Swans Over the Moon

by Forrest Aguirre

  The victory celebration was bittersweet with the loss of so many knights, but the survivors were drunk with their own successes long before they were drunk with wine. The Judicar gave a brief memorial for the fallen men, a congratulations to the victors, and jokingly ordered all to have fun, on pain of death. But his facade of happiness couldn't last long, he knew, nor could he stand the pain of his wound and keep decorum, so he retired as soon as possible to his bedchamber.

  Selene led her father from the banquet hall to his bedchamber, where she helped him remove his armor. She laid the individual pieces in a velvet-lined chest, arranging them in their proper order. He flopped down onto his chair with a grunt and sipped the healing tea that she had brought to him, watching the girl and noting how different she appeared, in both looks and mannerisms, from her mother. Perhaps her older sisters had taken the most from their mother, leaving her only the leftovers of the matronly inheritance. They were so different, in fact, that the Judicar found it difficult to keep the image of his wife and that of Selene fixed in his mind at the same time, as if one would not allow the other his full attention.

  She helped her father up from his arm chair. Pain shot through his leg, almost causing him to collapse, but he leaned on her for support. He noted, through his pain, how light, yet how powerful, she was. She was thin and short, but her frame felt as if it were constructed of steel. Energy emanated from her like heat from a coal stove, whereas he felt, now, like a spent cinder. He noted also that the Tarans were careful to keep Selene between them and him. They cast wary glances at him, as if expecting punishment at his hand for some misdeed. His leg throbbed, though, and soon all concern about the spirits was swallowed up in a sea of pain.

  Selene guided him toward a side chamber, then left him with a kiss on the cheek so that he might undress completely before entering the small, spherical hot bath room that adjoined the Judicar's bedchamber. Steam disgorged from its mouth like a steel forge at maximum capacity. He disrobed and hobbled up the stone stairway that led to the circular hatch opening. The smell of eucalyptus mingled with cinnamon and clove unguents – meant to cover the medicinal stench of pain-killers in the bath – flooded his head as he carefully lowered his wounded leg into the spiced water. He leaned back, closing the hatch with a spin of the wheeled handle, then sat down heavily in the narcotic water.

  The entire inside of the sphere was carved in low-relief scenes in marble, studded with mosaic tiles. Above hovered the earth, the blue planet forever-present in the sky above Procellarium, a celestial sentinel eye, caught in eternal stasis on the ceiling. One half of the room showed stylized sun rays beating down. The other half showed falling stars, all showering down from the great orb of the sister planet. Midway round the chamber, in a thick band that ran the full inner circumference of the sphere, was a representation of Procellarium, palm trees and oases beneath crater lips, over which crystalline waterfalls spilled into spray. Pillars and arches thrust up through the vegetation, a sensual dance of flora and architecture. Bird and small animals, mostly lemurs and chameleons, moved from branch to branch, some even leaping up into the background of falling stars or sun rays above the buildings and trees. Beneath the band lay a stark landscape of bone-white desert plains and the gray, desolate mountains of the moon.

  Lifeless.

  Sterile.

  Emaciated.

  Sepulchural.

  At the bottom of the sphere, beneath the blood-tinged, churning bath water, lay a carving of a darkened crater, its gaping maw black and all-consuming, an abyss. Only now, these many years since he ascended his father's throne, did he begin to fear that darkness. He looked into it, and tunnel vision closed in on him, drawing his sight into the blackness, his consciousness into the pit.

  From the midst of the void he heard a voice, distant and indistinct, yet familiar. Deep in the well, a muted glittering cloud appeared from nothing at all and slowly coalesced into almost un-decipherable words. Beneath the words merged a female figure, who voiced the words written in the darkness above her. The letters and the figure slowly became clearer, and though they remained difficult to see and hear, as if his ears were stuffed with cotton and his eyes blurred by a sandstorm, he recognized the voice and body as his wife's. He also knew the cadence of those words, burnt on his consciousness so long ago: their last conversation as they lay naked beneath a pillar, spent from lovemaking, lazily caressing each others' bodies. The rumble of rock sliding on rock, followed by the couple's mingled screaming, which grew more and more clear in the Judicar's ears, as if coming out of a tunnel or waking from a dream, immediately preceded a shift in the image and in the voice.

  The image changed from the darkened, barely-recognizable form of his wife to a clearer, lighter, yet still-blurred image of Cimbri, as if she were surrounded in an illuminated mist. Her voice was clearer and seemed to emanate from an area in closer proximity to her body than had her mother's. The old words melted into new letters to reflect the words that Cimbri spoke: “And in the darkness, mother hid this thing from you. She feared that you would not see . . .”

  And again the voice changed as the body and face matamorphosed, now into a vision of his second child, Basia. A faint aura shone around her, outlining her in a glowing light. But her beauty was twisted in anger, her blond tresses flailing in the blackness, a soft, glowing waterfall of gold disturbed by the vigorous action of her shaking head and the wide hand gestures indicating negation. Again, the words formed from the detritus of those last spoken: “No! I am in charge of my own destiny. I will not be the tool of you or your counselors. I refuse to marry for the sake of power. I am in love. Do you remember love, father? Do you? Love? You once had that for mother, but you've forgotten it since she's been gone.”

  Basia's face and form melted into a bright white, almost blinding, shining image of Selene. Her voice was soft, but increased in volume as she spoke. “Father. I love you. With all the affection of a loyal daughter for her father, I do. I love you.” She smiled – but her lips did not move as her voice made its annunciation – and as her smile grew, the whiteness that shone from her grew more and more intense as the volume of her voice increased until, at last, the Judicar's vision was filled and he plunged face first into the water of the bath, blind, save for the image of Selene seared into his brain.

  Chapter 5

  Heterodymus sat opposite the Judicar as they jostled along in their pygmy-born carriage. Blinding spears of light stabbed past the swaying, pitch-black window shades, due to the carriage’s bumpy ride. On the outside, beneath the holocaustic sun, eight pygmies hefted the carriage on two long tree limbs thrust through massive metal rings on the coach's side. The couriers were outfitted with baggy white robes and cloth gauntlets that matched the pure white of the carriage itself, wide-brimmed conical hats like inverted spinning tops, and round goggles with matte-black lenses that completely hid the eyes underneath, making their wearers look like four-limbed white insects from a distance. Horses would have been instantly blinded in such searing white light and, though they would have made the journey more quickly, the beasts could not have endured the trip as well as the pygmies, who had been bred for this very purpose, even retaining their eyes for navigation, unlike their blind palatial cousins. Beneath their flowing robes, their short, taut-muscled legs carried their human cargo with more fluidity than seemed possible for such squat creatures.

  The Judicar donned his own pair of insectoid goggles to protect his eyes from the scalding sunlight before he cautiously peered out from behind the window shade. Heterodymus turned both heads away, holding up an arm for protection from the unbearable light that blared into the carriage, illuminating every interstice. The Judicar scanned the horizon to the south, spotting the distant gray peak of Mons Vinogradov, then let the curtains close. He removed the goggles, then pointed to a parchment map that sat on the table situated between them. The borders of Procellarium were outlined in white, making the nation look like some vast amoeba, sending pseudopodical roads out to se
veral craters outlying the main body, stretching east to west from Crater Delisle to Crater Schiaparelli, and north to south from Angstrom and the Agricola Mountains to Bradley C and D. Euler lay straight east at a distance as wide as Procellarium itself, across a vast stretch of nothingness populated only by highwaymen and the hordes of foul creatures, both pets and scavengers, that attended them. It was for this reason that both the couriers and the carriage's passengers traveled well-armed.

  The spots had just begun fading from Heterodymus' four eyes when the Judicar finally spoke. “We are making good time this eastward journey. Let's go over the situation in Euler while we have a moment.”

  Dexter looked up at the Judicar, then to Sinistrum, who rolled his eyes away to look at the carriage's roof. Finally, avoiding a return to the Judicar's inquisitive gaze, the younger head let his eyes rest on a pile of parchments that were resting on his lap. He thumbed through the series of documents as if he had not heard his liege's words. The Judicar was, at first, simply annoyed by this strange behavior, then concerned as the thought struck him that Dexter did not wish to address the Euler issue.

  Sinistrum, taking his brother's cue, and unable to distract himself with the hands that Dexter was using to collate documents, spoke to the perplexed Judicar, who dropped his head to the table to try to meet Dexter's averted gaze, half-smiling, as if playing peek-a-boo with an angry child in an effort to make it laugh.

  “Your majesty,” Sinistrum began with a stern voice. The Judicar lifted his head to lock eyes with the left head of his counselor. His smile fell, and consternation showed on the ruler's face. Sinistrum continued: “Your majesty, Euler is not . . . particularly amiable to, not aligned with our interests at the moment.”

  The Judicar shoot his head, exasperated. He put his head in his hands.

  “Not another war?” The scar tissue in his leg, only months old, throbbed at the thought. “My men need time to recover and train up replacements for those lost against the Scaramouche.”

  “Our agents see no military buildup, sir,” Sinistrum said.

  “At least not directed against us,” Dexter cut in, finally daring to look up from his papers at the Judicar's face. The ruler looked tired and batterfanged, Dexter thought, ready to suffer a nervous breakdown at any moment. Still, the news must be broken. “They have,” Dexter continued in his softest voice, “been sending more and more troops with their convoys, mostly Gruithuisen pikemen, supported by a smattering of Bessarion crossbowmen. Apparently they have been experiencing more raiding and convoy ambushes in the past several weeks than they have in decades.”

  “From what direction?”

  “North,” Sinistrum answered, the accusatory tone in his voice unmistakable.

  The Judicar breathed deeply, a gloom setting in under his weary eyes.

  “But,” Dexter interjected, “the fault may not be entirely ours.”

  Sinistrum gave a condescending sneer to his body-brother: “Except that all of these raids and ambushes have been carried out by scattered bands of previously-pacifistic Scaramouche.”

  The Judicar looked at the map, focusing on the cartographer's skill and the fine scenes painted along its edges, in order to squelch the pang of sadness that flushed in his chest. He tapped the map, his finger landing on the precise spot of his daughter's grave. Recognizing the place, he recoiled, as if stung.

  Sinistrum continued: “Euler feels that our battle against the Scaramouche has destabilized the region. They fear for the shipment of goods across the northern trade routes.”

  “Not that the Euler 'goods',” Dexter reinforced the sarcasm in his voice by creating quotation marks in the air with his upraised fingers, “aren't a destabilizing influence in and of themselves.”

  The heads began to bicker between them, but the Judicar slowly raised his hand and his voice to stop the argument from developing further. Despite his frustration, he couldn't help but think how ridiculous the climax of an argument must be, should a two-headed being come to blows.

  “Heterodymus, Heterodymus,” the volume increased, “Heterodymus!” he yelled, startling them into silent attention. “You and I both know,” he paused for a moment, thinking on the inadequacy of the word “both” to the situation, then continued, “what the records demand of us regarding the Scaramouche.”

  “Aye, M'lord,” the heads replied in unison.

  “Every eighth month, without fail or reprieve,” said Sinistrum. The Judicar looked pained, his leg throbbing.

  “At midnight,” added Dexter.

  “And you know,” the ruler continued, “of our commitment to Euler, our eternal compact.”

  “Aye, M'lord,” they both foresaw trouble.

  “Then what is the problem? I mean to carry out our side of the old agreements, to the letter.”

  “To the letter, our Judicar,” they resigned themselves to whatever might come to pass.

  “Now, Dexter, recite again to me the doom of change. We will soon be drawing near to our destination.”

  The words clicked on in their mystical rhythms, a metronomic mnemon of ancient date, in lockstep with the slap of thick-skinned pygmy feet against hard-packed moon dust.

  Chapter 6

  The sun was setting over the lunar horizon as they neared the borders of the Barony of Euler. For a few more moments it would shine like fire in the distance, then disappear in a wink, plunging the world into utter darkness, save where the blue planet lent its sun-borrowed glow.

  Straddling the road that led from the south-western most inlet of Mare Imbrium was an immense archway built of light gray stones, each taller than a man standing on another man's shoulders. The arch itself was shallow, perhaps only forty feet at its highest point. And, if one dared challenge the guards who kept watch over the checkpoint that it marked, one could almost walk or ride a horse atop its two-hundred foot width as if it were a bridge. “Almost” because the structure was encrusted with tens of thousands of candles, of all different shapes and sizes, which melded into one gigantic flickering layer of flame. The archway, seen from a distance at night, mirrored the shape, if not the character, of the setting sun. This beacon, which served as the gateway to the Barony of Euler, could be seen for miles across the flat emptiness of the Mare. It was a welcome sight for weary travelers who had spent the day exposed to the danger of attack by the feral packs of creatures and bandits that stalked the uncivilized lands. Both Heterodymus and the Judicar let slip a slight smile – despite the seriousness of their visit – as they passed the guard contingent, who were dancing arm-in-arm, drinking from wineskins and singing bawdy songs of fighting and wenching. All of them, fifty or more, had woven flowers through the seams in their armor and ringed their heads with daisy chains. They turned to let the carriage pass through with a friendly wave before turning back to watch a group of dancing girls who gyrated to an unseen drummer's rhythms.

  “So much for the stalwart keepers of the gate,” Sinistrum hissed, laughing.

  “It's all good fun,” Dexter replied, also laughing. “You can't expect soldiers garrisoned in such a stark place to always be alert.”

  The Judicar smiled and shook his head. “Yes, but odd. Very odd.” His smile faded as his eyes narrowed with concern.

  The remainder of the trip to Euler Crater proper was uneventful. The high walls, built along the circumference of the crater's rim, were well-protected by catapults, ballistae, and archers who kept steady watch over the flats that led to the fortress. The carriage passengers prepared themselves for what ought to be a rigorous questioning of their business, even though it was apparent who was visiting and with whom he had business. Nevertheless, they expected to have to explain themselves as a matter of formality. The Procellarian guards would do the same to important visitors from Euler.

  But the same sort of scene, only this time the soldiers were even more drunk, met them at the city gates. After a jocund mock-hold-up, during which the guards teased, poked, and mocked the Judicar's pygmies, they were let through to meand
er through the twisting streets and intoxicated crowds of Euler until they finally disembarked from their coach at the palatial gates. The pygmies removed their goggles and hats, rushing to the nearest party, much to the locals' delight, judging by the roar of the crowd that received them. The city reeked of fermentation and the sickly-sweet smell of lotus flower being smoked from many-hosed hookahs, like the insides of a school of octopus had been set on fire with dreams of stars and verdant paradises. The royal guards stumbled to let the pair inside the gates, a sergeant passing out on the threshold in the process. Two corpulent, under-dressed prostitutes lifted him off the ground and the gate shut behind the Judicar and his counselors with a bang.

  Once inside, they were met by the court jester, the official emissary of the Baron and his Lady. She was short, nearly a dwarf, dressed in Harlequin black and white checkers: “A long and storied tradition,” she noted brightly as they ascended a long spiral stairway, past tapestry portraits of what must have been former jesters, judging by their ridiculous, yet evolving dress. “And an important part is mine. We have enough clowns here as you, no doubt, saw at the gate. Those rapscallions, however, are amateurs, false dogs, dilettantes. My jest is restrained, calculated, precise. Oh, the guards and the people alike take their jabs, but they do not understand the power of comic self-control. They are the masses, and I am their spiritual exemplar, though they are too drunk or too stupid to realize it. Our whole society is based on the balance, on one hand, of the people writhing in maenadic orgies, their only debauched concern the next intoxicant or orgasm, their only destination the music halls, the pubs, and the brothels. On the other hand are the Baron and his wife – circumspect, thoughtful, demure . . . and downright boring. I am the bridge between the two poles, you see, the fulcrum on which rests the two opposing scales of order and chaos.”