Romney Balvance and the Katarin Stone

by J Jordan

  Victoria crossed to her. In the dim light, Romney could make out that Victoria Costa was a tall, athletic elf in military fatigues, with the typical sunsoaked complexion of a South Andaran. And that was all he could see. The lamp really wasn’t a very good one.

  “Why are you treating us like this?”

  “I trust you, Cora,” said Victoria. “That isn’t the problem. We can’t be too careful with your associates. We need to gather more information on them first, and make sure they haven’t been contacting outside elements.”

  “I can assure you,” said Romney.

  Romney paused to look around the room. He could make out the distinct shape of Tykeso on the floor, and the shade of Cora, and that was probably Victoria moving toward him, and the two shapes near the door were probably armed guards. But something in the back of his aching mind said someone was missing. Who?

  “Where’s . . .

  Lucca? Lacco? He began to feel his bruises more than ever, especially the ones bothered by the ropes. The headache continued its savage campaign behind his eyes.

  “Your pilot is in the hospital now. He was barely alive when we found him. Our people made sure he will get the care he needs.”

  “You don’t have your own facilities?”

  Victoria glared at the dark space where Tykeso was bundled.

  “We have our own means and our own supplies.”

  “You didn’t want to waste precious resources on a poor old elf. Or you couldn’t.”

  “Tykeso, please.”

  “Plenty of weapons and ammo, but not enough essential. Right? Typical mistake of your upstart revolution. Always overlooking the basic provisions. You always want more guns, until you realize you can’t eat them. Now you can eat those leather boots with enough skill. But you’ll want to save those for last.”

  “That’s enough, Mr. Vandesko.”

  “No,” said Romney, slowly, “where’s . . .”

  And that was all he had to say on the subject. The vise-grip of his headache had tightened one last time, and the darkness of the room was complete. He lulled his head back and listened to the howling winds.

  Cora Queldin and the Partisans

  Cora watched what looked like Romney sitting in his chair. He came into focus as she approached. His mouth was open and his face was still.

  “Romney?”

  No response. His jaw was slack. His eyes were rolled into the back of his head. She approached him slowly and pressed two fingers into his neck. There was a pulse. Cora didn’t have the medical background to make these kinds of decisions, but nonetheless she decided that Romney’s pulse was weak. His skin was already starting to burn with fever. And now that she thought about it, his speech had been muddled and slow since before the car ride.

  “Dehydration,” said Tykeso, “or serious head trauma. In either case, he needs a doctor. Maybe one with a complete medical degree.”

  “Silence,” said Victoria. “We can see to him when he wakes.”

  “Of course,” said Tykeso. “Sound medical advice. Leave a concussed man to wake up on his own. The body can heal itself, after all. His brain will just scab over by morning.”

  “Tykeso is right. He needs help,” said Cora. “This could be serious.”

  A door opened, letting more light into the room. Victoria stepped out and looked back at Cora.

  “You can sleep in the house or with your friends. They will have to wait here.”

  Cora looked back to Tykeso. He smiled at her, though she couldn’t see it.

  “I can stay with him. Don’t worry,” he said. “But we have rights as prisoners. Water, food, bathroom breaks.”

  The door slammed shut on his list of elven necessities. Victoria motioned to Cora. She was already at the top of the cellar stairs. Cora fished out her monocle and followed along.

  The large oak front doors opened into a magnificent foyer, which now doubled as a medical bay that spilled into the adjacent reading room on the right. A young man removed his latex gloves and wiped his brow. Victoria spoke to him in Andaran.

  “Please see to the new prisoners in the wine cellar as soon as you can. One is in poor condition.”

  “Prisoners? My Goddess! Since when are we taking prisoners?”

  “Not now, Ramos. When you can.”

  “Of course,” he said, moving into the clinic. “But we have more cactus in bed three.”

  Without another word, he moved on to help the poor revolutionary afflicted with teddy bear cactus. Cora caught a glimpse of the many-spined terror lodged in the poor man’s leg.

  They continued through to the living room, which had been converted to a war room, but temporarily turned back to a living room for a four-player “Battle of Titan Kings” tournament. Cora watched for a moment. She remembered playing a similar game, also called “Battle of Titan Kings,” during her freshmen year at Lanvale Prime. She had lost track of the latest video games after she started grad school. Cora took a moment to marvel at the graphics. They had come a long way. Victoria was already moving to the kitchen.

  The kitchen had kept its typical home-kitchen style, but the people scrambling to prepare dinner looked more professional. One was looking around wide-eyed, her chef’s hat drooping to the side.

  “Tomatoes! How did we run out of tomatoes?”

  Victoria grabbed the nearest passing revolutionary on his way to the war room.

  “Get tomatoes for Regina, please.”

  His course changed on a ten piece, moving for the laundry room toward the carport. He had shed his fatigues along the way, revealing his full civilian attire underneath. When he pulled out of the driveway, he would look like any other Andaran citizen on his way to the store. The efficiency of the Partisans was impressive.

  Victoria moved into the dining room and motioned for Cora to follow her in. Once inside, she shut the doors on either side of the room. Then, with a heavy sigh, Victoria sagged into the nearest chair.

  “They tell you about the glory, and the exhilaration of doing something right, but they never tell you about the stress of managing an army of fifty revolutionaries. Suddenly every little thing becomes a calamity. No tomatoes, Vic. Carlos took my weapon again, Vic. My uniform needs cleaning, Vic. Victoria, we’re out of laundry soap again.”

  Cora took a seat beside her.

  “Tough gig, Vic. What happened?”

  “What happened to the last three Pharaonic scholars before me,” she replied. “I was given the same ultimatum they gave Dr. Rojas and Dr. Villasenor: stop teaching the pharaonic rule or stop teaching entirely.”

  “They can’t do that.”

  “Things are different here, Cora. They may not have the right, but they do have the power.”

  This was true. In 200 years, the Andaran Council had grown a little too comfortable in its role. They had all the trappings of a healthy democracy: election cycles; terms limits on elected officials; separate and duly elected councils for executive, judicial, and legislative matters, with oversight committees for each. And yet, somehow, they still managed to screw it up.

  There is no polite way to put this. Between 1996 and 2024, and from top to bottom, the Andaran Council was utterly corrupt. Think of any particularly nasty thing a politician could do and four out of five Andaran senators were probably doing it, in one form or another.

  Many historians draw the cause back to Senator Alivar Maravado who, in 1948, discovered there was no law that said a senator could only hold one seat in the Council. Instead of fixing this discrepancy, Maravado became the first senator, judge, legislative oversight committee chair in Andaran history. The problem was he wouldn’t be the last. By 1992, the idea of the multifunctional senator was a common one. This event alone didn’t break Andaran democracy, but it didn’t help matters. If senator can be a judge, then why can’t a judge be a senator? The Honorable Gloria Almeda saw nothing wrong with this line of thinking in 1989.

  The Andaran Council was protective of its democratically elected government. Over
the course of 240 years, they had learned to keep the alternatives to a minimum. Anyone teaching pharaonic order was asked to stop. Politely, at first.

  Victoria had resisted. The pharaonic order was just as important as any other aspect of Andrea’s life. She had spent a large portion of her life as a monarch. To truly understand Andrea the Prophet, you needed to know Andrea the Pharaoh. The Andaran Council, Los Federales Centros, and even the local police all disagreed with this sentiment.

  One day, Dr. Victoria Costa paused her lecture on Andrean folklore to address the armed soldiers in the back of her class. She would never get the chance to resume it.

  At some point, she had cast off her barrette. As she told her side of this story, she began looping the rim through her forefinger and thumb. Her grimace had deepened through the telling.

  “With guns?”

  Victoria’s eyes darted to Cora. Her nod was imperceptible.

  “They had already given me plenty of reasons to leave. Death threats on my answering machine, in my email, text messages, blackmail. But soldiers in my classroom? That was the last straw.”

  “That’s unbelievable, Vic,” said Cora. “I’m so sorry. But maybe it was for the best. Now you have the Partisans. And you’re a great resistance leader.”

  Victoria smiled at this. There was a swell of pride in her eyes.

  “Gracias,” said Victoria. “There were moments I didn’t think I could do it. But now, I wouldn’t trade this for anything in the world. I have a purpose here. Every day, I achieve something new. It really is fulfilling work.”

  “Yeah,” said Cora, “that sounds nice.”

  “What about you? What have you been doing?”

  Cora shifted in her seat. The room had suddenly become a little stuffy. What could she say that wouldn’t involve stealing historical relics and selling them to a billionaire mogul? Tough conundrum. She fished her glasses from her pocket and looked at the two separate pieces in her hand. The truth was that before Romney’s proposal, there were two prospects: assistant librarian at Lanvale Central Library and part-time associate at Renada Factory Direct, the clothing store for cool kids-at-heart. The History Department of Lanvale Prime was not accepting applications.

  “Oh,” she said, “research. Applying for positions filled by other people. Writing more papers that never get published. The usual.”

  “What happened to that adjunct position? You were perfect for that.”

  “They hired someone else. Same with the researcher position. And the assistant researcher position. They already had someone in mind and it was never me.”

  Cora leaned in to survey the damage. The frame had suffered a rough break, leaving jagged points on either end of the bridge. The left ear rest swung wide, the hinge bent beyond its limit. Thankfully, the lenses were clear. The frame was in bad shape, but salvageable. She would need glue to fix the bridge. The ear rest would be fine.

  “We can get someone to fix those.”

  “I can do it,” said Cora. “I just need some glue. Super Glue is preferable.”

  Cora pressed the two halves together at the bridge and examined the merger. Parts had chipped away, making an incomplete bond. Glue would still do the trick. She looked up to the fuzzy shape of Victoria, then brought a monocle. Her smile was bemused.

  “What are you up to, Cora?”

  “Trying to see again. I’m getting a headache.”

  “I mean in Andar.”

  Cora shifted the bond between the two pieces of her glasses, trying for a better fit. Another piece chipped off. She sighed. The tape would still work, but the bridge would need more support. What could she brace it with?

  “Cora.”

  “I’m here for Videra,” she said plainly. “Did you even read the email?”

  “I did,” said Victoria, “along with OMAHN’s directory of active members. Yours expired after you graduated.”

  The directory was accessible by active members. Little did Cora know, Victoria had maintained her membership since migrating to Andar for her doctorate. She looked down at her glasses once more. The left lens was fogging under her thumb.

  “It’s private research. I’m working on a book.”

  “About Videra,” said Victoria, her cheer fading.

  “There’s nothing odd about that. She started trade with Camerra. It was an economic boon for both countries.”

  “And it’s been written to death,” said Victoria.

  “I’m writing this from a new angle,” said Cora. “The similarities between Camerran and Andaran cultures may have already established a bridge between them. They share similar religious practices and they have similar themes in their folktales. Andrean Katarinism is almost identical to Katreseanism. So, how did that happen? I intend to find out.”

  “I suggest you read Dr. Villasenor. He addressed those points across several books.”

  Victoria was sitting up straight in her chair now, judging by her blurry shape. Cora fiddled with her glasses a little longer, before it was clear that she didn’t have the means to fix them. She was turning her next statement over in her head. This was a tricky situation.

  “You don’t have to lie to me, Cora. Just tell me what’s going on. What are you doing here?”

  She could easily trust the Victoria from Lanvale Prime, the one who stayed up all night arguing historical events for the fun of it, the one who went to concerts and helped out in the mosh pit, the one who always offered a ride to class. But this was a different Victoria altogether, one with new ideals and a new view of the world.

  Cora did the unthinkable. It started with a question.

  What would Romney do?

  He would spin a crazy half-truth and somehow dig himself deeper into a given mess. And the funny part was that it usually worked. Cora leaned over the table to get a better look at Victoria. She could just make out the shape of her eyes. What details could she leave out? What exactly would she say?

  She hid her smirk. Go full Romney and improvise.

  The Prophet Andrea

  The wind howled and whipped at his face, but the chill of it had deadened. Romney watched from his perch on a rock, as the scene unfolded below. From this vantage, he could only make assumptions of Katrese’s stature. As she stood over the young woman in the snow, she seemed to be the same height as Andrea, whatever that could be. But as Katrese knelt to shoulder her, she seemed much taller. Not that she grew in the time it took to kneel, because there were no elaborate effects involved. It almost seemed like an optical illusion, as if Katrese had stayed the same size but his eye had found a new point of reference.

  Andrea was small on Katrese’s shoulder, like a doll in old robes. Her arms lolled back and forth as the goddess continued up the mountain. After a few steps, Katrese stopped and adjusted her load. Now she carried the prophet fireman-style. It looked more manageable that way. After several more steps up the treacherous incline, she turned back to Romney. Her orange hair was a beacon in the swirling whites and grays. Romney knew her eyes would be the color of frost. Her shout was clear and powerful, even in the icy gales.

  “No, no. I’m fine. I’ve got this. But thank you for offering.”

  Her goddess-like glare spoke volumes to the contrary.

  Romney struggled to his feet, prepared to help lighten her load somehow, but he was stopped by an arm reaching across his chest. This was also Katrese. Perhaps, the real Katrese.

  “Don’t worry. She’s got this,” she said, and then to her doppelganger, “you’ve got this.”

  The larger Katrese continued her trek up the mountain, a sour look on her face.

  “She was so close,” said Katrese. “If she had just kept going, then she would have made it. She lost faith at the last possible instant.”

  “So you intervened again.”

  He looked to Katrese. A sunset’s corona brightened her eyes, but the light was already fading.

  “I don’t get any of this. You keep telling me that you can’t intervene, that the world i
s this giant machine that needs to be left alone, that magic is bad, but then all I see is the good in magic and the need for intervening. I mean, come on. Really? Can you please get your story straight?”

  Katrese was dismayed by this. The dusk deepened.

  “Hang on, wait a minute. No, that isn’t what you’re supposed to take from this. I’m showing you the story of Andrea. Just keep watching.”

  With a wave of her hand, the scene was green and lush with trees.

  A crystalline lake stretched out before them. Andrea lay by the shore, her eyes shifting under their lids. As she came to, the water lapped onto the shore and soaked the edge of her robe. Andrea scrabbled to her knees and began scooping up the water with shaky hands. She drank greedily. It was cold in her mouth. But it was so good. Had there ever been water as clean and clear as this? She continued to drink from the shore.

  Andrea only stopped when she sensed the presence approaching behind her. Her hand reached for the dagger at her side, but the leather sheath was empty. Andrea turned slowly, scanning the beach for a sturdy branch or rock, something to smash with in a pinch. Instead, she found two bare feet attached to an elf maiden in a simple linen robe. Her eyes were gray as the sky. The elf proffered a jar.

  Andrea reached, withdrew, then reached again. Her fingers brushed the cold clay surface, then wrapped over the rim. She tugged lightly. The jar came free in her hands. The maiden took a step back and started to watch her. Andrea dipped the jar into the lake and brought up more of the crystal water. She sipped at the jar, watching the maiden from the corner of her eye. She looked familiar. After another deep draught, she placed a hand on her mouth and then moved it outward. The maiden continued watching, interested by this gesture.

  “Okay,” said Katrese. “This next part is embarrassing.”

  The maiden mimicked the gesture, hand on mouth, then hand outward, toward the ground. Andrea raised a closed fist to her head, with her index finger pressed against her thumb, and then she raised her index finger toward the sky. The maiden mimicked it. With a baffled look on her face, Andrea raised her index finger to her lips, then flicked it forward in a downward motion. The maiden played along.