A Tumult of Thoughts

Peturabo did his best to keep his breathing at a level just sufficient to sustain his circulation. Even so, he could not slow his increasingly rapid heartbeat.

He gripped the cushion, the tiny raised threads of its embroidery digging into the gaps beneath his pale fingernails, as though he could not withstand a nonexistent trembling and swaying unless he held tightly to something.

He still had not seen Mors.

Peturabo placed his hands back on his lap and looked around distractedly, listening to the sounds all around him.

The sound of wind, the hum of countless voices, the tyrant's hushed conversation with his children, and the ever-growing crowd of spectators. The noise occupied his mind. Occasionally, he briefly closed his eyes to shut out his senses, but that only sharpened his hearing, leaving the clamor and scrutiny to clutch anxiously at every nerve in his body.

He knew he could not complain about the noise around him. This was what he had wanted. Though the number of onlookers far exceeded his expectations, it would benefit him in winning the esteem of the people of Lokos.

But he suddenly realized that he no longer held absolute confidence that he could make the people here like him.

"Peturabo?" A gentle male voice called his name by his ear. He immediately replied, "What is it, Andos?"

"I would like to ask, what is the theme of your work?" Andos said slowly, his tone exactly the same as it had been a month ago. The Prince tilted his head slightly toward the audience seats and added, "They are far away... I would not cheat deliberately."

"You will find out soon enough." Peturabo did not wish to say more. He folded his stiff hands together, only then realizing that both were trembling slightly from the cold.

Peturabo remembered every raised brow and thoughtful pause from his meeting with Andos that day. Even then, he had seen that Andos judged him in an unusual way. He could recall that face with its simple smile, all his hesitation, affirmation, admiration, and reflection, as well as the searching look in his eyes and the thoughts he concealed beyond them.

From Andos's deliberate avoidance of criticism, leaving only cautious praise, what Peturabo had gained was not the satisfaction of being commended, but an indescribable sense of stifled grievance and helpless anger.

That was why he had challenged him then and declared his decision. Even today, Peturabo did not regret that choice.

Andos did not mind his temper. It seemed as though nothing in the world could touch this Prince's bottom line.

He said, "If you are willing, I would like to tell you the theme of my work."

"What?"

"A statue of Goddess Hefoni. She symbolizes life and blessings," Andos said. There was a frightening calmness and sincerity in his ordinary face.

"You know I do not like religion, don't you?" Peturabo said uneasily. Instinctively raising his voice, he used an impatient refusal to cut short his own trembling emotions. Andos's goodwill was almost irritatingly unpleasant.

"Then forget the concept of a god. She symbolizes blessings. I have always thought that since you came to Lokos, we have never given you a gift. If you are willing to accept it..."

"I do not need it!" Peturabo turned sharply, overcome with emotion. Since when had he needed these people's offerings? Could the gifts of these people of Lokos, or the gazes of all the people lining these streets, make him any more outstanding?

His growth was his own responsibility, and his accomplishments would arise from himself.

Perhaps because the voice from his throat had been too loud, Calipha turned her gaze toward him.

Peturabo suddenly fell silent. When he realized that his face was reflected in Calipha's dew-bright eyes, the anger swirling through him like a vortex gradually subsided.

He clasped his hands and shifted his posture on the cushion.

The words he had carelessly spoken just now began circling through his mind again. He came up with a hundred reasons to regret them, a hundred ways he could have answered better.

Perhaps he should have adjusted his tone, restrained his emotions, and spoken with clear diction.

Perhaps he should have remained calm, thought things through, and presented his reasoning to those listening to him through a meticulous chain of logic.

Perhaps he could have done better, been more exceptional, displayed more fully the many excellent qualities he possessed, just as he had during the trial a month ago.

Only he himself knew that, back then, he had calculated several times in advance even what posture he would use to throw the forged blade into the raging fire.

He had won everyone's respect then, and Peturabo believed that Mors's had been among it.

He should not slacken today either.

His chaotic thoughts gradually drew together, leaving only a small gleaming flame—perhaps waiting for fuel, perhaps for wind and oxygen—to make him shine brightly once more.

He stretched his limbs, rolled his shoulders, straightened his spine with perfect posture, and turned his head to listen to the host in a pale yellow robe recite the many tedious opening words for the day.

As the host introduced him, countless eyes shifted toward him. He swallowed, and an illusion of searing heat passed through every muscle in his body. He could not make out what the people below were saying, and could only hope that they were offering the praise they ought to offer.

Only a few seconds later, Peturabo raised his chin, using his bearing to avoid meeting their eyes.

Amid the voices rising up around him, the several judges began their orderly evaluations in turn.

Peturabo heard praise of every kind, its wording so repetitive and its tone so uniform that it nearly chilled his heart. They were not praising the work itself, but his status.

He had thought he would be delighted to receive praise, but he was not. His heart trembled fiercely—not from anxiety. This time, it truly arose from the anger of being insulted.

Only by comparison did he realize how precious Andos's sincerity had been. What he had rejected mere dozens of minutes ago was now what he wanted to regain.

Then he finally saw Andos's statue.

Though the statue had been displayed beneath the daylight for quite some time, only now did he truly see it.

Its smooth brow, gently wavy hair, full figure, graceful form, silk robe, and layered skirt were all things within easy reach of any craftsman. Even if he included the statue's solemn, tranquil expression and the tenderness overflowing from its entire form in his assessment, Peturabo still dared say that Andos's statue was by no means superior to his own work.

Yet as he gazed at the statue, what he heard was the echo of Andos's words. His rich imagination allowed him to picture the craftsman himself as Andos carved it.

He saw someone filled with concern and contemplation, pouring his careful, focused thoughts into every mark he carved. That concentration looked at him through the statue's eyes, like a melody surging through his limbs, music trembling in blood intoxicated by it.

Within that understanding and witness, he felt himself constantly dissolving.

"What do you think?" Andos asked.

"Your skill is no worse than mine," Peturabo said. "And... no, it is nothing."

He stood. "I am going to put an end to this vile spectacle."

Because he had seen a blessing.

And those shameless people, wagging their tongues and playing their carefully arranged game of flattery, were insulting his work and the blessing offered to him—and thus maliciously insulting him as well.

For now, it was the only way to soothe the cramped, restless tumult of thoughts within his heart.