Romney Balvance and the Katarin Stone

by J Jordan

  The soul of the pharaoh waited for a pause, before continuing with the introduction.

  “What is the duty of the pharaoh?”

  Romney thought about the pharaohs he had seen and what Katrese had showed him in his dream. They built things and made sure their people had all the necessities. They all seemed to help people.

  “You help people,” he ventured. “You help them and use your power wisely, of course. And you are kind to others.”

  Romney squirmed on the last part. But judging from the sudden gust of warm air around his face, he realized his answer was entirely wrong. It felt like his Camerran professor glaring over horned spectacles, judging every syllable in his answer and condemning them all. A voice from the center of the crowd cleared her ethereal throat.

  “A pharaoh’s duty is to guard her people, to feed and nurture them, and to care for the sands of Andara.”

  “Reyna! ¡Cállate!”

  “He was close,” said the twin sister, Reyna. “He knows the troubles and he has spoken to the goddess. You don’t really need anything else.”

  “And he was honest,” said another voice, left of center. “That counts for something in my book.”

  “Agreed. He is a good hijo.”

  “Let him through, Reysa.”

  The Voice rounded on Romney, her invisible glare magnified by the oppressive dark.

  “What is the duty of the priestess?”

  “To pass on the words of the goddess and to teach the troubles of magic,” said the voice of Reyna. “Also, to keep the lore of Andrea and to remember her predecessors. To serve Andara and its people faithfully.”

  There was an uncomfortable pause as the two unseen twins glared at each other from across the invisible throng.

  “I hate you.”

  “Girls,” said the matronly voice.

  “She always ruins my ceremonies.”

  “What did you say his name was? The strong one, I mean.”

  “May I please finish the introduction?”

  There was no immediate objection. The Voice, Reysa, continued.

  “You may now enter Hirna Andrea, resting place of the prophet, the mother of Andar, keeper of magic, protector of the goddess, and her flock. Remember, you are a guest here. Show respect to our home and—may I help you?!”

  “Yes, hi, I had a question for Romney.”

  Romney felt the heat rise around him, as the myriad former priestesses and pharaohs turned on one. She paused before speaking.

  “Hi, Romney. You said you were looking for the crown. The Crown of Videra? Do you know why?”

  “I am here to preserve it,” said Romney. “To protect it from my employer, Devon Reymus.”

  “That’s very noble,” said Videra. “Thank you. But do you really know why this Devon person wanted it?

  “He’s collecting magical artifacts. And I think he intends to use them for something. I don’t know what it could be, but I have a feeling it’s something bad.”

  Ah,” said Videra. “Yes. Okay. But my crown wasn’t anything special. I mean, it wasn’t magical.”

  The Crown of Videra was a truly magnificent sight, assuming you believe the personal accounts of Barnibus Smoak. And why wouldn’t you? Barnibus described the crown as a golden band, crusted with stars and adorned with the feathers of the rare emerald phoenix. This would make for an impressive display, especially with Videra’s gown of shimmering silk and the many jeweled rings on her fingers. But of these adornments, Barnibus was most transfixed by her crown. He would go on to describe Videra as the Queen of the Birds, or the Bird Queen, with a note to ask a poet for a better descriptor.

  As an interesting aside, there is a name scratched out in the margins of his original manuscript: the Owled Lady.

  We can’t make this stuff up.

  Barinbus makes constant reference to Videra’s plumage, particularly to the brilliant gemmed band across her forehead “like stars that walk the Earth.” If a researcher was looking for the right details, then the crown would certainly send up all kinds of flares. But the facts are far less interesting.

  Videra’s crown was a fancy headpiece indeed. A true marvel of ancient Andaran metalworking and a valuable piece in its own right. But it wasn’t magical. Not even a little bit. Perhaps, if one tried to incorporate “magical” as something majestic, but that is the only way the word would stick.

  Romney’s sigh was lost in the murmur of the unseen crowd. The voice of Videra rose over the murmur.

  “My necklace, on the other hand . . . ”

  On the other hand, Barnibus never mentioned Videra’s necklace. Not even in passing. And it goes without saying that she would be wearing one. The odd thing is that, in the original manuscript, all mentions of Videra’s neck are also scratched out.

  Romney would find these bits very interesting, had he known them at the time. And he would find them even more interesting, because Cora didn’t even know about them. She would never admit this either.

  “It was as pale as the moon,” said Videra, “and smooth. Simple in shape, and plain, but beautiful and very powerful. It was my greatest possession.”

  “Her necklace lies in the deepest parts of Hirna Andrea,” said Reysa, “along with the rest of our magical possessions. Tread carefully in these parts. For the rivers are strange there and their waters are not as they seem.”

  “Don’t trust your eyes and ears down there. The magics there have twisted the veil of reality.”

  “Thank you, abuela,” said Reysa, “but that’s what I meant by the waters being . . . forget it. Be careful, Romney Balvance, and always remember the words of the goddess. Please step out of the brazier.”

  Romney nodded, and then struck a dramatic pose, fist clenched out in front of him, brow fixed in determination. He stood this way for a long beat, trying to think of something heroic. He settled on the first thing that came to mind.

  “I won’t let you down.”

  “Great,” said Reysa, partially impressed. “We trust you to do the right thing. Now, please step aside and let your tall elven friend in.”

  “And this time, I will do the talking,” said the distinct voice of Elvira.

  Reysa’s rebuttal was a slight disturbance in the air, a whispered breath and a warm spot on his cheek. Romney had stepped out of the brazier and could already feel the weight of the world crashing down on him again. Victoria and Tykeso watched him, standing by the entryway to the temple. Tykeso had propped Victoria up like a human shield, peering nervously over her head.

  “All right,” said Romney, “Tykeso is up next. I’m going to go find Cora.”

  Romney headed for the corridor. He could hear Victoria struggling with the large elf, coaxing him to step into the brazier. He continued on into the corridor, flashlight sweeping from wall to floor to wall and his mind on the task at hand.

  Chances were good that Mila already knew about their change of plans and was working to stop them. If it wasn’t the Andaran military on their tail, then it was likely something worse. Some den of crooks with rap sheets that took hours to unfurl. People that Lorna would call “moderately adept,” a frightening thought to say the least. But there was no point in worrying, Romney thought, because they still had time to work this through. Romney would do everything in his power to keep these magical things, these pieces of history, away from Devon Reymus, Mila Rin, and anyone who wanted to exploit them for their own devices.

  The world was a precious thing, even with its flaws. And every act to protect it was a noble endeavor. Romney ventured deeper into the temple, his chest swelled with a gulp of pure bravery. He would fight whatever came for him and his associates. His friends. And he would die for them, if it came to that. But it wouldn’t come to that, he reassured himself, because they would find a way to protect the magic, together. And maybe it would involve some improvisation.

  Romney stopped walking. The sounds of Tykeso and Victoria had faded away a while ago, without his noticing. Romney pointed his flashlight st
raight ahead, hoping to illuminate a far wall or even the back of a historian, but the beam was swallowed in the dark.

  “Cora?”

  His voice carried a foot in front of his face, then crashed dead into the darkness. It was like talking into an umbrella, except that the sound did not return. There was an emptiness to this darkness and a terrible completeness to its silence. The bravery in Romney’s chest deflated by degrees. It seemed that even the souls of the past dared not tread this far in, even if they were watching. Romney sucked in another deep breath and continued on. He would run into Cora soon enough.

  The Passage

  Cora turned and pointed her flashlight down the corridor once more. And again, the light fell on an empty passage. This was the third time she had felt the presence behind her. It was likely a hallucination, she reasoned, brought on by sensory deprivation over a long period in darkness. The mind was trying to fill the unfamiliar space with noise and life, like minds tend to do, but there was simply nothing to work with. Cora shook the feeling quickly and returned to the task at hand. She kept a notepad in her pocket, with a pen clipped through the spiral and marked every turn she made in the passageway. So far, she had five recorded turns. And oddly, they were all left turns. There were no branches in the path either. Her free hand brushed against the smooth stone walls as she moved, searching for some kind of opening or depression along its surface. No grooves or depressions in the walls either. No doors or entryways, not even fine seams of a hidden entrance. It was just a smooth, straight path that continued on for a ways, then made a sharp turn left, and then continued on a ways more, like a squared spiral. Cora continued on, nonetheless, since there was no other way to go. She had to be getting close to an antechamber, wherever it was.

  There were troubles making assumptions of this place. Cora was likely the first non-worshipping visitor in thousands of years. She had tried making comparisons to the Andaran pyramids, but it was already clear that this place was different. For one, there were no etchings or murals, nothing made to commemorate a priestess, no long script warning trespassers of the perils beyond. The walls were smooth and continuous, just as they were on the outside. The effect was unsettling.

  Cora turned again and pointed her flashlight down the corridor behind her. The sensation passed once more.

  This was becoming an annoyance. She straightened up.

  “Anyone there?”

  Her voice carried through the passageway, cut short at what she assumed was the previous turn. But there was something odd about it. As the sound moved outward, another voice approached, riding along the same wavelengths like an echo hitchhiking. The voice was familiar.

  “Cora?”

  The voice sounded like Romney. But it also had the breathy qualities of a whisper.

  “Romney?”

  Again, the voice trailed behind hers.

  “Cora?”

  “Stop whispering and get over here.”

  Cora watched the darkness for signs of Romney. He would emerge from the right, she reasoned, accompanied by Victoria and Tykeso. For several long seconds, this didn’t happen. There was a point when the darkness shifted, as if to make way for someone, but Romney and company never emerged.

  This was just an overactive imagination. Her mind was creating movement in expectation of something. It was merely putting motion into empty space and adding shapes to it. For instance, Cora’s mind added a lamp on a nightstand to the far-left corner of the corridor and a pale-blue hue to the walls. And then it unfurled a burgundy rug over wood flooring. Cora squinted at it.

  “Just follow my voice,” Cora began, still composed. “Use the wall as a guide.”

  She moved to the shape of the lamp. It remained in place, which was odd for a hallucination. Then again, she reasoned, the brain was a powerful tool. It was the single most important organ of the Modern era, perhaps all of time.

  The brain is a tool of envisioning. It is the lens through which we perceive creation, said a collection of philosophers over the course of history using various phrasing. If Cora’s brain wanted there to be a lamp on a table, in the middle of a forgotten religious sanctum, then by Goddess there would be one. It didn’t need a reason. And so there it was. A red clay lamp, with a fine shiny glaze, sitting on a small end table. Cora swiped her hand over the lamp to test its validity. This was another fantastic aspect of the brain— the capacity to explore curiosity, to test hypotheses through experimentation. Her fingers connected with its cold surface.

  The lamp rocked on its table, lost balance on the last wobble, and toppled over into Cora’s open arms. She growled.

  “Ridiculous.”

  A light clicked on behind her. Cora turned, lamp tucked under her arm. She had to shield her eyes from the oncoming light.

  “This has to be the stupidest prank I have ever seen.”

  There was a figure silhouetted in the light. And it definitely wasn’t Romney. It was too tall, for one. And too wide.

  But there was something familiar about the shape. Cora couldn’t pinpoint the exact person at the moment. And for some reason, her flashlight refused to reveal any features, even with the beam pointed directly at its face. She tried taking a step forward to get a better look, but something in the deepest parts of her brain told her to stay put. Sure, the brain was a tool for insight and for exploring curiosity, but it also carried an emergency kit for things like this. A little black box with the word “Instinct” printed on the top in bold lettering. And at this point, Cora’s subconscious had cracked it open and was thumbing feverishly through the manual. Instinct had experience in discerning shapes in the dark, passed from hunter to historian over eons. This particular shape fell under the “flight” category.

  This is ridiculous, she thought. It’s probably just Tykeso.

  “Ty?”

  The figure straightened and then moved to cross its arms. It did nothing else.

  “Romney? Vic?”

  It had no sideburns either, and its giant, muscular frame ruled out Victoria. It was closest to Tykeso in stature. It even had its long hair tied in a knot on top of its head. But was Tykeso really that tall? How tall was this person? Six feet five? Six feet six? Cora took a cautious step forward and focused her light directly on the figure’s head. The act revealed nothing. Who was this person?

  The figure spoke. His voice was deep and his accent Andaran.

  “Who is ‘Ty?’”

  Cora dropped the imaginary lamp. It crashed into pieces on the hardwood floor. Cora knew that voice. And it wasn’t supposed to be in a temple in North Andar.

  “Answer me, young lady.”

  Cora didn’t reply. She screamed.

  ◆◆◆

  The scream carried through the halls of Hirna Andrea. And when it reached Romney, it was as if she had been screaming mere inches from his face. It trailed off up ahead.

  Romney broke into a dead run, his flashlight sweeping the ground in front of him.

  It was Cora, it had to be. There was no doubt in Romney’s mind. It was a scared sound, like someone being surprised by a hidden trap. Those usually had spikes on them and crushing weight. The terrible visuals played in Romney’s head. He picked up the pace.

  But something wasn’t right. For some reason, Romney couldn’t hear his feet hitting the ground anymore. It was stone and his shoes were slapping against it, but there wasn’t any thudding. He couldn’t hear his own breath. It was like that part in every space adventure movie, when we stand beside the astronauts and try to hear inside their suits. Romney could feel each breath enter through his nose and leave through his mouth, but there was no whistling sound and no huff of air. The sounds weren’t muffled. They were missing.

  “Hang on, Cora.”

  His brain had thought it up and his lungs, throat, and mouth had all played their part. But the words never came out.

  Romney was now in a full sprint, kicking up dust as he scorched down the corridor. His legs burned, his chest heaved, his heart and lungs pumped i
n labored sync. All of it silent.

  ◆◆◆

  Tykeso didn’t hear the scream. It was lost in the bickering sounds of Hirna Andrea’s guardian souls. They were in a heated debate between getting through the introduction without interruption and stopping it to settle which pharaoh was administering the test. The current question they were stuck on was “Why are you here?” Reysa and Elvira were bickering over who was going to ask.

  Victoria was jolted by the shriek. She turned to the passage.

  “Cora.”

  She reached into the brazier and tugged at Tykeso’s sleeve.

  “Cora’s in trouble,” she called to the bewildered elf. “I am going in.”

  “No,” he said, “let me go with you. Please.”

  “The introduction is not over!” shouted Reysa, over the din of arguing voices and hedge bets. “You cannot leave the brazier.”

  “Don’t worry, Ty. I will find her.”

  “Is that Victoria? Is she with you?”

  “Complete the ritual,” said Victoria. “I’ll be back with Cora before you finish. Promise.”

  And with that, Tykeso’s sense of safety bolted down the corridor and out of sight. He turned to the unseen crowd and gulped.

  ◆◆◆

  Romney could see the light at the end of the tunnel, a diffused point in the darkness. He charged onward, feet hitting their mark with each stride without a sound. The burning in his legs was working its way into glutes, but he continued putting one foot in front of the other. The light at the end grew with every step. But Romney could already tell there was something wrong. He couldn’t remember which flashlight Cora had taken with her, but now that he really thought about it, they didn’t bring one big enough to cast this kind of light. And if he was being honest with himself, they had no flashlights with a bluish beam. The light source was coming from the floor. An uneasiness mingled with the stitches in his stomach, but he pressed on. Cora was near that light. She had to be.