The Last Letter of a Royal Seer, Luke Puffer

The Last Letter of a Royal Seer

Luke Puffer

I pen this manuscript currently to anyone whom it may concern, whether that be my gracious Emperor and friend, Leopold, or any of his attendants thereafter following my death. For I am certain I will die today, possibly within this very hour. How ftting it would be, after nine years have passed (one for each of the Muses) since the regretfully necessary execution of my illegitimate son. Leopold, if you read this, I mean not to question your decision those years ago. You have honored your promise to my family in all else: you have provided for me a life of food and rest, and in exchange I have served you faithfully. I could never expect you to extend that oath to my bastard son, and yet I risked his birth anyway. The law is clear, as was your decision: no two Seers can coexist within the court. At the time I was distraught, but in hindsight I am grateful you acted with such haste and discretion. Surely my pain would have been much worse had I the chance to know him in any meaningful way before he was taken. No, quite best you made him vanish when you did, so shortly after his birth. In all truth, Leopold, I forgave you for taking him from me years ago, and, have you any doubts now, let them be soothed. Even still, I forgive you. But I write this because presently a new vision seems to have locked me in its grips. A parting jest of the Fates, perhaps. My sight blurs between the dullness of this mortuary and the vibrant opulence of my youth. And so I write, scribbling this chicken scratch while my senses take me elsewhere:

A boy lies awake, staring up at the moonlight that pierces the roof of his shack in beams. He strains his head at the faint sound of approaching footsteps outside, then rises quietly from his bed. The beams of moonlight cast ghostly shadows on his face as he dresses himself. A loud knock comes suddenly, startling the boy despite his anticipation. He unlatches the door. The muted glow of an ink-lamp spills into the shack, and a man shrouded in a deep-blue cloak steps inside. He latches the door behind him, then looks to the boy. “It has come to pass.” “Already?” the boy asks, his voice shaky with emotion. “No, not quite. But soon. Surely soon.” The boy takes a breath, then grabs his own cloak, tattered and gray, from a hook beside the door and wraps it around himself. “Then I must go.” “You cannot,” says the man with the lantern. “It is forbidden.” The boy walks past him and unlatches the door. “Many things are

forbidden,” he says, then scampers off into the night. The boy descends the hillside toward the Palace on an unlit path. His steps are quick, yet careful. Practiced, perhaps. He skids his way through the inner city in no time and slinks around to the rear of the Palace. Here the Palace gardens glow softly in the night. So much beauty to behold. The boy, however, beholds none of it. He hurries past on quiet toes and ducks through a foxhole in the wall, emerging in the kitchen. Pots clang and pans sizzle as servants busy themselves with preparing next morning’s meal. The cloaked intruder is scarcely noticed as he passes through. From there, the boy’s pace slows despite his apparent hurry. He walks cautiously, rounds corners slowly, and picks his doors deliberately. Surely the guards should spot him at some point, yet none do. Each time he manages to barely avoid their watchful gaze. Finally, the boy arrives at the royal tower, it’s extravagant double doors adorned with lions roaring and jewels aplenty. This is the tower where Leopold, my Emperor, resides, along with his royal cabinet and myself. Even as this vision holds me, a chill goes down my spine. I fear a plot. Assassination. To my attendants reading this as I write: warn the Emperor. I know not if this happens presently, but I cannot risk prying myself free of the muses’ cold hands just yet. The effort may very well kill me. For now I can write. That is enough. The boy peers around the corner at the Lion-doors lit by fickering torchlight. Four guards stand before them, two on each side, each armed with a halberd the size of a man. The boy takes a deep breath, then sheds his cloak, draping it across his shoulder, and strides out from behind his cover. The guards’ postures stiffen when they spot him, but he raises a hand to soothe them. “Good evening, gentlemen,” he says nervously. And as he steps forward, his foot catches on the rug. It is the frst clumsy step he has taken all night. He nearly trips, but rights himself awkwardly and continues forward on the now-askew carpet. “Who are you, boy?” one guard asks. “A messenger,” says the boy, coming closer. “I know of no royal messengers who wear overalls,” another guard says, and takes a torch from the wall to hold toward the boy. The torchlight illuminates the boy fully, revealing strangely familiar features and mop of blond hair. He shies away from the light. “Come now,” says the frst guard, “How did you get in here, farm boy?” He leans his halberd against the door and approaches the boy. He lifts a gauntleted hand. The boy reacts too fast. He throws his cloak from his shoulder, blinding the guard before he can grab ahold of him. “Hey!” shouts another, who rushes forward, but trips over a fold in

the slanted rug and clangs to the foor. Perhaps that step was planned after all. The boy scampers between the two remaining halberds and shoves through the Lion-crested doors. He is light on his feet--easily faster than armored guards. Again he takes turns deliberately, never lost nor looking to be. He ascends the great stone steps like a dancer, spiraling upward, but his confdence falters when he hears shouting from above. He should have no reason to continue. Someone alerted the Emperor’s guard. His plot is foiled. Surely if the boy is smart enough to get here, he is smart enough to know that. But, however senseless it may seem, the boy continues on. He turns off of the staircase and rushes into the royal attendants’ quarters. A wrong turn. He will fnd no Emperor there. Maids and manservants awaken with shrill screams. Armored footsteps echo down the corridor behind like the clanging of symbols. The boy’s confdence seems to have vanished, only a sheer desperation in its place to drive him forward. “Please,” he mutters under his breath as he runs. “May I not be too late.” Finally he bursts into the last room. And tears begin to fow down his cheeks. At the center of the room lies an old man, wrapped in blue and gold, his eyes closed and his hand scribbling furiously on a pad of paper. A ring of scribes and nurses attend to him. They all turn to the boy in fear. My own heart skips a beat. “Is- is he still alive?” the boy stammers. The armored footsteps get closer. One of the nurses nods tentatively. “He is Seeing,” she says. The boy approaches the bed, and the nurses and scribes allow it, muttering to one another of how similar the boy looks to me. The boy asks, “What is he Seeing?” You! I am Seeing you! I try so hard to speak up--to shake myself free of this vision--but I cannot. When I try my vision blurs to spots, and my heart turns to ice. I can still write, a skill learned through a lifetime of practice, but that is all. The clanging in the hallway grows. The boy reaches forward and grasps my still hand, nearly spilling my

ink.

Just READ the paper! I am seeing you! My son! Tears run hot down my cheeks and drip onto the page. “Please,” the boy begs, “wake up.” But I cannot. Suddenly, a dozen of the Emperor’s own burst into the room, each

well armored and armed. One seizes my son by the pits and drags him backward.

“Please!” he cries, the sound escaping his throat like the feral screech of a dying animal. “Please, I just want to speak to him!” I try so hard to speak, but again my vision blurs. Tears are streaming down his face. He strains against the guards and again lets out a feral cry. So I push myself. Beyond every boundary I thought I had. And my vision goes dark. “Wait,” I hear myself speak, a voice echoey, disembodied, and drifting in the void. I see nothing, and I feel only the cold. Perhaps this is the space between life and death. There are faint noises in the swirling nothing. Boots. Crying. Then a voice cuts through the noise, “Unhand the boy!” and everything else goes quiet. My Emperor. “Let him go to his father,” Leopold says. I hear frantic footsteps, then the touch of a warm hand on my face. “Father!” the boy says, and again grasps my free hand. “My son!” I say, although I feel the words do not leave my lips. They travel instead by some pathway unknown to me, and they too drift out into the void. Like a thread unraveling. I feel someone grasping at it, until fnally“Father!” he says to me, not with his mouth, but along that thread of my soul. “Please, stay with me.” Even in spirit, his voice wobbles with emotion. “Were that I could,” I say, “but the Fates prepare to snip the line.” “I’m scared.” I know. I am too. “But you needn’t fear,” I say instead. I feel the pen begin to slip from my fngers. My vision clears for a single moment, and I see my son staring down at me, tears flling his strong eyes to the brim. “What a fne man you’ve grown up to be,” I speak aloud. My chest throbs. My thread runs out. And I drop

the

pen