The Sun God's Heir: Return Chapter Three

Here’s chapter three. Only one more week until the official launch of The Sun God’s Heir: Return Book One. It’s been a wild ride getting this book out. That’s cliché, but it so has. I hope you enjoy the read. On January 18^th, the book will go FREE for five days on Amazon. It’s up now at .99 for anyone who wants to get a jump on the story and perhaps add a very welcome review. Thanks for reading. 

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01MS3RCE0

Elliott

CHAPTER THREE

AN ARMY of tall young men costumed as Orpheus returned René’s glance as he passed through the mosaic of mirrors in the château’s entryway. He smiled at his personal collage of mirrored reflections. The multicolored troubadour’s blouse, over black pantaloons with a midnight black cape, fit in well with the riot of color visible on the moving crowd. René attached his mask, tying it in the back. Turning toward the mirrors, he was jarred by the mask’s reflection. Like most masks that depicted Orpheus, it portrayed a caricature of a face with a large nose and downturned mouth meant to express sorrow. This particular mask, however, was a Venetian work of art. Despair radiated from its features, transcending the human condition and evoking the artist’s intended response.

Straightening the mask, René entered the atrium and continued along a light filled hallway. Crystal chandeliers suspended from the high ceiling along its length caused the light of innumerable small flames to shimmer their reflection from the intricate patterns of gold filigree along the walls and the polished Italian marble floor.

Once through the hallway, René encountered the first of a series of open spaces, each promising to be more elaborate than the previous. He paused in the entryway of a courtyard whose columns were floor to ceiling cages filled with hundreds of singing birds. René had been in his share of Bordeaux’s palaces and châteaus, but this one surpassed them all in its attempt to outdo its neighbors. The parade of historical and mythical beings flowed around him.

A voluptuous woman, barely clad in a Cleopatra costume, staggered forward and fell into his arms. She glanced up and giggled. René blinked as he breathed in her stale alcohol breath. He turned his head to find more acceptable air.

“Your pardon, monsieur.” She made no attempt to stand. “My, what a muscular young man you are. Are you available?”

René disengaged himself, yet continued to hold her upright, his hands firm beneath her arms.

“Madame, may I escort you to a seat?”

“You may escor… excor… take me to a nice dark corner.” She hiccupped, and then clamped a hand over her mouth to contain another round of giggles.

René scanned the room. “Are you here with someone?”

“You will do fine.”

René signaled to one of the servants to assist him, but before the servant could arrive, an overweight, elderly gentleman accosted him.

“You, monsieur, unhand my wife. How dare you? Do you not know who I am?” The man barked “I demand satisfaction. Who are your seconds?”

René turned his head to his right to meet the man’s glare. If he released Cleopatra, she would fall to the floor. Keeping her at arm’s length, René lifted the lady until her feet no longer touched the floor and then gently deposited her in her husband’s arms. “Would you mind holding her for a bit? I am afraid she has had more to drink than her constitution will allow. Forgive me, as I intended no offense. Your wife tripped. I merely prevented her from injuring herself. She did ask for you, sir— numerous times. You are most fortunate to have such a doting wife. I wish you both a merry evening.” René nodded and then moved off through the crowd.

René breathed in a deep breath and exhaled, grateful he had avoided being ‘called out.’ Dueling was illegal, but that fact had not dented its popularity. Duels rarely ended in death. More often, they stopped at first blood, or ‘touché.’ This would satisfy the honor of the offended. Tradition called for the insulted party to choose the weapons and the degree of danger the duel involved. Although hiring an alternate was permissible, René had found avoiding offense the wiser choice.

So far, by trading on his youth, he had escaped difficult situations. This had given him a reputation as unusual, perhaps, but he hoped, not cowardly.

René approached a lovely young woman who happened to be wearing a Eurydice costume. By her height, he knew she wasn’t Clarisse. Even though she was masked, René had a good idea who the mystery woman was. Still, there remained some doubt, which only added to the spice of the moment.

“I am so glad to have found you.” He bent low sweeping his arm before him as he performed an elaborate court bow. “Though I would have gone to Hades for you, ’tis much more convenient to find you here. Will you join me in this next dance?”

“’Tis a good thing I was not in Hades, where you would certainly have encountered greater difficulty rescuing me,” she said. “I would be honored to dance with you.”

The young woman introduced herself as Aimee de Montrochez, and she proved to be a vibrantly intelligent Eurydice to his Orpheus.

As the party progressed, some of the revelers had dispensed with their masks. René spotted Martin, who had removed his. Dressed as Apollo, he had his arm around Aphrodite who had to be Clarisse even though she had yet to unmask.

“I see some friends,” René said to Aimee. “Will you accompany me to greet them?”

“I may be willing to share you for a minute or two.” She broke into a smile.

“We should keep our masks on and see how long it takes them to recognize us.” René wrapped his arm around her waist and led her through the milling crowd.

“I have never seen a lovelier Aphrodite, although I must say your Apollo leaves something to be desired,” René said in his best imitation of a stentorian boatswain he knew.

“Bonsoir, René.” Clarisse nodded at Aimee. “And who is this lovely creature on your arm?”

“How did you recognize me?”

“I have an excellent sense of pitch. Once I hear a voice, I recognize it, especially if ’tis poorly disguised.” Clarisse released her mask and smiled. “Sorry to have spoiled your illusion.”

“Well, you fooled me,” said Martin. “I was about to challenge you for being so insulting.”

“Given your overwhelming skill with the sword, you had best keep the challenges to a minimum.” René smiled down at Aimee before he glanced at Clarisse. “May I present Mademoiselle Aimee de Montrochez? My friends, Martin Devereaux and Clarisse du Bourg.”

“Both your costumes are quite marvelous,” Aimee said.

Martin wagged his eyebrows as he flared open his gold cloak, exposing the shin length white and gold chiton that hung over his lean frame. Clarisse turned to René. A revealing bit of white gauze defined her as Aphrodite.

René swallowed hard, unable to take his eyes off Clarisse. She glanced at Aimee. A long moment passed as the two women considered each other and then exchanged artificial smiles.

“René told me all about this afternoon’s ride. Must have left quite the impression.” Aimee sniffed into her kerchief.

“Martin redeemed my honor.” Clarisse’s painted smile widened.

“I will always redeem your honor, my lady.” Martin bowed low. All three turned toward René.

“I, ah, thought the macarons were terrific.” The stilted silence grew more uncomfortable until the music began.

“Ah, a cotillion,” René said with gratitude. “Shall we?” The dancers took their places on the crowded floor. The cotillion required each dancer to change partners throughout, bringing René to stand before Clarisse.

“You have never looked so beautiful,” René commented when they faced each other.

“You saw me this afternoon.” She twirled under his hand. “Oui, but you had on riding clothes—or maybe I never looked closely before.”

“’Tis necessary to look that closely in order to see my beauty?”

“Ah, no, of course not.” He missed a step and stumbled back into the correct footwork. “What I meant was…well, what I mean is…”

“Oui?”

“There is no way out of this for me, is there?”

“Not that I can see.”

“What I mean is that you are lovely. Today, tonight, and all the days to come.” He stole a glance to see if he had talked himself from the hole he had dug. “And that I am an ignorant buffoon without any sense at all. Will that work, do you think?”

“’Tis not Molière, but ’twill do for tonight.” She laughed as he spun her again.

As the dancers prepared to move to their next partners, René surprised himself when he blurted out, “I hate to let you go.”

“I hate to be let go.” Clarisse batted her eyelashes as she gracefully moved in front of the next man in line.

The round changed again and René found himself in front of Aimee, who wasted no time in asking, “Are you serious about her?”

René missed another step. “Serious? Although I have known of her for a few years, I did not meet her until this afternoon. What makes you ask?”

“Oh, nothing much. The field is open then.”

“Sounds like a hunt of some kind.” René stepped around her. “Should I be concerned? Are there weapons involved?”

“Depends on your definition of weapons.” Aimee glanced down her nose as she curtsied low.

“W-what?” René stammered. Aimee’s costume slipped a bit showing more décolleté than was polite. “I mean, what were we talking about?”

“Exactly. Do you think you could escort me home tonight?” She curtsied to him once more.

“Well, I…why, of course. ’Twould be my pleasure.”

“It might, it just might.” She winked as she moved on in the line.

What had just happened? The next few minutes went by in something of a blur, René moved through the dance steps and partners by habit until he heard a loud slap and a curse. Clarisse stood in front of Victor Gaspard. Apparently the fool had once again done something inappropriate, and Clarisse had rewarded him for his trouble.

René pushed his way through the dancers toward Clarisse. Gaspard was a couple of years older than René. A natural bully, rumor had it that he hurt people for pleasure. As a child Victor had been heavy. Now an adult, his height had caught up with his girth, and he was just big. If the rumors were true, Victor had already killed two men in duels, perhaps more.

Clarisse held her gown together across her bosom. Martin scowled and stormed toward Victor.

“Not good.” René reached Clarisse and Victor seconds before Martin.

“What have you done now, you—” Martin started to yell.

“Clarisse, are you all right? Martin, see to her.” René caught Clarisse’s eye, and she nodded.

“Martin, I am feeling faint and need some air. Will you help me outside?” She draped herself over his arm and steered him away from Victor.

René turned to find himself face to face with the flushed Gaspard. The air snapped with Victor’s rage. He required a target, and fate or fortune had selected René.

“Who do we have here?  Why,  ’tis  our local coward, the snivel-ing pacifist. With all the heroes available, she must not be very good if you are the best she could find,” Victor snorted.

“Well, weakling, what do you have to say?” echoed Maurice, Victor’s habitual shadow. He edged nearer to Victor’s elbow, parroting the words of his god in a whiny voice.

The crowd, their eyes glittering like jackals awaiting a kill, pushed and elbowed their way closer to René and Victor.

Aimee watched with a focused expression.

“Gilbert, get on your knees and apologize for the woman’s actions. I have been grievously assaulted. Do you not agree, Maurice?” Victor folded his arms across his chest.

Maurice glowed with anticipation, a runt hyena posturing with the pack behind him. “Oh, I concur. Definitely on his knees.”

“Embarrassing, but there is no pain. You would gain more satisfaction by injuring me, especially in front of all these people.”

“Given your cowardice, you refuse to duel. What do you suggest? Fight like the lower classes, bare fisted?” asked Victor.

“Non. I was thinking more along the lines of a game. I hold my hands together out in front of me, and you smack my hands. For each time you connect with my hands, you may punch me in the face. You get five tries.” Victor considered himself a master swordsman, with lightning hands, an arrogance René counted on.

“Sounds like good sport, but what do you get?”

“If by some small chance you should miss all five times, I get to leave this soirée in one piece, with no offense taken on either side.”

“Done. Your smile will look different when this is finished.” Victor smirked. “Will you need someone to hold you up?”

“I think I can manage.” René breathed deeply and allowed that calm, centered focus to settle within. When he looked into Victor’s eyes, in that timeless interval between one instant and the next, a heavily muscled ancient Egyptian general stood in Victor’s place, armed and armored in bronze. René blinked and Victor’s habitual sneer once again faced him.

René’s iron focus remained firm. He would consider the vision later. This moment had no room for its examination. He stood easily, balanced, aware, his hands held out, palms touching. As he anticipated, Victor made the first attempt as soon as he extended his hands. René moved them out of the way, and Victor’s right hand passed through the space where his hands had been. So violent was Victor’s swing that he almost fell. René reached out to steady him. Victor knocked his arm away.

“That one did not count,” said Victor.

“Why is that?” René asked.

“Because you were not ready.”

“I am ready now.” He held his hands out again.

Victor tried once more to catch René before he was set. But as the Maestro had taught him, one must always be set. Circumstance rarely waits for us to be ready. Once again, Victor’s hand smashed through empty air.

“One,” the revelers called. René nodded to the onlookers, grateful they were involved. He had little confidence in Victor’s motivation to count to five.

This time Victor wound up with his right hand and swung his left. But again René’s hands were absent, and Victor’s angry swing met no resistance.

“Two,” the glittering audience shouted. More people joined the throng around them, vying for a choice location to see the action.

René had pulled his hands up every time so far. On the next attempt, he moved them down out of the way. Victor’s swipe missed by a league.

“Three,” the chant increased in volume. Victor’s face was a deep blood red growing darker by the minute, partly from the exertion but more from the embarrassment of not having connected.

There would be no good ending to this confrontation, but René hoped he could avoid Victor long enough to let the incident fade. He considered allowing Victor to punch him once, thinking that perhaps that would satisfy him. Again, he heard the Maestro’s words. Evil will never be satisfied. There is no bargain with the devil. Do not ever pretend that there is.”

Another attempt, this one turned Victor full circle like the dancing bear in the circus that stopped in Bordeaux the previous year.

“Four.” The crowd jeered louder.

For his final shot, Victor tried to secure René’s arm with his left hand while striking his outstretched hands with his right. Even thus encumbered, René easily lifted his hands out of the way. Victor only managed to slap himself.

“Five,” the throng roared, as hands grabbed René and carried him away from the contest. It was good they did, for René had seen only the promise of death in Victor’s bloodshot stare. René caught Aimee’s arm as the crowd hustled him along. “If you want to ride with me, now would be a good time to leave,” he shouted.

“Timing is everything,” she yelled back. They raced to where his driver had brought the carriage around.

“The young lady said you would be needin’ immediate transportation.” Marc gripped the reins tight.

Smart girl, that Clarisse.