THE EIGHT OF CUPS
upright: escapism, disappointment, abandonment
reversed: hopelessness, aimless drifting, walking away
Casimir had no idea what he doing in Schweiren. He had sworn years ago never to return, and he never did. But this year, something compelled him to. Remorse? Redemption? Retribution? He didn't know. He didn't care.
He shook his snow-dusted hair and yanked his hood over his head as he rode his horse, Silver, through the open gates.
It was, for the most part, filthy: dust and ash covered every brick, filled in every nook and cranny. The snow only seemed to worsen it. Along the streets, splintery skeletons of bare trees trembled with the wind. Eerie.
Then Casimir's expression darkened when he caught sight of the tall walls imprisoning the kingdom, and the dark symbol that loomed on nearly every surface and every flag. King Vladimir's soldiers, the imperial guards, were stationed almost everywhere in leather boots and layered armor, eyes sharp, weapons intimidating.
As if the people needed to be constantly reminded of the king who ruled and controlled everything.
With a pounding heart, Casimir swallowed hard and tried to move on. He was only going to be here a short while, he reminded himself. Then he'll be gone.
He left Silver at an inn, paying the stable boy extra for a bucket of apples, then set through the busy, crowded streets. He avoided the town square and took alleyways that directed him to the quieter fringes of the kingdom.
The festival had attracted travelers from other lands with all the merriments it offered: hot and sweet desserts, contests, battles, song and dance. Everyone was dressed for the season in their wooly scarves and thick clothes, those of higher status and wealth expressing it with lavish textiles and jewelry.
But Casimir wasn't paying any attention to them; he was eyeing the locals. As was tradition, the locals wore identical blue brooches over their hearts as homage to the queen. They seemed lively, but they were also wary and afraid, casting furtive glances at the soldiers patrolling around.
He passed by a mother tugging her children inside, and when their gazes met, he went rigid like a caught thief. But the woman only nodded a greeting, glanced back at the soldiers, and shut the door.
She didn't recognize me. Of course she wouldn't. He was not the little boy he was when he left.
Six years. Six years too long.
Around the next corner was a street seller with a steaming cart, and the scent of caramel made Casimir stop.
Crystallized apples were one of his favorites as a child, as well his mother's, but ever since the Massacre, it was only made during the Wintry Fair. It was to honor her, but Casimir hardly thought eating her beloved candy on the day she died was the best way to reminisce the late Queen.
He tried not to think about her death. Too much.
The seller looked up. "Would you like to try some, young man?"
Casimir wanted to walk away, but he stayed. "Maybe . . . Maybe just one," he said, his breath fogging up.
While he dug through his pouch, a loud scream caught his attention and he jerked around. A woman was lying on the dirty snow, crying madly, being yanked to her feet by an imperial guard. She reminded Casimir of someone he didn't want to remember. Behind him, a man—her husband—was kneeling, yelling for her, tears in his eyes.
