Romney Balvance and the Katarin Stone

by J Jordan

  “We are going inside an actual pyramid?”

  “With Dr. Costa as our guide.”

  Romney frowned.

  “Our guide? I thought we were only picking her brain for info.”

  “We need more than a flimsy reason to enter the site,” said Cora. “As the eminent historian of the pharaonic age, Victoria has access to every known site in the country. I only gave her the necessary information. Nothing more. Dr. Costa thinks our theory on Videra’s lineage is a remarkable undertaking, and she is excited to join our group. She can bring a lot to our fictional cause.”

  “Then bring us up to speed. What is our theory?”

  Cora nodded patiently. He was beginning to learn how to listen to her.

  “Our theory is that Videra Lucana was a descendant of the Prophet Andrea. That isn’t too large of a fib either. Plenty of texts make the claim, but they never provide anything concrete.”

  “So we are trying to find something that links Videra to Andrea.”

  “And the best place to go would be her final resting place. Her crown will likely be there too.”

  “Likely?” asked Romney. “How likely?”

  “Very,” said Cora. “Pharaohs are buried with all of their personal effects, so they can have them in the afterlife. Her crown would be the most important thing to keep. The other souls would recognize she was a pharaoh and treat her with respect.”

  In her explanation, Cora didn’t touch on the specifics of the afterlife, but it really is very interesting. It involves orbs of light and mystical realms. The Andaran afterlife has many fascinating thoughts on the soul and what it does after death, which this text will not delve into at any depth. The researchers of this text recommend Life beyond the Body, by Dr. Victoria Costa, for a more in-depth examination of the Andaran idea of the afterlife. The text explores the Andaran afterlife in relation to life in ancient Andar. It asks the question, “How did these people come up with this stuff?” It is a well-rounded text, one that stands on years of research.

  The writers of this text suggest Dunes of Calabana. This novel loosely touches on the Andaran afterlife when the protagonist encounters a light orb while journeying through the unforgiving desert. By speaking to it, the protagonist learns that the light orb holds the soul of his late wife. She tells him that his thirst for revenge is slowly killing him and that it will ultimately bring his downfall. The scene is a beautiful one, well-written and with heartfelt dialogue. And it was a true work of art in the movie adaptation. It is also the only scene with any vague semblance of historical accuracy.

  An editor, one of the interns, suggested a novel called Faeth, in which a teenaged girl learns she is a fairy. There are love triangles, male fairies in their underwear, steamy love scenes, and a vampire, to boot. The audiobook is nicely done and even enacts some of the steamier bits. The intern was a nice person who worked very hard, and no one wanted to tell her that it had nothing to do with Andaran culture.

  If the scholars had to pick, then it would likely be Faeth, purchased only on the internet. And only at night. And only if they were absolutely certain no one was looking.

  The plane passed over Terra Antigua without consequence, following the Ten through the desert as it shifted from gray concrete to golden dunes crossed by black highways, and then back again. This is a shame, because there are many interesting things down there that Romney never got to see up close.

  For instance, there is the Mercado Rico in East Terra Antigua, that reenacts the market atmosphere of fifteenth-century Andaran commerce. Merchants peddle wares behind elaborate stalls, dressed in robes, shouting their slogans at passersby. One can imagine Barnibus navigating the market streets, marveling at foreign delights. Camerran markets operated much the same, but there was more cleavage involved, and sass.

  Also, there is La Iglesia Diosa, a quaint chapel in the heart of Central Terra Antigua. La Iglesia Diosa has the robes of the Prophet Andrea on display. Andrea gave up her travel robes when she donned the Katarin vestments, and it is said she did this somewhere near Terra Antigua. Plus, the robes on display look threadbare and lived in.

  They would never see the namesake of Llamarada, the Sun Mirror that once sat atop the Spire of Light. In ancient times, the mirror would catch the noonday sun and the city would appear to be on fire. The effect was fantastic—a brilliant glow that would last the entire afternoon, seen by people as far away as Andarametra. But then came the age of aviation, and the need to see clearly when flying into the city. So the Sun Mirror was moved inside the Spire of Light, where tourists can marvel at its size and make funny faces at its smooth, clear surface.

  Romney missed out on all of these wonderful places, but he didn’t seem to mind. They were approaching Andarametra now. Its long glass towers stretched out into the distance.

  And, of course, Andarametra has marvels of its own. There is the Katarina Reposa, a statue of Katrese that sits atop a hill along the northern edge of the city and welcomes all who arrive. Then there is the Aguas Bailas, a series of water fountains that spray in beautifully choreographed intervals, accompanied by music every half hour. And we can’t forget the sister statues La Diosa y La Profeta at the heart of the city, statues depicting Andrea and Katrese navigating the desert together, hand in hand. They are a work of true artistry.

  These were all lovey sites. Romney wasn’t looking for them in the urban grid below. His focus was on the right-hand engine of the plane. For one, the propeller wasn’t spinning as fast as it had been. He made note of the rising buzz that kept dropping off mid-crescendo, like something inside the engine housing had just gone lopsided. Romney watched the engine carefully. Was that smoke?

  It was. And then there was too much smoke. Everyone heard the loud pop, the “chugga chugga” often related to a mechanical failure, and then a new “spang-puh-puh-clank.” Romney observed the engine as the plane started to shudder. The propeller had stopped spinning. And the engine caught fire.

  Romney was the first to call it out.

  “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!”

  Lorna was out of her chair and strapped into the copilot seat before Romney’s yelp trailed off. Romney followed her in as she snapped her headset into place.

  Lorna tapped at a gauge on the instrument panel labeled “Engine 2 Temp.” The needle inside fluttered, then leapt into the red, then planted itself below the line at the far corner of the gauge. Lucco shouted something in Tambridesian, which caused Lorna to grimace.

  “Now you tell me.”

  A siren chimed and red lights flashed on the instruments panel, with phrases like “Stall” and “Engine 2 Fail” and one in Andaran: “Fuego a Dos.”

  “What happened?”

  “Don’t worry, babe. I’ve got this. Where’s the extinguisher?”

  Lucco pointed, then wrestled the stick back into place. Lorna motioned to it with her head.

  “Can you get that, sweetheart?”

  Romney grabbed hold of a small red lever and pulled. The plane made a hissing sound. Outside, the wreath of flames was smothered in white foam. Lorna motioned to a small knob along the center console with her knee.

  “Now that one, honey. Twist clockwise and push.”

  This resulted in a diseased cough, an awful metallic sound, and nothing else. Romney twisted and pushed again. The metallic grinding was louder this time and lasted a good five seconds.

  “Es muerte,” said Lucco.

  “Again,” said Lorna.

  Romney twisted, made a quick prayer to Katrese, and pushed in the ignition switch. The engine popped and cleared its cough. The propeller outside made two full revolutions before stopping.

  “Once more with feeling,” he cried.

  The engine made a sound best described in onomatopoeia: puchuh-wuh-wuh-wuh-clunk-cuh-clack-clack-keh-pop-pluh-pluh-pluh. It no longer responded to the ignition switch, no matter how many times Romney jammed at it. Lorna sighed.

  “We need to land.”

  Lucco flipped down his headset microph
one and started speaking in Andaran. Many of his words were too fast for Romney to pick up on, but certain words did stand out to him. Like “termina,” which means “end” in Camerran. He also understood the new alarms, because they were spelled out in Camerran on a new light: “Engine 1 Fail.” It was accompanied by the gut-wrenching sound of metal on metal.

  Now Lucco was shouting in Andaran and used the word “chocar.”

  “We are landing whether they like it or not,” said Lorna.

  Then she shifted to Romney and smiled.

  “I’ve got this, stud muffin. Buckle up.”

  Romney clambered into the nearest seat in the cabin and struggled with the seat belt. It clicked just as heavy turbulence rocked the cabin. Romney looked out the left side, just in time to see Engine 1 being liberated from the wing, piece by piece. On his right, Engine 2 was a flaming torch in the evening sky. He closed his eyes and tried to think about something other than the sudden lightness of free-falling.

  The feather in his stomach became a bag of bricks in his face. The accompanying thud nearly lifted him out of the seat. When Romney opened his eyes, he saw the somewhat comforting sight of the ground. It was still moving way too fast. And then it disappeared.

  “Find me another spot,” said Lorna, clear of the pandemonium of alarms and mechanical failures.

  “There!” shouted Lucco.

  The plane rolled. Romney saw the red-and-purple Andaran sky from the windows on his right, punctuated by the torch still clinging to the wing, rippling in the wind. And on his left were the purplish dunes of Andar, mere feet away from the wing tip. They were aimed for a flat spot in the sands outside the city.

  This experience was new to Romney. He had never been in an airplane crash before. Romney imagined the other flight to Andarametra. They probably had beverages and pillows. An airplane that wasn’t on fire.

  “Level,” commanded Lorna.

  The plane rolled flat again, just in time to clip a sand dune, clear another, and land belly-first into a small valley between two more dunes. Romney took a moment to gather his thoughts and take an inventory of his body parts. This gave the advantage to the armed bandits outside.

  When he was finally prepared, Romney stood from his seat, made note of the pain in his lower back, brushed himself off, made note of the pain in his hips, and wobbled out through the new hole in the side of the airplane. He squinted in the remaining Andaran sunlight, now a red half circle in the sky. He could clearly make out the gunmen congregating around the crashed plane.

  Actually, three of them were women.

  They began shouting at him in Andaran, in a dialect common in Andarametra and in parts of Proxa Ultima to the south. Romney had no clue what they wanted, only that their guns were trained on him. He raised his hands up to the sky out of instinct, but it did nothing to calm the gunpeople.

  They approached the wreckage, shouting commands he didn’t understand. He raised his hands higher.

  Cora emerged from the plane, hands out in front of her, her glasses in each hand.

  “Ayudame, por favor,” she said, in flawless Andaran. “No puedo ver.”

  The firing squad swiveled to Cora, who was still squinting at them. One of the gunwomen lowered her weapon and removed the scarf covering her face.

  “Cora?”

  Cora perked up at this. She brought one half of her glasses to her eye and peered through it like a spy glass. She studied the gunwoman briefly, then lowered the glass and cleared her throat.

  “Doctor Costa.”

  Romney Balvance and the Partisan of the People

  Doctor Victoria Costa, preeminent expert of Andaran folklore, prestigious scholar of la historia Andara, and one of only four experts on Andrea Lucana, the Prophet of the Andrean belief. At the zenith of her academic career, she was also a practicing archaeologist, registered with the Onto-Andaran Archeology Coalition, and a prolific author of research papers, essays, and books. In the few years she spent as a professor, Victoria Costa had built an impressive body of academic work.

  But at the age of twenty-eight, these accomplishments had landed her a part-time adjunct professorship with La Universidad Libranueva, a second-rate technical college in eastern Andarametra. At the lowest point in her career, she worked with freshmen. Her wealth of knowledge and her tremendous passion for Andar’s cultural heritage were employed on people who were waiting patiently for the next holiday off. And to Victoria, the reason was clear.

  Andrean scholars are faced with a difficult task. Sure, the lore behind Andrea Lucana is easy to find. There are temples erected to Andrea all over Andar, each claiming to be a spot where Andrea had performed her many miracles. The stories of her feats were carried on in the oral tradition, poems and songs, until they were finally committed to text by Pharaoh Elvira. The task of the Andrean scholar is to find evidence to support these poems. You should always take an epic poem with a grain of salt.

  The task has another difficulty. Practicing Andrean Katarinism—the belief that Andrea Lucana was a prophet of Katrese—is fine. Preaching it is okay too. Even teaching it, except those parts that explain Andrea’s Ascension to Pharaoh of Andar and the pharaohs that succeeded her. Those parts are frowned upon by the modern-day Andaran Council. The rift in Andar between democracy and the old pharaonic rule may be old, but it’s still quite fresh.

  At twenty-nine years old, Victoria found a new calling: The Partisan of the People, a revolutionary movement aimed at overthrowing the corrupt regime of the Andaran Council and replacing it with something more traditional. In a few short months, she would add propaganda development, guerrilla marketing, small-army management, and the safe and effective use of assault weapons to her curriculum vitae. Victoria was always a bright student, always willing to learn new and interesting things. At this particular moment, she was learning prisoner management.

  All of this was too much for Romney to take in at once. He had eased out of the buzzing adrenaline high from the crash and into the dull pain of his various injuries. The handcuffs didn’t help matters, as the bruising in his arms and the blindfold only added more pressure to his mounting headaches. He wouldn’t admit this to anyone, but his bewildered look gave him away.

  “So,” he said slowly, carefully, “Victoria. What was it you do again?“

  He left the question dangling, while the dark world under his blindfold continued its spin cycle. Luckily, he had been handcuffed to the coat hook in the back seat of a car, which provided him a place to lean, though it made his shoulders sore. And his back. And his neck felt like it wasn’t quite back to its normal shape. He made a note to count his teeth later, when his head stopped trying to explode.

  “Victoria Costa is an archeologist, historian, lore master, and distinguished keeper of Andar’s heritage,” said Cora, with a hint of reverence.

  “Freedom fighter,” added Victoria. “I am a Partisan of the People now.”

  Tykeso said nothing, because he was in the trunk of the car. Though, judging from their initial encounter, he had plenty to say on the matter. The other gunpeople decided the elf looked cagey, and was prone to ignoring verbal commands, so they forced him into the trunk at gunpoint. Cora was against this, but Romney was in no shape for the trunk and there was no more room in the car. And, anyway, they only had one blindfold. Tykeso managed to fit inside the trunk after laying in the fetal position and drawing his knees close to his chin.

  The Partisan compound was a two-story house and a detached three-car garage with a burgeoning armory. It also had set of stairs on the side, leading down to a quaint, rustic wine cellar, which was repurposed into a holding cell, though it could also double as living quarters with its own full bath. Cora made note of these with her new makeshift monocle, since she was the only one of the three allowed to go unrestrained. One Partisan asked her to cover her eyes as they approached the house but said nothing when she didn’t. As they pulled into the driveway, various soldiers were busy finishing the final preparations for their new guests.
Two soldiers carried the last of the wine racks out of the holding cell. The rustic decor had been covered with bedsheets, and an ominous, yet strikingly vogue lamp was added to the middle of the room. It looked like something one might find in the clearance section of a furniture store.

  Romney was moved down to the cellar and tied to a chair with climbing rope. After some final preparations to the decor, his blindfold was removed. He squinted at the dim shapes in the room. One of the shapes approached, carrying a small sun on the end of a fancy-looking shape. The person held the light to his face.

  “What are you doing?” The voice belonged to Cora.

  “We don’t trust them,” said Victoria, their host. Her voice was closer.

  “Please don’t do that,” said Romney. “My head is killing me. I think I have a brain injury. A real one, this time.”

  “These are my associates, Dr. Costa. I’ve already explained this.”

  “We don’t trust them,” said Victoria. “Especially not your friend in the corner.”

  The burning light made a brief transition to the far corner of the room, where Tykeso sat on the floor, mummified in various ropes and bungie cords. Then it returned to its orbit over Romney’s face, where it continued to burn small holes through his eyelids.

  “Vic, please. This is ridiculous. Stop it.”

  “Where do you come from, little man?” said the sun wielder.

  “Lanvale, North Ontar.”

  “And who do you work for?”

  “For OMANH,” said Cora. “He is a field researcher working with me and Mr. Vandesko. Give me that.”

  The sun retreated with Cora to the middle of the room, where she dumped it unceremoniously on the floor. It wobbled a second, and then righted. The light caught the edges of Cora’s glare.

  “I explained this in our email. We are here to research Videra.”