by Clayton Wood
“How do you do it?” Hunter asked. “I wanted to bash your skull in with that thing,” he added. “No offense.”
“None taken,” Thorius replied. “It isn’t easy,” he added. “It takes a lot of practice. There’s an old Seeker saying: ‘emotion is temporary, action is forever.’ Acting on your impulses will rarely benefit you. Developing a strong foundation of self, of a core being that is undeniably you, is the key.” He sighed. “But first, we must create a better you.”
“A better me?”
“That is the purpose of your medallion,” Thorius explained. “Come,” he added. “We should go for a walk.”
With that, Thorius led Hunter out of the Guild of Seekers and across the bridge over the moat, to the courtyard beyond. They crossed the courtyard quickly, heading into the streets of Lowtown. The streets were crowded, likely due to the noon lunch break, and they would have had trouble making their way forward if it hadn’t been for Hunter’s disagreeable appearance.
“What do you notice about these people?” Thorius asked, gesturing at the crowd around them.
“They’re assholes,” Hunter replied. Thorius smirked.
“Perhaps to you,” he conceded. “Can you tell me why?”
“They think I’m contagious,” Hunter answered. “That they’ll turn brown like me.”
“And what do you think about that?” Thorius pressed. Hunter shrugged, remembering Trixie’s subtle tan…and how her eyes had started to turn green when she’d been around him for too long.
“I think they’re a bunch of racists.”
“Hmm,” Thorius murmured. “You think they hate you because of the color of your skin?”
“Don’t they?”
“No,” Thorius replied. He pulled out the crystalline orb from his pocket, holding it out at Hunter. Hunter took a step away from it reflexively.
“What are you doing?” he demanded. Thorius put the sphere back in his pocket.
“Why did you back away?” he inquired.
“Because I don’t like having my emotions screwed with,” Hunter answered. “And I’d prefer not to murder anyone today, thank you.”
“You want to stay yourself,” Thorius stated.
“That’d be nice.”
“Isn’t that all these people want?” Thorius inquired, gesturing at the people around them – giving them wide berth, as usual.
“Well yeah, but that’s different.”
“Oh really?” Thorius pressed, raising his eyebrows. “Tell me, what makes you you?”
“My personality,” Hunter replied. “My memories, my thoughts…”
“And your appearance, correct?” Thorius stated. Hunter paused, then nodded grudgingly. “What if you woke up tomorrow and looked like someone else? How would that make you feel?”
“Not great.”
“What if you knew that, just by being close to someone, you might start to lose who you were?” Thorius pressed. “Your appearance, your personality, your thoughts?”
“Well yeah, but that doesn’t really happen like that, does it?” Hunter countered. “I mean, sure they might get a little tan, but that’s it.”
“Not true,” Thorius retorted. Hunter stared at him. “Emotions aren’t the only thing that objects – including people – absorb and transmit. Personality, appearance, skills…all of these qualities are transmittable.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“I’m quite serious,” Thorius insisted. “Every aspect of who you are is ‘contagious,’ as you put it. It is exactly the same as the process that changes emotions, only slower. The more powerful the trait, the more rapidly it will be absorbed by another. Proximity and duration of exposure determine the extent of change.”
“You’re saying I could change peoples’ personalities?”
“And they can change yours,” Thorius added. “And everything else about you.”
Hunter stared at the people around him. Suddenly it didn’t seem so insulting that they chose to stay away from him. He turned to Thorius.
“Why aren’t you afraid of me?” he asked.
“Traits are absorbed more quickly in those whom those traits are weak,” Thorius explained. “People with weak wills are more easily influenced by those with strong wills. Conversely, people with strong wills – such as myself – have less to fear. We’re far more likely to change others than be changed ourselves.”
“What about me?” Hunter pressed. He’d been around Trixie a lot recently, and Sukri, Gammon, and Kris. Had they changed him? He felt the same as he always did, but would he really know if he was different?
“You have a strong will,” Thorius reassured him. “That is, in part, why you were chosen as a candidate for the guild.”
“So I haven’t changed?” Hunter pressed. Thorius chuckled.
“Regrettably, no.”
“So you’re saying that anyone can change anyone else…just by being close to them for long enough,” Hunter stated.
“Correct…depending on their will.”
“Wow,” Hunter muttered. “Damn.”
“So you see,” Thorius continued, “…these people don’t hate you because of your skin. They don’t hate you at all. They just don’t want to lose who they are. And everything about them…their skin color, hair color, eye color, customs, beliefs…defines who they are. ‘Mixing’ with you, or anyone else who is greatly different from them, would threaten their very identity.”
They rounded a corner, reaching the church plaza. Thorius stopped in the middle of the plaza, watching as people filed in to the massive building. He kept well clear of the crowd, and people kept well clear of them.
“Look at these people,” Thorius said, gesturing at the line. “What do you see?”
Hunter did so. The people were all tall, thin, with blond hair and blue eyes. They could all have been part of the same lily-white 1950’s family. It was like the Brady Bunch’s big family reunion.
“They’re all the same,” he observed.
“They are one people,” Thorius explained. “United by a shared ancestry, shared appearance, shared customs. They don’t fear each other because they’re one race.”
“I get it,” Hunter conceded.
“Imagine if your family were the same,” Thorius continued. “And a stranger – looking differently than you, talking differently, with strange customs – came to live with you. If you let him, that stranger would forever change you. He would, by mixing with you, make you different than your family. You would no longer belong. And if you were to then stay near your family, they too would begin to change, until everything that made you you – and everything that made your family what it is – was destroyed.”
Hunter said nothing, watching the line of people. Then he turned to Thorius.
“I get it,” he repeated. “I don’t like it, but I get it.”
“Look down,” Thorius ordered. Hunter did so, seeing the large rectangular stone blocks that made up the floor of the plaza. “What do you see?”
“Stone,” Hunter answered.
“And what does stone do?” Thorius pressed. Hunter blinked.
“It stores emotions,” he answered. Thorius raised an eyebrow.
“And?”
“And other traits,” Hunter added.
“These stone slabs were placed here purposefully,” Thorius explained, gesturing at the ground. “Every time a particularly devout citizen dies, they’re buried here, beneath one of these gravestones.
“These are graves?” Hunter blurted out, taking a step back.
“They are,” Thorius confirmed. “And the bones of the devout lay directly below, exuding the traits of those who died. The gravestone absorbs these traits, and transmits them up to the people near the church.”
“Making everyone more devout?” Hunter asked. Thorius nodded.
“In this way, the devout are rewarded with a prestigious grave, and the populace benefit from the desirable traits of the deceased.” He gestured at the church. �
��The most devout have their bones added to the altar, where worshippers will benefit.”
“Making sure everyone drinks the Kool-Aid,” Hunter concluded. “Got it.”
“The what?”
“Never mind,” Hunter muttered. “So if I stand here long enough, I’ll start believing this sh…tuff?” Thorius frowned.
“You seem skeptical of our religion,” he observed. “Why?”
“You worship some guy named Tykus,” Hunter replied with a shrug. “I don’t believe anyone is worthy of worship.”
“That may be true,” Thorius reasoned. “But are some men worth emulating?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“And that is what our religion is truly about,” Thorius explained. “We worship Tykus, yes…because He was a model human being, of superior intellect, will, and wisdom. If more people emulate Him, they will benefit from it by elevating themselves. The kingdom itself benefits from a populace of superior intellect and wisdom, does it not?”
“Alright, I’ll give you that one.”
“To worship is to revere, to recognize the superior qualities that make something worthy of admiration and adulation. Tykus is worthy of this.”
“Still seems like a cult to me,” Hunter retorted.
“You have a strong will,” Thorius replied. “You naturally resist things that are not you.” He sighed then, turning away from the church and beginning the walk back to the Guild of Seekers. “Come,” he urged. “I want to show you one more thing.”
They made their way back to the guild, and Thorius led Hunter to their usual meeting room. The Master Trainer gestured at Hunter’s medallion.
“This is made of obsidian,” he stated. “Can you guess its function?”
Hunter frowned, grabbing the medallion and turning it over in his hands. Then he closed his eyes, taking stock of how he was feeling. A little tired, but otherwise neutral. He waited, but felt nothing else, and opened his eyes, shaking his head.
“I can’t tell.”
“There are no significant emotions in it,” Thorius informed him. “But there is a great deal else.”
“Like what?”
Thorius burst forward suddenly, shoving Hunter backward. Or at least he tried to; Hunter stepped to the side just in time, shoving Thorius’s shoulder. The man fell into a backward somersault, rising to his feet in one smooth motion.
Hunter stared at Thorius, then at his own hands. He hadn’t even had time to think about what to do, yet he’d reacted instantly to Thorius’s attack.
“How the…”
“The medallion,” Thorius interjected calmly, “…transmits skills.” He smiled. “Skills we Seekers find valuable, such as self-defense.”
“You mean I learned that from a rock?” Hunter asked. Thorius smirked.
“A carefully produced piece of obsidian,” he countered, “…exposed to experienced Seekers over long periods of time. Engineered with the singular purpose of making you,” he added, pointing at Hunter’s chest. “…more like them.”
Hunter glanced down at the medallion resting on his chest, then back up at Thorius.
“So you’re saying if I wear this, I’ll end up as good as them?” he asked. Thorius shook his head.
“Not quite,” he replied. “Skills – and every other absorbable trait – can never as powerful as their original source.” He gestured at the medallion. “Something is lost every time their skills are transferred. Your medallion holds less skill than the Seekers who made them, and you in turn will hold less than the medallion. Anyone exposed to you will absorb even less. The original source of the trait is always the most powerful.”
“Oh,” Hunter replied. He touched the medallion. “That’s why you want us to carry these things with us all the time,” he realized. “To maximize our exposure.”
“That’s right,” Thorius agreed. “And why you can’t wear it when others are close by, such as the prostitute you’ve been enjoying.”
Hunter felt his cheeks flush, and was thankful for his dark skin.
“I didn’t know,” he protested. “Ekrin had her show me around town, and one thing led to another…”
“I understand your innocence,” Thorius replied. “And your handler was doing what he thought was right, ensuring that you would remain…occupied at night, so as not to get in too much trouble.”
“What do you mean?”
“The kingdom has had trouble with Originals in the past,” Thorius explained. Or rather, with one particular Original. Ensuring that you were…well taken care of served the purpose of endearing you to the kingdom. Tykus hardly wants another Civil War.”
“I heard about that,” Hunter said. “Some Original came fifty years ago, starting the war?” Thorius nodded.
“A woman much like you,” he confirmed. “With dark skin, and a strong will.”
“She was black?” Hunter asked.
“Brown,” Thorius corrected. Hunter frowned, staring at the Master Trainer for a long moment.
“What was her name?” he pressed. Thorius hesitated.
“That’s an interesting question,” he replied. “Why do you ask?”
“Just curious,” Hunter said. Thorius sighed.
“Her name,” he answered, “…was Neesha.”
Chapter 11
The Lord Duke Dominus’s carriage stopped in front of the massive portcullis of Tykus, the only way through the great wall surrounding the city. One of the two guards at the gate walked up to the side of the carriage, peering inside. Of course the guard knew that it was Dominus’s carriage, by virtue of its unique appearance, and by the literal army of soldiers that had accompanied him. But the guard was still obligated to check. Dominus had designed the wall, and the system of securing it, himself, by the king’s request. One guard would verify the identity of anyone requesting entrance, while the other guard stayed behind in case of an ambush. More guards were hidden above, within the wall, peering through narrow slits. Archers could attack through these slits, killing potential intruders. And even if someone managed to fool the outer guardsmen, there was still the inner portcullis to protect the city, with a large number of soldiers occupying the relatively narrow tunnel in-between, able to surround and destroy the enemy.
Not a single intruder had gotten by the system since its construction.
The guard saw Dominus, then bowed deeply.
“My Duke,” he greeted. He gestured at the other guard, and moments later the portcullis began to rise. Nearly a meter thick, the gate was wrought of steel, and utterly impenetrable. When it finished opening, the carriage moved forward again, entering the tunnel beyond. The inner portcullis opened soon afterward, Dominus’s carriage – and his army of soldiers – passing through into the street beyond.
“Will the coronation be today?” Axio inquired. Dominus nodded.
“Tykus must be reborn in our newest king,” he declared.
Axio hesitated, then cleared his throat.
“Will anything of you be left?” he asked. Dominus sighed.
“When the process is complete,” he replied, “…very little of the man who lived before will remain. He will be, for all intents and purposes, Tykus himself.”
They stopped before the grand stairway to the Acropolis, and the driver detached the horses from the carriage, pulling them to one side. Dominus’s guards swarmed around the carriage then; there were small posts on the sides, and the guards grabbed these, heaving the carriage up off of the ground. More guards removed the wheels, and then began the long journey up the massive staircase, carrying the carriage above the stairs. His guards would replace each other as they tired, carrying the carriage all the way up to the inner wall surrounding the Acropolis. Dominus of course could not have made it up the stairway himself; it’d been nearly a decade since he’d made this trip on his own legs.
How time had betrayed him, decay rotting his body slowly, from the inside! His lifeblood barely flowed through his arteries; it was only a matter of time before it stopped altogeth
er. Every bit of flesh on his feet that died, grew black and withered away, was a reminder of the inexorable march of time.
Of his impending doom.
“I think I understand how the king serves,” Axio stated. Dominus regarded the boy silently. Axio was staring off into the distance, a troubled look on his face.
“I suspect you do,” Dominus agreed.
“How long does it take?” Axio pressed. Dominus sighed.
“It varies,” he answered. “In the relatively weak-willed, very little time. In the strong, it takes longer. But in the end, all are converted.”
Axio fell silent then, and the carriage continued up the stairway. It was a long time before it reached the inner wall surrounding the Acropolis. Every bit as robust as the outer wall, it protected the aristocracy not only from intruders, but from the populace itself. A keen reminder of the Civil War, and the terrible power that the people could wield when the illusion of powerlessness was shattered.
The carriage stopped before yet another portcullis at the top of the stairs. Again guards came to verify Dominus’s identity, and again the portcullis opened, revealing a tunnel identical to the first. The guards re-attached the wheels, and a second set of horses were brought from the tunnel and attached to the carriage. They moved forward, undergoing the mandatory secondary checks, and then passed through the second portcullis…and into the courtyard beyond.
The large courtyard stood between the inner wall and the Acropolis, surrounding it completely. Its gardens were far different than those at Wexford, a spartan number of ornamental trees and bushes forced into twisted shapes by the royal gardeners. Dominus far preferred his own gardens, with its much larger variety of wild plants. A novice would assume the Acropolis’s gardens to be superior, ignorant of the far greater effort Dominus had employed to force such diverse species into a happy co-existence.
Much as he had done within himself.
He stared at a few of the gardeners tending to the courtyard, watching them kneel as the carriage passed. All of them of royal blood, steeped in the essence of their ancestors. Blond-haired, blue-eyed, with skin as pale as the fairest cloud. Each a fine representation of their great race, the descendants of Tykus.