Romney Balvance and the Katarin Stone
Page 21
“No Wi-Fi, I take it. On a nine-hour bus ride.”
“No AC,” said Romney. “No reclining seats. Not an arm rest in sight. This can’t be right.”
Cora rubbed her eyes under her glasses, then pressed her lids closed.
“It’s four in the morning. I didn’t have coffee, and I can’t handle this right now.”
Tykeso had said nothing the entire trip. Even now, as he looked at the newly painted school bus, he had nothing to add to the conversation. He didn’t look tired to Romney, but thoughtful. Maybe even pensive, as if early mornings were for deep inner struggles. Romney looked to the elderly woman as she appeared beside Tykeso. She stood out from the early morning dark with her orange safety vest and the glow of a cigarette dangling from her lips. Her ash-gray hair was tied into a tight bun on her head.
It should be said that she looked older than her years, due in no small part to her smoking habit. Although the image may be stirring and evocative—a woman in the dark, cigarette lit, ready to face the morn—the many health hazards are not. Smoking is bad, say our editors, pure and simple. A terrible habit to pick up. This didn’t stop her from taking a drag. She smothered the end on her worn tennis shoe, then dropped the remainder into her vest pocket. The smoke billowed from her mouth as she spoke.
“I am driver,” she rasped in a thick Norzerran accent. “I take you to Tiena, five thirty. Is four thirty now. Why are you here?”
“To save our seats,” said Romney. “We were told to come early, unless we like to bribe people.”
The driver shook her head at this. She said something in Azerran that made Tykeso flinch.
“You are only passengers.”
“Ah, okay. We were not given that detail.”
“You can save seats on bus. But we do not leave until five thirty. We must stick to schedule.”
With that said, the driver stalked around the back of the bus and off to the small facilities beyond. It took the three associates a moment to gather their thoughts. Romney was the first to comment on the situation.
“Plus side, no fighting for seats.”
He looked to Cora, who was still rubbing her eyes.
“There are so many minuses,” she growled. “It’s not worth counting them.”
Their driver was Valda Arkhyver, formerly of Cresdale School District #11, retired. Valda had always been a myth among her fellow bus drivers. Her bus was always clean, its fuel tank full, every window clear, and every adolescent passenger in his or her place. But the one point, the pride of Valda’s career, was that bus CSD-333 was always on time. Never early, of course, but certainly never late.
When Valda said the bus was leaving at 5:30 a.m., she wouldn’t even board it until 5:29 and thirty seconds. But, to their amazement, Valda had boarded, buckled, started the school bus, thrown it in gear, pulled onto the road, all in exactly thirty seconds. The amazement of this feat had died off within ten minutes of driving.
It seemed that only Cora had brought something to do for the long ride into Andrea’s Course. Tykeso and Romney took seats behind hers and watched her laptop from over her shoulder.
“You didn’t bring anything to read? This is going to be a long bus ride.”
“Nope,” said Romney.
“I brought a book on the Ontaran Revolution,” said Tykeso, “but this looks more interesting.”
“It’s just a research article I saved, regarding the crown. Nothing special. It would be nice if I had internet, so I could gather more information. But I guess it doesn’t hurt to go over what we already have.”
“To find new things in old places,” said Tykeso.
Cora didn’t respond. She was already studying the text for new clues. Romney tried following along but found it difficult to keep up. By the time he was halfway through the dense material, Cora was already scrolling to the next section. He picked up a few pieces of information, some of which didn’t make any sense to him. From what he could gather, there were pharaohs in Andaran society who acted much like the monarchs in Camerra. The people believed them to be powerful beings capable of something he didn’t get a chance to read.
Each pharaoh came from a single bloodline, the Lucana bloodline, which was traced all the way back to the Prophet Andrea and kept a secret by the pharaonic family. In her twilight years, a pharaoh would abdicate her throne to her eldest daughter, along with the title “pharaoh” and a variety of heirlooms handed down through generations. This, the text explained, was meant to keep a strong, healthy pharaoh on the throne at any given time. The pharaonic practice carried into the late Classical era, around 1776, until the last pharaoh had surrendered her kingdom to the emerging Democratic Nation of Andar and the newly established Andaran Council. This change in political climate had done something to the country, but Cora had scrolled to the next section.
In the political maelstrom that came next, not everyone was happy about the new democratically elected government. They liked their pharaohs and all the ceremonies that came with them. Now there were ballots with blocks of illegible text, and smear campaigns about something someone had done ages ago. This created a divide that persisted well into the Modern era. There were those who put up with the new system and those who didn’t. This is a gross simplification of a 240-year period, filled with political moves and emerging splinter groups. For a more in-depth explanation, we recommend La Historian Andara by the Andaran Historical Society.
Or, if you believe the AHS to be a corrupt institution fed by dirty money from sleazy politicians who themselves feed off an illegitimate government that drains its citizenry of every Andaran crown they own, try Mia Andara, written collectively by the Partisan of the People.
The next section had something about Andrea. Cora scrolled over this part before Romney could get through the first paragraph.
“Hang on,” he said.
“It’s not worth reading.”
“What do you mean? There’s a lot in that part.”
“It covers the mystic powers bestowed to the Lucana family line.”
“Like what?”
“They believed that Andrea had magical powers.” Cora paused to sigh. “And that her magical energies were inherited by each succeeding pharaoh. It’s not important.”
“Hold on,” said Romney. “Maybe it is. It wouldn’t hurt to look it over, right?”
“It’s a waste of time,” said Cora. “Just folklore used to legitimize a power structure. The subjects need to believe their pharaoh is a deity, or something close to it. Superstition was a powerful tool in those days.”
“I don’t think so,” said Romney. “Maybe this folklore could give us insight into why this crown is so important to Devon.”
Cora craned her head to frown at him.
“He wants to preserve them, remember? He said he wants to keep them in glass cases and stream them on the internet. Besides, it doesn’t matter why. He probably doesn’t even know. It’s not important.”
“I think it is,” said Tykeso. “What does it say?”
Cora scrolled back to the text, then crossed her arms. The passage detailed the transfer of power between the old pharaoh and the new. The ceremony took place in the privacy of the pharaoh’s palace, with only the royal family allowed to view. It had no name, but the article listed its practices in detail.
The pharaoh would approach her eldest daughter and place the crown upon her head. Then she would place the Staff of the Prophet in her daughter’s hands and tell her the importance of being a good ruler. With these words said, the pharaoh would step out of the chambers and into the night. The daughter, now crowned and staffed, would become the new pharaoh. The next morning, she would emerge from the palace, and the people of Andar would spend that day celebrating their new pharaoh. It was certainly more exciting than the after-election parties in modern Andarametra, and much less embarrassing for those involved.
The people believed that, once a pharaoh, their ruler would be capable of extraordinary things. The article didn’t to
uch on specifics at this point. Instead, it mentioned that stories of the pharaohs’ deeds all shared commonalities. Things like summoning water from nothing and building structures with the wave of her staff.
Tykeso leaned back in his seat. He looked as pensive as before, but this time it wasn’t from lack of sleep. The bus roared onto the highway, then returned to a dull hum as it folded into the flow of traffic. Cora looked back at them, her frown still in full.
“Finished?”
“What’s this part about water?”
“Folklore,” said Cora. “Like I said before, it’s a story crafted to give her power. Nothing more.”
“The Jade Scar started as folklore, did it not?”
Cora turned in her seat to glare at Tykeso. He met her gaze with the same pensive expression as before. He was beginning to look brooding, thought Romney, and nobody wanted that.
“He’s got a point,” said Romney. “All those stories led us to a real sword that fit the description. And those were just modern folklore. Right?”
“Anyone can forge a sword to look like it. All they have to do is read a few books. In fact, I doubt there even is a real Jade Scar.”
Romney noted the shift in Cora’s tone. He had the sudden feeling he was being talked down to in a spiteful way, as opposed to her usual angry way. He continued with caution into his next point.
“Well, you told Mila the braiding on the handle was unique. Only an expert would know how to match that.”
“I would have told her anything to convince her of the sword’s authenticity. And you would too, Romney. But yes, the braiding would be unique to a Tambridesian blacksmith. Anyone can learn how to do it. They offer three different courses on the subject at Lanvale Prime.”
She fixed her glasses on her face. Romney knew this as the typical reflex of an intellectual who had just proven a point. He deflated ever so slightly.
“Besides, I think Tykeso had another reason for bringing it up.”
This caused Tykeso’s jaw to set and his arms to cross tighter over his chest.
“Here it goes,” muttered Tykeso.
“Ty seems to think that Devon is collecting enchanted artifacts from ancient times. And his theory is based entirely on flawed reasoning.”
Tykeso sank into his seat, closed his eyes, and said nothing. Yep, thought Romney, he was full-on brooding now.
“Well, let’s hear his theory. It can’t hurt.”
“Oh, yes, it can.”
Cora returned to her laptop and continued perusing her research. Romney turned to the brooding lump in the seat behind him. Tykeso’s lips had pursed. This was straight pouting, terrible on anyone and simply tragic on him.
“Come on. Tell me about it.”
“No,” said Tykeso, looking over to Cora, “it’s based on the idiot ravings of a country bumpkin. I wouldn’t dare sully your intellect with it.”
“Like I said before,” said Cora, “folklore is fine, until you try to make it fact.”
This brought Tykeso back into his seat, bolt upright, hands clenched into fists.
“I am not an idiot, Cora.”
“I didn’t say that,” said Cora. “I said that everything you were saying was stupid. Because it had no basis in the real world.”
“It glowed brighter than the sun,” snapped Tykeso. “How do you refute that?”
This garnered a terrible glare from their driver, reflected in the long mirror above her seat. Romney smiled and waved.
“You explained that yourself. It was sunlight reflecting off a polished blade.”
“No, it wasn’t a flash of light. The sword was emitting light.”
“Then please tell me how a sword glows without using the word ‘magic.’”
“I can’t,” said Tykeso, “but I can tell you that it wasn’t sunlight. It was intense, overpowering, even when I closed my eyes. Almost like a flash grenade, only constant. All I could do was cower on the ground and hope for it to end.”
“Yeah,” said Romney, “it was pretty intense.”
“Please don’t encourage him.”
“Well, what did you see?”
Cora turned in her seat once more and stared at Romney from over the rim of her glasses. At first, she said nothing.
“I was also blinded by a quick flash of light,” she began, in a deliberate tone, “nothing more. It wasn’t a miniature sun burning off the edge of the blade. It wasn’t raw magical power erupting from steel. It was a guy who used an ancient Tambridesian sword technique to bail on a transaction. He probably picked it up on the internet, along with his other mad ravings. It was just another crazy who reads too many conspiracy theories on the internet. That’s it.”
“I don’t know,” said Romney. “I get the flash bang thing. I had to cover my eyes. And there was that loud, grinding noise too. Did you hear that?”
He looked to Tykeso to gauge his reaction. The elf was still sitting bolt upright and glaring at Cora.
“I mean, almost like someone was rubbing two steel girders together,” he ventured, “or bending one in half. You know what I mean?”
“I know what I saw,” said Tykeso. “I am a trained observer, Cora. I saw a bright light, too bright to be sunlight, coming from that blade. It was not a reflection of sunlight. It was a sustained light source coming from the sword. Please stop making that face.”
Cora was looking at Tykeso from the top of her glasses. Her gaze stayed this way as she spoke.
“Then explain why the sword was glowing.”
They stared each other down from across Romney’s seat. Romney knew the answer was magic, but he didn’t know how to say this in front of either of them. So he ventured saying something to break the tension between them.
“Let’s hear him out,” he said. “What do you think it was, Ty? Just say whatever’s on your mind. Anything goes here. We’re all friends, or coworkers. Look, no one’s judging anybody. Any theory is a good theory.”
“I don’t know why,” said Tykeso, sinking in his seat.
“It was a brief flash of sunlight,” said Cora, “nothing more. And unless you present a theory of how the sword could glow, without using the word magic, then I suggest you talk to your doctor about migraines. And you as well, Romney.”
With that said, she returned to the ancient history of Andaran pharaohs and left Tykeso to brood once more in his bus seat. Romney watched him for a moment and rubbed his sideburn thoughtfully. They couldn’t both be crazy, could they? Was it really a single flash of light, like Cora said? What about the grinding noise that seemed to accompany magic? And the dreams, where Katrese explained all of these things in detail? A lot of it made sense at the time. But was it all just part of a bad headache?
When was the last time Romney had been to the doctor? Could he even name the year?
Romney leaned over the back of his seat. Tykeso watched him.
“Let’s just say,” he whispered, “just for the sake of argument, that maybe it was magic. What do you think he could do with a bunch of old magical artifacts?”
Tykeso’s grimace took on a thoughtful shade. He mulled it over.
“I mean, the guy’s loaded, right?” Romney added. “What does he need a glowing sword for?”
Tykeso nodded at this, but he didn’t answer right away. He was trying to find the right words.
“But when the king learned his lands held dreams, all he wanted was to sleep.”
Romney nodded politely at this explanation, but the look on his face must have given him away.
“It’s an old story,” said Tykeso. “When the king learned his lands held gold, he wanted rings on every finger. And when the king learned his lands held mithril, he wanted swords in each hand. But when the king learned his lands held dreams, all he wanted was to sleep.
“Devon Reymus will always pursue the next best thing, whether or not it has value. It doesn’t matter if its magic is real or imagined, he believes them to be powerful. But I know what I saw, Romney. I believe too.”
This stopped Tykeso in his tracks. His arms were crossed once more, his back sinking once more into the flimsy cushions of the bus seat. He had nothing more to say on the matter. Romney turned back to Cora, who was putting earbuds into her ears. Probably listening to a lecture, he thought. He revolved back to Tykeso, who was making his way to the back of the bus. When the elf took his seat, he bowed his head and continued brooding.
Romney pivoted back to Cora, who was scrolling through more research and paying him no mind.
“How long until we get to Tiena?” he asked the bus at large.
No one answered. This didn’t bode well for their road trip. When he turned to the front of the bus, he saw the driver’s scowl reflected in the long mirror. She pointed to the digital clock strapped to her dashboard.
“Eight hours, eleven minutes,” she said. “We will be on time.”
Great, thought Romney.
He decided to catch up on some reading of his own, except that his phone had trouble finding a signal. The articles that did load would only go halfway before exploding into advertisements. One article detailed the latest merger between Reymus Industries and Vock Technologies, where Reymus subsidiaries would provide their microchips at a reduced cost, effectively reducing the total cost of the new 2016 Northstar Cutlass performance sedan, 40 MPG highway, full heads-up display, and driver assistance. The rest of the article had become a jumbled mess.
The next article pertained to celebrities, which caught Romney’s interest with its headline. Could it be true? Did Gaela Oathsworn really call it quits with her new beau, after six months together? Was she really calling off the wedding to that handsome and majestic…
VoPhone 8 with dual 4K cameras and VeriVock facial recognition? Vock Technologies, the future perfect. The article rambled on about graying hair, attractive young singles in his area, and another glowing endorsement of the Northstar Cutlass. To be fair, the Cutlass was a good luxury sedan.