Chapter Fourteen
W ithin the damp, chilly cave, Gray sleeps as soundly as ever.
Yet, as the moon glows in the dark sea of night, my fingers twitch with the urge to read Casimir Vivaldri’s journal. I can’t explain it, exactly, but it’s like it calls to me. Though, I’ve heard Gray say different books call to him all the time, so I think little of it.
With stealthy precision, I pry myself from my bedroll and crawl over to where Gray’s satchel rests against the cave wall.
As quietly as possible, I unbuckle the strap and rummage for the pack of matches I know is buried inside.
Once I find them, I reach for the small wax candlestick tucked into a side pocket, then crawl back to my bedroll—fully aware that if anyone were here to see me, I’d be met with a pointed brow and a curious look.
I resituate myself, pull the journal from my pack, strike the match against the stone, and kiss the sparks to the wick, washing the cave in a warm glow.
I wince and glance at Gray, worried the sudden brightness will wake him.
Yet he remains sound asleep on his back, a hand resting against his chest while the other is bent at a strange angle near the top of his head.
A sigh of relief pours from my lips.
My eyes flick down to the centuries-old journal, and my thumb traces the worn leather. Having learned my lesson about opening this journal at random—and now committed to reading it in order—I crack the cover open and begin reading the first entry on the opening pages .
This journal was a gift from my father.
After my mother’s passing, he says that he believes it could help me channel and understand my feelings toward her untimely death.
I have a lot of thoughts, and I have plenty of feelings, but I do not believe either are capable of being fully articulated within the spines of a journal. I am not a poet after all.
Yet he has my interest piqued. There is something about recording life through the lens of paper and quill that appeals to me.
So, I’ve decided I will write. I will record all that is around me.
All that haunts me. Moves me. Burdens me.
All the things I love; all the things I fear.
I will write them, and so perhaps their words will live on in time, even though I will inevitably crumble to ash.
As the first and only son of King Isaphus, I am heir to the throne, and thus privy to much discussion.
The Rivara Kingdom has been newly founded, with the other two kingdoms beginning to take on their own system of politics, trade agreements, and order.
Yet already, I fear I am catching hints of discord, despite the Three King System being newly instituted to facilitate and broker peace in our lands.
It is for that reason, and that reason alone, I have suggested a yearly celebration where each kingdom takes turns hosting the other to commemorate what has come to pass.
“The Founding”, is what I’m calling it. A grand and lavish celebration where we honor and remember the union and institution of peace through a new accord.
For someday, our mortal lives will cycle through, and what has happened here on these lands will be forgotten.
My father is rather enamored with the idea.
He has already sent out communications to the other two kings.
He tells me that, should they agree, he will then send correspondence to all the remaining Houses and Great Houses.
Though, I hear the Anatolè Kingdom has done away with such a system under their new governances.
My father also plans to extend invitations to the Archbloods, who have seemingly all migrated to be within the borders of Erandor Kingdom.
Fascinating, the way bloodlines have had a hand in the divisions of power after the fall of the last king of Solaya.
Many would look down on my father. Before his rise to power, we were not nobility, nor were we anyone of importance.
My family, we were merely dedicated to the cause of the people, and we wanted prosperity to return to these lands.
Yet it remains, many seek to discredit our legitimacy to the Rivarian throne because of our “common” blood.
Though, I digress, and I fear I am boring even myself with these ramblings. Besides, I must depart to meet with Magaius and Sitara. As my best friends, they will pull me by the tips of my ears if I am late to meet with them.
Until I scribe these pages again,
Casimir.
I glide my fingers along the artistically scribbled name.
How was this journal ever neglected or lost? It feels like I just learned more from that one entry about the institution of the Three King System than I ever have in all my years of study.I had no idea Casimir and his father were the ones behind creating The Founding.
If my memory serves, the official records state that The Founding celebration was the result of a grand party thrown the very night the Accord of Three Kings was signed.
It brokered such synergy that, collectively, the first of the Three Kings declared it a yearly celebration, as important as an equinox or solstice.
Yet, Casimir claims the kingdoms were already plagued with discord, and that The Founding was his idea to diminish the turmoil. Seeing as his account was written in a personal journal, he has no reason to lie…
Still, to reconcile what you’ve always thought to be true as a sudden falsehood is not an easy task. And I can’t help but wonder…
If the records are wrong about something as monumental as the institution of The Founding, what else are they wrong about?
I blow out a loud sigh and glance at Gray as a tinge of guilt taps at my heart.
Gray loves history more than anyone I know, and I am certain he would be giddy at the chance to read this journal.
Yet I have this feeling scratching at me.
A feeling that tells me I shouldn’t tell him or anyone about the journal.
Not yet, at least.
As I blow out the flame from the candle’s wick, I wonder if that gnawing feeling is right or wrong.