Nights in the Gardens of the King Ch 1
I
Victor stood in the deserted hallway, his empty, blue eyes darting back and forth across the floor. The golden doors next to him creaked open and a servant leaned his head out to address him. “The Emperor will see you now,” the servant said, opening the door all the way and gesturing with a great sweep of his arm. Victor glanced at him, smiling a little as he walked in. The servant left, and Victor flinched as the door clanged shut behind him, leaving him in darkness.
The Emperor, Korsakov, appeared as a shadow before him, gliding across the room. He opened the curtains to the terrace, flooding the room with the light of the morning sun.
“It has come to my attention that you are falling behind in your studies,” Korsakov began.
“Father...I,” Victor said, staring at the floor.
“What in the world could have distracted you from that which is most important? Your failure in your studies not only reflects badly on me, but on your country. If you really are to be Emperor someday, I’m glad I will not live to see it,” the Emperor turned away from him, crossing his arms and stared out the window for a while. Victor clenched his fists and let his eyes wander to the shadows in order to avoid looking at his father.
“Come here,” Korsakov said. Victor ignored him. “I said, come here!” he roared, whirling around to see Victor standing in the same place, staring at the wall. With a few massive strides, he crossed the room and grabbed Victor by the arm, pulling him over to the French doors hard enough that Victor thought he would dislocate his shoulder. “Look!” he commanded, pointing outside. “Someday, this Empire will be yours. Do you want it to wither and die under your inept leadership? A leader must be focused. Cunning. Strong. Cold and calculating. There is no room for compassion in a great Empire. You must be prepared to do anything for the preservation of the Empire-even kill your own brethren.”
“Have you--is that what happened to my mother?” Victor asked, softly.
“No!” Korsakov snapped. Then he lowered his voice, “I have only done what is necessary.”
“Yes Father,” Victor turned his attention outside. A dove landed on the terrace, searching for seeds between the stones. Korsakov glared at it, slamming the door open and grabbing the helpless bird with his mighty paw. “What are you doing?” Victor , trying to grab the Emperor’s arm.
“Fool!” Korsakov exclaimed, backhanding him. Victor fell to the floor, holding his cheek. “For all we know, it could be a spy! A wizard with the ability to shapeshift,” Korsakov growled, letting the dead bird fall to the hard ground. Victor stared at it--its matted wings, its lifeless little eye staring back.
“Stand up!” Korsakov commanded, pulling his son up by the hair. “Now tell me boy-what is it that is so damn important that you’d forsake your duty to the Empire?”
Victor muttered something inaudible.
“What was that?” Korsakov replied, letting go and letting Victor fall to his knees. “Speak up!”
“I...I believe I’m in love.”
Korsakov grunted with incredulity. “Love? Love?” he spouted, trying to refrain from outright laughter. “What is love, but the arrows that fell even the most magnificent warrior! That which makes the strongest man as weak as a lamb! What is this love but a vice that holds mankind in its deadly grip, squeezing his life slowly away? It is but fools gold--nay, true wealth is in independence from the whims of others. Love is but an illusion--an excuse to satisfy man’s lustful desires.”
Korsakov began to pace the room, Victor watching him out of the corner of his eye. “Perhaps it is time for you to take a wife...yes, I will find you one with proper breeding. There is no reason to dilute the bloodline anymore!” Korsakov continued. “Now, remove yourself from my sight--at least until you are fit to be called my son again!”
***
“What is love?” Victor mused. He sat on the piano bench next to his valet. “What is love, but a single beacon shining over the ocean of my discontent. Is it merely a word, a word spoken alone in the bleak darkness? Or is it an instrument? A piano whose precious strains melt my frigid heart?” he turned to his servant who had been playing softly as he spoke. “A piano whose strains pierce my aching heart, kissing away the tears from my pink’d cheeks. What is love? ‘Tis more than the spring thaw after the wicked winter winds have ravished the land. ‘Tis more than the words of man can describe--so alas, in this silence, I wait. Oh, Alexander!” he gasped, turning to his servant. “You must teach me this song!”
“In due time--one cannot rush into something in which one is not entirely prepared,” Alex replied.
“But--”
“No, now play the music I gave you last week,” Alex pushed the old, shabby book in front of Victor.
“I will, but promise me you’ll teach me that song!”
“Someday,” Alex rose from the bench and began to tidy up the room. “Now practice!”
“If it is practice that makes one so good, then how is it that I must practice so much more than you?” Victor asked.
“I have spent the better part of thirty years perfecting my craft. There is not a piece that I cannot readily play--therefore I need only to play for enjoyment and not for practice. You, however, have neglected the D# in the passage you have just played,” Alex replied. Victor watched Alex out of the corner of his eye, as he arranged the knick-knacks on his dresser. “What is this?” Alex asked, picking up an unusual looking music box.
Victor stopped playing and turned around. “My mother--she gave it to me.”
Alex opened the lid, the strange tune spilling out into the room. “Beautiful,” he said. “I’ve never heard anything like it.”
“It’s from some faraway land...where Mother was from.”
Alex closed the lid again. “Do not let me distract you. Now practice!”
Victor continued to play as Alex finished tidying up the room. He watched as Alex finished and sat on his bed studying the strange music box once more. Victor closed his eyes, imagining the music box in his mind’s eye. It was an exquisite design--a round box made of gold and encrusted with precious jewels. The inside of the lid was a painting of a lush garden bathed in the pale light of moonlight. A statue of a woman wearing a golden hoop skirt, covered by a red floor-length velvet jacket stood in the middle of box, surrounded by lavender luminescent trees. She was painted in such detail as to almost be real, her gelid, blue eyes piercing into the eyes of all who looked into hers. Alex put the box down and finally noticed out of the corner of his eye that Victor had stopped playing and had turned around to look at him.
“The woman in the box, she was your mother, no?” Alex asked, setting the box aside. There was something about that woman (and the music box for that matter)--something strange.
“Yes,” Victor replied.
“And that song--”
“It was a lullaby my mother sang to me as a child.”
“Yes, it does seem to make one sleepy. It is strange that I had never heard it, or anything like it for that matter. The music historians of my old country had even catalogued folk music from other cultures--I studied these for many years and I still have never heard anything like it,” Alex continued. He rose from the bed and sat next to Victor at the piano. He hummed the melody to himself as he placed his hands softly upon the keys. He began to play the melody in his right hand, seamlessly adding his left hand with the harmony. “Play the second part,” he instructed.
“But, I cannot play by ear as you can,” Victor protested.
“You know the song. It is within you--coming deep from within your heart. Sing it to yourself and let it come out from the tips of your fingers,” Alex replied, as he ceased playing. Victor looked at him, a question still in his eyes. “It is in F major,” he added.
Victor tentatively put his hands on the keyboard. As Alex began to play again, he could hear the counter-melody swimming in his head and pouring out of his fingers onto the keyboard. And they played for what seemed like days, but were merely moments captured by the strains of that strange melody. Victor was jolted back into reality as his hand met Alex’s on the keyboard. He blushed as he pulled his hands away.
“Why did you stop?” Alex inquired.
“No reason. No reason at all,” Victor replied, still blushing.
Suddenly, a sharp knock came at the door.
“Yes?” Victor arose from the bench and went quickly to the door. It was one of his private tutors at the door--a stout, older man with a bitter, wrinkled face. Grumbling, he pushed his way into the the room, dropping his dusty tomes onto Victor’s desk.
“Victor, my boy, I hope you have been studying your histories this past week, as I am living up to my promises in issuing you a test to assess your knowledge,” the old man said.
“I will be in the gardens when you finish,” Alex said, arising from the piano, quick to make his exit.
Victor looked at the parchment that the tutor had set out on his desk, sweat forming on his brow. He hadn’t been studying his histories, for he had spent most of his time playing the piano. Histories were something that could only be read about, while music was something that was created, and by none other than himself!
“You’ve been paying more attention to that blasted instrument haven’t you?” the tutor asked, a stern look in his eye, pointing to the piano. “If it hadn’t been for your mother that thing wouldn’t be here in the first place!”
“Do not speak of my mother like this!” Victor exclaimed.
“Fine. Just complete your test, then,” the tutor replied, looking at Victor from over the top of his glasses. He snatched one of the tomes from the desk and sat down in the chair next to Victor’s bed. He pulled out his small, gold-rimmed glasses and opened the book. Victor stood next to his desk, watching him. “Well?” the tutor asked, in a huff.
Without a word, Victor sat down and stared at the parchment in front of him, a lump forming in his throat.
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Originally Posted by MTMarshall
