Keeping the Fire: The Empty Alcove

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When they called Polena before the king it was alone and under heavy guard. She gave her explanation, carefully, and with poise, to the king and five men and women that sat with him, none of whom bore any clear sign of rank. One she knew to be Iven even through the hooded tunic he wore. Across from the speaking dais, in the seats to West of the King's seat, was an stand where she had expected to see the Djaught Mehethe. The whole of the council had been called off and no participants or on lookers were aloud besides the king, about fifty guards, and the five sages that were there to examine her. And they asked difficult and wise questions, the Librarian Iven most of all, but she had prepared for these things. All that she had feared had been the presence of a crowd, the provocative questions of the ignorant, and perhaps most of all, the stalwart and contempt filled gaze of that Djaught. Indeed, this sort of rhetorical practice was as familiar to her as sleep. She was given no word by the king after the five had been satisfied, only a simple wave to make her leave.

She should have been confident, calm, and pleased at how well things had gone. She could not be. As she entered the Way of the Honored Ancestors she stopped by the empty alcove. The heavy guard by her stopped as well, their armor clanking at first, then rattling with the uncertainty as they shifted their weight. Two days ago Coralm had been shot not ten paces from this alcove. Yesterday he had said the first words since the attack “Water,” then, “take it along the Flowered Step.” the babble that she knew often came from those near to death. Today Coralm had been silent, his breath slow and ragged. The fever had not left him. Thinking of this man, one she knew so little but fear so much to lose a poem of Grandmother Behigha came to her mind. A line from the fourth stanza of the cryptically titled Poem of the Lighthouse.

Gone like the fat berry, snapped up and eaten. 

Gone like the lovers dance, the song at its end. 

Gone like the endless night, forever till spent. 

Sewn like scattered seed. 

She stared long at the empty alcove until one of the Knights bade her to leave. They were worried to have her stand here, though so many now stood around her that an army would be unable to harm Polena. Yet, it was out of shame that the guard was now so heavy. The damage was already done. She left the alcove, the last of them, set to remain forever empty and felt as if it mirrored her own heart that day.

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