“Oh that,” said Nerratel. “Your ancients tell of once being captured by the Lowlanders, true?”
“True.”
“If so, how did they get up the cliffs?”
With a sly grin, Raxton answered, “Perhaps they had wings.”
It took a moment for Nerratel to realize he had been served a joke in return. “Wings? I see. Well, because you have saved me from a very long night in that pit, I shall refrain from telling the Mobbox that the Carbollo have hidden their wings.”
Raxton laughed.
Nerratel glanced around to make certain they could not be overheard and changed the subject. “The Mobbox think the Carbollo king is old and shall die soon. When he does, do you intend to compete in the challenge?”
“I, and many other Carbollos. Will there not be many Mobbox competitors as well?”
“Yes, but have we not already proven that you and I are more evenly matched?”
“Perhaps in the foot race, but we cannot be certain foot racing is the challenge the Boons shall agree upon.”
Nerratel sighed and began to brush the dirt off his clothing. “Ah yes, we must suffer the Boons decision. I have not been so certain the Mobbox Boon is the most qualified to decide. I fear he is a lover of conflict more than a lover or resolution.”
“I have thought the same about our Boon.” Raxton paused for a moment. “If you were king, what change would you make?”
“I would choose different Boons.”
“Yet, you know little of the Carbollos. How then could you choose?”
“Perhaps you might assist me in the choosing.”
A slow grin crossed Raxton’s face. “And you would do the same if I become king?”
“Agreed. Perhaps we should have two kings instead of one.”
“Yet, we have but one castle?”
That remark made Nerratel laugh out loud. “I can imagine it now, two wives in the same castle causing more upset than do the Boons.”
“Particularly since one wife would be a Carbollo and the other a Mobbox. And the children?”
“You are right. We are better off with only one king.”
When his horse began to get a little restless, Raxton calmed it with the gentle stroke of his hand. It had always been a touchy subject and Raxton should not have mentioned it, but he did not often have an opportunity to ask. “Why do the Mobbox want all the land for themselves?”
“Because ‘twas our land to begin with.”
“What proof have you?”
Nerratel immediately became defensive and put a hand on his hip. “Our ancients told of the days when the Carbollo came, took up arms, and stole half the land from us.”
“Yet, the land was rightfully ours before we were taken captive by the Lowlanders. They only took what was rightfully theirs and left the rest to the Mobbox.”
“Raxton, how are you and I to resolve such a conflict, when many could not in all the years before we were born? The only etchings found are the ones in the stones on the floor of the throne room, and they tell of both civics living in peace.”
“But why are the Mobbox not at peace?”
Nerratel started to walk away, thought better of it, and turned back. “Speak not of this, but I tell you as a friend. There are those who want the land – all of it, and shall not rest until it is forever in the hands of the Mobbox.”
“What then is to become of us?”
This time Nerratel walked away and kept on walking, but before he was out of hearing, he said, “Fear not, for you have wings.”
Raxton watched as the young man with strength equal to his, entered the forest on the Mobbox side of the mesa and went out of sight. He mounted his horse and started home, but not without keeping a watchful eye out for the bull. With a competitive nature, Raxton had always been far more interested in going on the quest than in actually becoming king. In fact, he had hardly considered how it would be to rule all of Extane.
Just now, winning the quest had taken on a whole new meaning.
NERRATEL MOBBOX WAS well regarded in his civic, even when he was not wearing a crown. He was considered honest, growing stronger every day, and had no problem attracting the opposite sex. However, for him marriage was out of the question until his sister married and no longer needed his daily advice – advice she daily objected to.
There were several gateways into Mobbox City, each with decorative iron rods with pointed spires at the top. The streets were lit by lanterns that sat atop tall posts, and as Nerratel walked past, the man whose job it was to light them at night was hard at work. Fellow civics hurried to get inside before dark, but not without a friendly greeting for Nerratel as they passed. As soon as he came to a stairway, he began the climb to the second floor and the home he shared with the two people he loved most – his widowed mother, and his only sibling – a younger sister who was given the name, Sarinna.
It was a home not unlike all the other Mobbox homes – spacious, warm, with haphazardly tossed, soft pillows atop comfortable furniture made of Wibble tree limbs. Of the ones in his home Nerratel was very proud, for he made the furniture himself. From the silk that hung from the Wibble tree branches, his sister and mother made tapestries that hung on the walls. Other items, such as side boards, tables and closets were made from the wood of trees found in the forest.
Members of Civic Mobbox often commented on Sarinna’s appearance, especially since she preferred to wear her dark hair loose, letting it flow down to her waist in the back The other Mobbox women thought her too bold, for they gathered their hair in the mornings and pinned it in ringlets atop their heads. The fuss did not bother Sarinna in the least. She loved being outdoors, loved cats, enjoyed watching the birds in the sky, the foxes in the woods, and all that the lakes had to offer. The single strand of diamonds that she wore down the left side of her black hair sparkled in the sunlight, which enhanced her beauty even more. Ample sunshine made her tanned skin a shade darker than her brother’s, but they had the same blue eyes and pointed noses. Many of the women preferred gowns with intricate patterns, but Sarinna preferred to make hers of just one or two colors, mostly because she was not fond of spending that much time inside sewing.
When Nerratel joined his mother and sister at the table for their evening meal, he was especially eager to tell them about the bull that shoved him into the pit, and the Carbollo who helped him out. His mother was amazed, but as usual his sister didn’t seem to be. “You do not find it odd that a Carbollo would help me?” Nerratel asked Sarinna, dipping his spoon into his bowl of stew, and then raising it to his lips to see if it was too hot.
“That a Carbollo would help? No,” she answered. “That any man would help you? Yes!”
Her laughter made him grin. He decided his meal was not too hot and shoved the spoonful of stew into his mouth. When he had eaten it, he said, “Perhaps you remember him. It is the Carbollo I beat in the footrace.”
“Ah, yes, I remember him,” she admitted, setting another bowl of stew in front of her mother. “If reversed, would you have saved him?”
Nerratel gave that some thought. “I believe I would have, though I might have asked first if the Carbollo wished to be saved. Some are too proud to admit they cannot help themselves.”
Sarinna sighed. “I see nothing proud about them. I think ’tis a myth that they are proud and we are humble.”
Nerratel set his spoon back in his bowl. “You study them just as you study everything else?”
“I have observed their ways – from afar, of course. I watched a woman cry for the loss of her baby, just the way our women do, and a Carbollo man who said a few unkind words when his arrow missed the deer he was hunting. His words were not the worst I’ve heard from our men.”
Quiet until now their mother, Neven, said, “I would not personally know, mind you, but most say the Carbollo are just like us with a nose, two eyes and a mouth.”
Nerratel scoffed, “Do you pretend, Mother, that you have not spoken to a Carbollo since you were a ch
ild?”
“Me? Speak to a Carbollo? Of course not. It is forbidden.” She quickly lowered her gaze and paid all her attention to eating her meal.
Unconvinced, he picked up the loaf of fresh baked bread and broke a chunk off the end. “As you usually do, Mother, you remind me that I am not to disparage those who are different. I assure you I have no reason to dislike any of them. It is just that...”
“Just that what?” Sarinna prodded.
“You know very well they are not to be trusted.”
Sarinna set her bowl on the table and then sat down. “Which is what they say about us, or so Boon Mobbox reminds us over and over again. But how do we know if what he says is true, having little opportunity to find out for ourselves?”
“Our Boon has no reason to lie to us.” Nerratel dipped the bread in the broth in his bowl, and glanced at his mother to make certain she was not frowning at him. “I like things just the way they are now. We are happy, we get on very well, and...” He remembered his food and paused to take a bite.
“Yes, but in what way are we so very different?” Sarinna argued. “No one tells us, for we truly are not so very different.”
Nerratel warned, “Sarinna, be careful. With such thinking as that, you make yourself too easily tempted to see the land of the Carbollo for yourself, and I promised Father I would care for you.”
“Restrict me, you mean.”
For a long moment, Nerratel studied the look in his sister’s eyes. His sister was daily sought after by Mobbox men hoping to marry her, but she showed no interest in any of them. “I would not need to restrict you, if you were married to the son of Boon Mobbox?”
Annoyed, she fluttered her eyes. “That again? You would have me...”
“Children,” Neven interrupted. “Must we have this same conversation night after night? I am tempted to marry the son of Boon Mobbox myself just to settle the argument.”
Sarinna gasped, “Mother, you wouldn’t.”
“Well, I am getting on in years and time is passing by. Who knows, perhaps I might like him.”
“He is considered very handsome,” her son mentioned.
“He is considered far too young to marry Mother,” Sarinna shot back.
“Well, so long as he breaths, any man is old enough for me.”
Sarinna set her spoon aside and abruptly stood up. “Handsome he may be, but he is without half the wit of his father, and I remind you, his father has no wit at all. How Boon Mobbox managed to attract a wife...”
“A man’s wit, as entertaining as it may be in the beginning, rarely lasts a lifetime,” her mother muttered.
Sarinna rolled her eyes. She was losing the argument again and decided to do what she normally did – escape. “Forgive me, but we are in need of wheat for tomorrow’s bread.” Her dinner just half eaten, she headed for the door. “By the way, I left a smudge on a bowl last night and unless you cleaned it, Nerratel, which I doubt, it was gone this morning.”
“You imagine it,” Nerratel scoffed. “You imagine all sorts of things that are not true.”
She sneered, “Perhaps I have only just imagined you.” Before he could respond, she opened the door, rushed out, and pulled the door closed behind her.
CHAPTER 3
KING GRAFTON CARBOLLO had four wives, although not at the same time. Too many wives, most of the later kings agreed, made life far more complicated than it needed to be. One-by-one, King Grafton outlived his wives, even the last one, and was now in his sixty-fifth year. He was the father of three sons and four daughters, all of which he outlived as well. In the hours when he was not required to settle countless disputes, he rode his horse and saw all that the land had to offer on both sides, for a king could go anywhere he wanted without being looked down upon.
As most kings did, King Grafton thought himself loved by all, even when he made an unpopular decision. He was a reciter of riddles, and often tried to trick someone by delivering one to those he met along the way, be they Mobbox or Carbollo. It was a fun time for all. The king had not come up with a new riddle in ages, so the people pretended to struggle before giving their answer – just to hear his contagious laughter.
Perhaps both civics loved him after all.
It was in the days of King Grafton that the disenchantment between the two sides threatened to reach a boiling point. It had been three generations since an argument between the two civics brought about a battle. Even so, as soon as a boy was deemed old enough, he was taught how to fight and more importantly, how to defend himself.
When there were rumors to be had about one side or the other, they came most often from the two Boons. The Carbollo pretended not to be that interested, but they were just pretending. The Mobbox were openly eager to hear of each day’s events, especially when the king ruled in their favor and against the Carbollo.
On this day there was a much more serious problem for the king to resolve, and everyone was eager, if not a little fearful, to hear the outcome.
The enormous throne room floors in the blue crystal palace were made of white marble. Tied back, silk tea-rose curtains accented the floor to ceiling windows, and the curtains matched the upholstery on the king’s oversized throne. The same shade was a predominant color in the many pale green and faded blue wall hangings, giving the room a feeling of nobility and high esteem. Statues of various beloved animals lined the walls, including a bucking white horse, a brown bear standing on its hind legs, and a pair of dogs with yellow hair, one sitting and one standing. The statues were separated by padded benches, with large planters on each end that overflowed with the curly-stemmed flowers that were much loved on Extane.
While the throne room was calm and inviting, the two furious men standing before King Grafton were anything but. Well aware of the various moods of the two men, the king took his time assessing their expressions, before he braced himself for an earful and asked, “Well, what is it?”
In his late thirties, his hair was dark, wavy, and worn in a long braid down the middle of his back. Dressed in the blue robe and gold clasp that denoted his high station in life, Boon Carbollo took a pronounced step forward. “Thievery, out and out thievery!” he shouted.
“Thievery?” the king asked. “Is not everything equal on both sides. Why then would anyone need to steal?”
“Why indeed!” Boon Carbollo said, turning his head a bit too dramatically so he could glare at Boon Mobbox.
Boon Mobbox sighed, just as he always did when the Mobbox were being accused of something ridiculous. “The king is right. The Mobbox have no cause to steal from the Carbollo.”
“Then perhaps you can explain why Elder Namow’s string is missing.”
The older of the two with the mark of the Mobbox over his right eye, Boon Mobbox unimpressively shrugged. Instead of his robe being plain in the custom of the Carbollo, Boon Mobbox had adorned his with gold braids that crossed from shoulder to shoulder. “If it pleases you,” he said, directing his slightly hostile remarks to Boon Carbollo, “I shall see that Elder Namow is given four or perhaps five strings in replacement.”
“Think you that I jest? ’Tis not a jest,” the indignant Carbollo demanded. “Our outside doors are all the same, therefore elder Namow tied a string to his latch, so he could more easily find which is his.”
“Perhaps the children play tricks on the elders,” Boon Mobbox scoffed.
“You know very well, the Carbollo children do not play tricks on their elders. Unlike your children, ours are carefully taught to respect us.”
“Our children are...” the Mobbox Boon started.
“And that is not all,” the Carbollo interrupted. “A child’s wooden bowl was snatched from the sill of a window, and a cleaning brush disappeared in the night.”
Again, the Mobbox scoffed, “I find it fascinating that you claim the items are stolen and not lost. Of course, if they were lost, you would have to admit the Carbollo are not as fastidious as you claim. Do your people not always put everything away at the end of the d
ay? But then, we have only your word for that, since we are forbidden to see how you live.”
“Never mind that.” Boon Carbollo turned his attention to the king, “Can there be any doubt that the Mobbox children have become thieves?”
He had taken all the insults he cared to, when the indignant Mobbox raised his voice, “Our children are not thieves!”
“Thieves, I tell you!” Boon Carbollo demanded. “If they will not give them back, we must be allowed to search the homes of the Mobbox.”
The Mobbox Boon heavily sighed. “They falsely accuse us, as usual!”
Boon Carbollo again turned his glare on his opponent. “Not without good cause!”
“Your good cause is resentment of our happiness,” Boon Mobbox muttered.
The remark was not missed by Boon Carbollo, and served instead to raise his ire even more. “Your wife looks none too happy.”
“What has my wife to do with this?” Boon Mobbox asked. “You insult me, my wife and the Mobbox children. There be but one way to settle this. We fight!” he demanded.
Silent until now, the king raised an eyebrow, “Fight, is it? The people of Extane shall not fight over such silliness as a few missing items. ‘Tis intolerable.”
“We are willing if the Mobbox insist,” said Boon Carbollo.
King Grafton chuckled. “Fight, die, bleed all over this fine land, and for such an unworthy cause?” Taking the time to think, the king stood up, walked down the steps from the perch that held his throne, went to a table, and filled his goblet with water. Slowly, he drank and then refilled his goblet. Just as slowly, he carried it back up the steps, and then sat once more on his throne. “There is a story of old which I have not before told, but perhaps now you are in need of hearing it. A stranger, a Lowlander, once found his way up the cliffs.”
Completely caught off guard, the jaws of both Boons dropped as each took a step closer to the King.
The king stroked his long, blue beard for a moment. The stranger had no mark above either eye. Yet, he stood before the king with wonder in his eyes over all that he saw. Though the Lowlander spoke our same language, he said little in a way of explaining how he got up, and hurried away before he was questioned, never to be seen or heard from again.”
The Kings of the Seven Bells Page 2