convincing Lokath of the importance of the mission lasted seconds.
"Now, for a plan," Lokath had muttered afterwards. That was also time-consuming, but soon it was devised and set. Alena would soon be safe … Jareth hoped.
"Five minutes to midnight!" It was announced, and Chunia’s face smirked at Alena’s trembling face. Many Chailan nobles stood around, enjoying her fear, and the possibility of watching an execution. "Barbarians!" thought Alena as she stood in front of them, mere puppets under Chunia’s evil rule.
"Four minutes to midnight!" Again the page cried, his voice lustrous as it called out to the entire town of Alena’s soon-to-be death. The smirk changed to a look of scorn as the waiter brought the wrong dish to Chunia’s banquet table.
"Three minutes to midnight!" The call rang throughout the city, and throughout the land as Alena stood, knees shaking, hoping for clemency but knowing that it would be impossible to reason with the emperoress who sat at the head of the feasting table, where once Isiona had sat.
"Two minutes to midnight!" Alena was lead to the block, where she was pushed to the ground and her neck placed there, on its right side. Dried bloodstains covered it, as well as many incisions on the surface made by the axe, some deep inside the oak.
"One minute to midnight!" And all hell broke loose. A horse came through the open gates, as all guards were busy awaiting the death of the princess. A beautiful gelding it was, and a black-cloaked person was perched atop it.
Chunia stood, wrath shown in her face with a hatred in her eyes that made her black face go slightly purple at the entrance of this horseman. Distracted for but a moment, she fixated her eyes on the cloaked figure, muttering words to herself.
Alena realised what she was doing and yelled to the man, "She’s a mage! Get out of her way!" This angered the sovereign queen and returned the attention to Alena’s rising figure.
"GET HER!" Chunia screamed as the axeman watched the horse hit several attacking guards with its heavily shielded front. He swung at Alena, missing her by inches but that was close enough for her. Another horse, a stallion, came through the portcullis, and more guards appeared to shut it. The gelding went to stop the advancing wards from closing the gate whilst the stallion rode straight alongside the small ‘stage’ area.
"Jump on!" cried her masked rescuer, and her near-murderer took another swipe with his sharpened axe. It grazed her saviours arm, and he cried out in pain. Alena swung herself up onto the horse, and knocked the cloak away from Jareth’s tall figure. "Away, Chester!" he yelled at the horse and the princess finally realised who it was.
"Jareth?" spoke she, underneath her breath, daring it not to be true. In the shadows, she saw him not and the horse galloped out of the ruined city. As they went, the sound of twelve rings echoed in her ears so to remind her of how close she had come to death—and how truly lucky she was to have defied it.
Chunia also stared after the departing trio, atop their horses, galloping into the dawn light. She overturned the banquet table and stomped away to her room—scared by the face she had beheld that night, for it was the true threat to her empire.
Copyright 2000 M. Lees
