"The Prince of Frailty" by Panu Karjalainen

The glass of the window curved just so – not the window itself, no, it was missing the pane – but the frame, the glass frame of it, curved just so to catch the vile blue sun and the purplish rim of the sky, that it seemed to be made of amethysts cut in perfect circles. Denedd shook his hand in the air before his eyes, fancied that his fingers, his slim ebony and ivory fingers, were studded with those gemstones. Not rings, garish things of gold bands and stones forced into cages, but the stones itself, grown on his fingers. Denedd laughed at the thought. Who knew. It might come to pass. In the Glass-Rake's Garden, things came to pass as easily as they were shattered – and nothing shattered as easily as glass.

Someone across the room coughed; a harsh sound, coming from a throat badly treated by life. Denedd sighed, lifted himself from the divan, reached for his wine-glass and crushed it between his fingers. The sound merited something like that. An act for a sound. A sound for an act. The wine dripped between his fingers like blood that he never bled.

“Will my prince please pick up his sword and continue the duel?” the harsh voice asked. Denedd glanced at the speaker. Mison Mortan was keeping his head low, staring at the glistening chalcedony floor, yet Denedd sensed he was weary and impatient. The other man in the room, beside the servants, significant as drops of spilled wine, was cowering; he, the prince knew, would sooner have had the pause last longer. Denedd picked up his sword where it leaned on the divan. The blade was as yet without crack. His opponent had not managed to strike it.

“Very well. Let us finish this duel, dear – hmm, what was your name again?”

“Atal, my prince,” Mison Mortan supplied the name, the fellow himself clearly incapable of such a heroic feat as speech.

“Atal. And why, Atal, did you choose to challenge me to a duel in the first place? I seem to have forgot.”

Again Mison Mortan spoke in behalf of Atal. “Your prince forgets that the Rake moved over Master Atal's shrine and homestead four days ago, and that his entire livelihood along with his household god were destroyed?”

“Oh yes,” Denedd remarked, frowning. “That.”

Denedd had not intended his voice to sound particularly sarcastic, but something in it seemed to push this fellow Atal over the edge. He gathered his blubbering self from the floor and charged at Denedd, screaming – a sound so cruel, so sharp – and thrust his quivering sword at the prince's heart.

Denedd stepped aside, intending to let the man stumble past him as before. But Atal had improved his balance during the duel. He did not fall, but turned and cut, so fast and so furiously Denedd knew he had no time to avoid. Resigning, he let the sword connect.

With a hideous clang, Atal's sword struck his shoulder and base of the neck. Denedd winced at the sound. As Atal retreated, hands trembling from the impact of the sword on the prince's diamond-hard flesh, Denedd decided it was time to end this folly. Many hard and hurtful sounds had been inflicted already.

He came up to Atal in a few quick steps and raised his sword, edge to the cheek, tip pointing at Atal's face. The man lifted his sword to parry the stroke. Denedd had no intention to shatter his sword – delicate glass – on Atal's crude thing. He grabbed the man's sword, wrenched it aside. Denedd hovered over Atal for a space, looking for a good spot. Finding it, he buried the glass sword deep into the man's throat.

Denedd would have let his sword fall alongside the dead man, but a sudden sentiment made the prince clutch the leather-bound hilt. There was a loud crack. Atal's falling body snapped the frail sword-blade in two, Denedd unwilling to let go gaining the short end of the blade. It was one sound too much. The snap, crackle, shattering tinkle of glass... he dropped the ruined glass blade and clamped his hands over his ears.

“Someone!” he shrieked. He was terrified at the shrill cut of his own voice, but his lungs and chest pumped out the cries nevertheless. “Someone put a stop to these awful noises!” He fell on his knees, saw the swirling black-and-white of his flesh where his knees came out under his robe, and worst of all, heard the sickening slam of his knees on the luminous, bone-white floor. Heard the crack, the rending, wrecking, rupturing sound of the glass breaking apart, the perfect matrix disrupted, turning from clearness to an irregular cloud of light, void of coherence, void of lucidity, void of one single surface on which to see his face...

Mison Mortan's careful, comforting hands took him by the shoulders, gently shook him, gave him the will to rise up and allow himself be led out of the room of all these terrible sounds and into a room fresh with things unbroken. Denedd allowed himself be seated on a couch laid with the softest white fur, and allowed wine pale and yellow as diamonds to be poured for him.

“Careful, master.” Mison Mortan's rough voice droned near his ear. “You know how easily things break in the Glass-Rake's Garden. You should mind yourself.”

“Yes,” Denedd breathed, gulping the wine. “I should be careful. Oh, Mison, why is glass made so fragile? On another thought, don't answer. I couldn't bear such an answer right now.”

Mison Mortan withdrew respectfully. “Shall I leave, master?”

“No, stay.”

“As you will.”

Denedd emptied the goblet and laid it aside on the table, transparent in the bright globe-light. The table, with its three curving, serpentine feet looked like it might snap and shatter under the weight of the goblet and the crystal carafe; Denedd quickly turned his eyes away. Mison Mortan was standing by the tall window, the azure and lily sky framing his tall and unremarkable shape like flowers framing a grave.

“But don't speak, Mison. Stay, but don't speak.” Mison bowed deep. He was a good man, but his voice was sometimes... it was sometimes, like now, too much to bear.

Denedd got up and shed his robe, relishing for a moment its smooth slide over his slim shoulders, and left on only his slippers, so that his feet would not scrape against the floor. He strode to the oval windows, and gazed out over the spires and galleries of the Glass-Rake's Garden, all the way to where the spike-crusted walls marked the outer border of it, and wind blasted the pennons flying at spear-heads. Over those walls, the Garden was moving on, striding gently over the land, exerting its radiant influence.

Every time he looked out and thought of it, the prince was comforted. Out there, the Garden still did its work, corrected the land and made it more beautiful than any artist could have conceived. He was of a mind to take a trip outside, once again, and walk in the wake of the Glass-Rake, see the earth crystallized, sand in fine white and pink powder, grass all rigid stalks of light and purity, trees faceted, web-like, casting reflections within them that were plays of shadows and colours. And, occasionally, places and people like Atal, turned from their sordid existence to an eternal silent perfection.

What a fate, both glorious and ghastly, that Denedd should be the Prince of the Garden! Nothing existed that could be as beautiful as this, yet glass was so fragile, broken so easily – unlike his body, his strange, blessed body. Denedd lifted a hand in front of his face and examined once more the pattern of his flesh, black tailing into white, white swirling among black, in endless snake-like maze. Nothing could pierce him. Nothing could break him. Not swords and arrows, not fire or acid – not even hunger or sleep. Yet sometimes... on thinking of sleep... but what a better guardian than one which never slept. He laughed to himself at the thought; he made a fitting master for the Garden!

Then he fell silent. Tentatively, he laughed again. First, softly. Then he piped with laughter, fast as he could. Lastly he bellowed, a smooth, harmonious, yet clear and loud voice. His voice alone, ringing so finely in his ears, was the one voice of real worth in this house. He hummed to himself, experimenting with different tones and melodies, lulling himself in the sound of his own voice until he was perfectly at ease again.

Suddenly he got an idea. Facing the lofty room, with its light-globes far in the vaulted ceiling like guardian angels, Denedd pursed his lips. Tapestries thick and warm as living animals covered the walls, dyed in inconspicuous whites and pale blues and pinks; rugs were spread on the floor, soft and thick as waves on a mulling sea. He swept his arms around the room.

“Take off the tapestries and the carpets!” he announced. Mison Mortan obeyed immediately, and a train of servants trickled into the room and made the clothing of the room vanish quietly. The walls and floor laid bare, Denedd could feel his voice take on a delicious echo.

He lifted his voice in a calm, frivolous song, a song without any words, or words the meaning of which only he knew. Spell-words without magic in them, sorceries said aloud but left charmless. He listened to the sound of his singing slash off the walls, coldly, razor-blades of sound skipping off into the empty air. Carelessly he brushed his hand across the couch, his purple robe lying on it, across the transparent table, the goblet and carafe on it – hit them with his hand, haphazardly, and swept them to the floor.

Their crash jarred with his singing, the crash and jingle of tiny crystal fragments skipping on the polished surface of the floor, glimmering in the globe-light. Denedd clenched his teeth together at the interruption, clamped hands on his ears afresh, and slumped back on the couch. That did it. Again his peace of mind was askew.

“I wonder if there were some way to do away with these... these,” he said aloud, referring to the sounds of the shimmering glass still skimming along the floor. Mison Mortan eyed him curiously, but said nothing. Such a good man. Said not a word as instructed.

“Speak again, Mison.”

“As my prince likes.”

“As I was saying, do you think we could make the nasty sounds vanish altogether? And I don't mean the tapestries and carpets and the soft things, they're all well and good by themselves, but they blot out the beauty of the glass – and this is the Glass-Rake's Garden, and I'm its master, so that won't do, now will it?”

“Certainly, my prince, it won't.”

“So what do you think?”

Mison Mortan looked queer for a second, as if he did not know whether he should speak or remain silent. Given the quality of his voice Denedd would rather have him silent, but this time something was clearly on his mind. He urged his oldest servant on with an impatient gesture.

“In fact, my prince, I may have something... or rather, someone. I recently acquired the services of two, how shall I say... bodyguards.”

Denedd blinked at this. “Bodyguards? Do I need bodyguards to watch over me now? When this can not be done to me?” Saying that, he pulled a dagger from the folds of his robe and slammed it to his chest. The blade clinked off his flesh and raked harmlessly along his side, leaving not the smallest wound in its wake.

Mison Mortan pressed down his head. “I did not mean that way, my prince. I do not believe such fools as this Atal could harm my prince. But as my prince said, there are the sounds. And as my prince does not sleep, sounds bring nervousness. Perhaps I should not have said bodyguards, for indeed your body does not want guarding. Perhaps mindguards would be more apt a term.”

“Mindguards? I like the sound of that. Who are they?”

“As I said, I have already acquired their services. Shall I introduce them to you?”

Denedd sprang up. “Of course! Why didn't you tell me this sooner? Let's not waste time! Lead me to them!”

After a few quick words with a servant, Mison Mortan led the prince outside, under the arches set like a ribcage above the galleries, and down spiralling steps to one of the walled gardens open to the sky. Not a garden of plants, but of globular glass growths arranged in exact geometric forms and sparkling in the more obscure shades of blue and purple. There, attended by several sallow-skinned servants, stood two men in robes of creamy greenish hue, with fronts adorned in thick, swirling embroidery. They were of equal height and of similar body build, hoods up and heads pressed down, the lines of lips even and stolid.

They bowed low before Denedd, and he examined them with a degree of pleasure; the way they moved reminded him of rivers flowing unhurriedly by; they were easy on the eye and quiet in their manners – in a word, Denedd felt they would make excellent servants.

“What are their names?” he asked Mison Mortan.

“The one on the left is called Geno Deloi. He is brutish muscle, and thus, I fear, useless—“

“Who knows? He might serve well as a cup bearer.”

“—but the one on the right, Moraya by name, may prove useful with his skills.”

“Truly? Is he a sorcerer?”

“A musician, my prince. Expert in controlling sounds.”

“Is that so?”

Denedd leaned forward, gently rubbing his chin, and then addressed him. “Take off your hood, man.”

He did as instructed, dropped the greenish cloth from his face. Denedd smiled. His face was without any glaring faults – not as beautiful as his own, but agreeable – and his eyes were of a pleasing colour, shallow and weak green, the colour of faint-hearted passion. The hair was glossy and well taken care of, as dark as the man's face was pale. A lovely contrast.

“And you,” Denedd said, motion at the other, though less interestedly. He, too, obeyed quickly.

Once the hood dropped, Denedd was confronted by a baffling sight. He turned halfway to Mison Mortan, querying him with a look.

“They... they look the same, Mison! You didn't tell me they were copies of each other!”

“My prince exaggerates...”

Denedd gave them another look. “Well, it is true, the other has much sharper eyes. And an altogether unpleasant look that I don't like. Did he dye that hair of his golden?”

“I believe it is his natural colour.”

“How strange. Well, bring them inside! Have the other inhabit some room or other, I've no time for him. Mison, bring the musician into the upper chambers!”

The servants did as he ordered. In the top rooms of the Garden, where spired domes were cloven to reveal the blue-tinged amethyst sky, Denedd lay down on the curve of a half-moon divan. He had Moraya the musician placed across the room on a pedestal before a long, delicately vaulted gallery giving a view of the tall solemn tops of mountains far away and the remnants of stars beyond. The musician bowed deep and procured a flute from within his robes, and as Denedd gestured for him to begin, he spoke for the first time.

“Observe, my lord / how I will play / what music I will make.”

Denedd was delighted. The voice of the man itself was comparable to music, intonation moving up and down at perfect intervals, pitch low and sonorous. The man put the flute to his lips and blew the first note. It was bright but dull, faultless and foggy. The melody followed; it piped on in monotony, fluttered down the scale, never braving the heights, but kept in the softness and hum of shuffling wind and silk's quiet scraping. It was the music not of balls and parties but that which sounded in the sleeping chambers of the deathly tired; that which came to the drug user's sweet lulled brain; that which whispered of a world where breaking and tearing were weird and unheard of.

Denedd did not notice it at first. The music lulled his senses, brought him to a state that was fully awake but still numb and calm, as if his body had fallen asleep and his mind looked out of his eyes, conscious yet at peace. When Moraya the musician stopped briefly to take a breath and have a mouthful of water, Denedd remarked how noiseless was the clink of glass against marble. He fancied the melody of the flute had draped itself around the domed hall, permeating subtly the fabric of the stone and crystal, polishing their sharp edges, fading their cruel tones. He let his mind wander around in this dream-world of subdued sensations, and felt profound peace.

The sensations that crept up on him bordered on absurd. As his body was impervious to trauma, so it was impervious to strain – and sleep. However, what he felt during the music was a peculiar airiness, an alien other-state, like he was separate from his body. His will roamed in quiet ether, resting and regaining strength. Just when Denedd thought that this might resemble sleep, he snapped out of it, as if to wakefulness.

He looked around anxiously to see what it was that had woken him. He felt eerie. It was the first time he had rested, so it was the first time he had woken up. It was as if the world was freshly minted. His mind was blank, and his surroundings new.

Overtly everything seemed normal, but Denedd felt like he could in one step be on the other side of the room; he felt stronger and lighter than normally, somehow distant from his own body but nevertheless numbly comfortable. He tried laughing, and the laughter came out as a drizzle of silver bells, cascaded out and ran delightfully around the hall.

Moraya the musician stood at the far end of the hall, which was further away than he had remembered. Moraya was enveloped in a cloud of purple, which throbbed and ebbed to the tune of his flute's swaying, although no music was heard. Denedd took a step toward him and suddenly was there. The purple cloud was gone, but Denedd sensed it lingered around somewhere near. Moraya laid down his flute, lifted his sad, wet eyes and smiled.

“Did my lord / enjoy what he heard? / Liked / the humble tune?”

“You play quite well,” Denedd complimented him, smiling right through the man. He had a feeling that if he turned his head too fast, the palace would dissolve, so he let his eyes wander about on their own. “What else can you do?”

Moraya's smile turned mysterious. He blew a single note out of his flute, and the wall behind him shivered. He blew another, and gentle winds blew upward, melted the glass, and fashioned it into a serpentine stairway. Wisps of the purple haze swam in the surrounding milky whiteness. Denedd felt calm inside. Although everything was so strange, he felt peaceful, as if this strangeness was normal, a part of the ordinary world which he had simply not experienced before. He nodded toward the staircase, raising his eyebrows. Moraya beckoned him.

They walked the stairs. For some reason, Denedd could not tell whether they were going up or down, though he assumed they were going up. Not that it mattered. He was content watching smooth-sided, icicle-like pillars of smoky crystal rise from the thick, creamy white, and the wisps of violet drape themselves around them. Denedd was delighted to find out that his palace contained things beautiful like this. He was not in the least surprised, simply delighted.

At one point he noticed Moraya was no longer walking with him. This did not surprise him either. He kept walking by himself, and watched as his palace wallowed in protean shapes. Then, without announcing themselves, small shadows began to creep in the peaceful landscape. They swelled, like waves on a stormy sea, and finally rose to be massive, rising above all else. They crashed down, and everything was enveloped in darkness.

Denedd began to feel uncomfortable. The blackness erupted in sounds, harsh, ugly shrieks and jarring crashes, as if his palace was being felled everywhere. They were akin to the sounds of the sea, but with every beat of the waves, something fragile, breakable, shattered instead of water. Denedd began to feel afraid. The sounds harried him, pierced his ears and clawed at his mind. He tried to block the sounds with his hands. He shouted. He ran.

The staircase seemed narrower. He thought it went up and down wildly like a mad stallion. He ran and ran, mad with fear, the darkness clashing in his ears. He felt like screaming and giggling at the same time, but could not hear his own voice. There was just the narrow white line of the stairs and the terrible calamity, and he ran.

“Stop the noise, stop the noise!” he cried, or thought he did. His head was full of chaos and no one listened.

There was a glimpse of light ahead. Denedd blinked through the storm, and thought he saw Moraya. Crying, he stumbled toward him, and the stairs rose up like a cliff, so he fell on his hands and knees, clambered up like a crab, and all the while the terrible clamour mocked him on all sides.

Wind began to blow. It was not a breeze; it blew like across a sword's edge, sharp and wailing. Denedd thought he had come to the top of the stairs, and was standing somewhere on the roof of the Garden, but all he could see were indistinct shapes through the dark purple gloom. His bare feet slipped on wet stones, and the tempest battered his body.

Suddenly he saw the musician, Moraya. He was smiling, arms extended. He was smiling at Denedd. Denedd tried to reach him. He wanted peace. He had never wanted anything but peace. Why was glass so sharp and so beautiful – why would not glass sleep? Why could he not sleep? He tried to reach Moraya.

Their fingers touched. At that instant, the vision was distorted. The musician's sad, gentle features hardened, and the eyes took on the gleam of ice fields. The hair flared up in golden fire, coiling like enraged snakes. It was not Moraya. It was his peculiar duplicate, the one called Geno Deloi, and in his hands he had a huge hammer.

Geno swung the hammer. Denedd felt like laughing. His flesh was impervious. No sword, no hammer, no axe could cut it. His flesh did not sleep. The hammer connected with his chest. At that moment, frozen in darkness, Denedd saw Mison Mortan. He stood behind Geno, and his eyes were filled with tears. His smile was full of joy.

He felt nothing. The hammer went through him as if he were a flower of most delicate crystal glass. He felt nothing, yet he knew his body was shattered. He was at peace. He was at peace, because at that moment, the moment of impact, all sounds had ceased. There was no more jarring, no more crumbling, no crashing and clashing, no shrieking. He was at peace. He closed his eyes and slept.

*

The twins woke to a morning of spectacular stillness. The Glass-Rake's Garden sailed so high above the ground that no birds flew here, yet the whole palace was always on the move, gently humming to the rhythm of its own movement. Yet this morning, everything was absolutely quiet, unmoving.

The sky was paling from night to dawn. The mountaintops formed a soft, uneven line of blackness against a sheet of gold and lavender. Light sifted hesitantly through the layers of glass in their room, coming through the walls as pink, white, and amber. It was like the morning before a rebirth.

Mison Mortan stood in the doorway. Moraya watched him. Neither said anything. Moraya got up, making no noise, and dressed. They left the room together. Geno fell back on the vermilion sheets, brow slightly furrowed, and slipped to blissful unconsciousness.

They found the prince in his great hall, now wreathed in grave-like silence. Denedd lay on a couch, robe draped halfway over his legs, arms splayed, eyes closed. Moraya went to him, knelt, laid a slim hand on the prince's chest. Mison Mortan stood apart, arms crossed, expectant.

“Cold...” Moraya whispered.

Mison Mortan closed his eyes and sighed. His lips were trembling. No more was said. Moraya lifted the prince gently on his arms, making sure his head did not droop but nestled comfortably. Moraya left with a light, swaying gait. He walked out onto the balcony and vanished behind the mauve curtains.

Mison Mortan watched the morning approach. His old, wrinkled hands were clasped on his chest. His eyes were wet. The sun rose over the mountains without haste, and gilded everything in sight. Not a sound could be heard.