by Clayton Wood
“When we enter the Acropolis,” Dominus stated, “…do not speak unless spoken to. You are not to reveal yourself as my heir.”
“Yes my liege.”
The carriage passed through the courtyard toward the massive double-doors of the Acropolis a quarter-kilometer away. Dominus gazed at the various pools and fountains along the way, watching as nobles interrupted their leisure, kneeling as the carriage passed. Then he turned to the Acropolis ahead. It was truly massive, perhaps the largest single structure ever built by Man. A tremendous feat of engineering, both physically and in the attributes it had absorbed over the millennia. For countless generations had imprinted their wills onto the stones that made up the Acropolis, ensuring that future generations would absorb the fine qualities of their predecessors. Yet another wondrous system, impeccably designed. Self-sustaining.
Perfect.
Dominus sighed, watching as the fortress’s doors drew closer. Perfection had its price, of course. The chaos of the world outside of Tykus’s outer wall, the corruption of the Fringe and the forest beyond, was a constant threat to the order of the kingdom. The majority of nobles never left the Acropolis, and knew nothing of the danger to their way of life. Dominus’s home, so far from the city, gave him a unique perspective. The forest surrounding Wexford reminded him of the omnipresent danger to his people, their way of life.
I am the beekeeper.
The carriage stopped before the double-doors, and the carriage doors opened, a guard helping Dominus down onto the street. Axio stepped down as well, and Dominus steeled himself, knowing that even with his cane, the short walk to the Hall of Tykus would bring him intense pain.
This was very likely the last time he would ever make this walk.
The huge double-doors opened before him, revealing an opulent hall beyond. A tiled marble floor with grout of solid gold, walls made of the same. The ceiling some fifty feet up, supported by massive stone pillars, each with intricate carvings on their surfaces, detailing the many battles Tykus had fought and won. Massive crystal chandeliers hung downward, their innumerable gemstones glittering in the light. And in the center of the hall, a huge fountain topped with a statue of Tykus himself, raising his hands to the heavens. The statue was so tall that its head nearly reached the ceiling, water shooting upward all around it, then arcing downward to a pool below. This pool, Dominus knew, drained to the main aquifer for the Acropolis, supplying the nobles with their potable water. Steeped in the essence of Tykus, drinking it exposed the nobles to his will, and to the wills of the other great men that had graced the kingdom.
A group of five men were standing before the statue, dressed in fine white, gold, and blue uniforms. All of them older, appearing so similar that it was difficult to tell them apart. The insignia on their uniforms betrayed their identities: his fellow dukes, second only to the king in station. In the king’s temporary absence, the five dukes, along with Dominus, ruled the land.
“Good afternoon Dominus,” one of the men greeted, a tall, thin man with long gray hair and a long beard, bowing slightly. It was Duke Ratheburg, second in power to Dominus himself. Dominus inclined his head.
“Ratheburg,” he replied.
“I’m relieved that you arrived safely,” Ratheburg stated, walking back toward the other dukes. Dominus followed, with Axio trailing behind. “I trust you received news of the attack?”
“I did.”
“Dreadful,” Ratheburg opined.
“What are the specifics?” Dominus inquired, following Ratheburg and the other four dukes as they made their way down the giant hall toward a stairway leading to an arched doorway. Ratheburg paused, glancing back at Axio. Dominus waved away the duke’s obvious concern. “Axio is family,” he reassured. “He may listen.”
“Hundreds of Ironclad stormed the base, perhaps more,” Ratheburg revealed. “Scaled the walls, eviscerating our perimeter defenses. A portion of their forces held off a counterattack while the majority swept the residences.”
“They were looking for something,” Dominus deduced. Ratheburg nodded.
“It appears so,” he confirmed. “Casualties were rather mild for the scale of the attack, and the Ironclad left without incurring many losses. It appears they did not find what they were looking for.”
“And what were they looking for?”
“That is unclear,” Ratheburg admitted. “But I think I speak for all of us when I say we cannot tolerate their existence any longer.” He shook his head. “It was one thing when the monstrosities kept to themselves, staying near the Fringe, or patrolling the Gate. It’s quite another now.”
They climbed the stairs to the arched doorway, and Dominus felt the familiar awful ache building in his calves. He resisted the urge to grimace.
“There is a new Original,” Dominus guessed. Ratheburg hesitated, the nodded.
“So I hear,” he confirmed. “A boy, unusually dark of complexion. The Office of Immigration is handling him.”
“What do we know of him?” Dominus inquired, ascending the stairs and walking with Ratheburg and the other dukes through the large doorway. Beyond was another depressingly long hallway, with huge paintings on either wall depicting Tykus’s various victories. He ignored the growing pain in his legs, wondering if he would make it all the way down the hallway without his legs giving out.
“He’s mostly ignorant of his world’s technology, regrettably,” Ratheburg answered. “Though he did bring another of those ‘guns’ we’d confiscated from the other Originals. He was set up with an apartment in the Outskirts, as per the protocol you and King Tykus devised.”
“Go on.”
“He’s quite enamored of the prostitute we set him up with, of course,” Ratheburg continued. “We have him safely addicted…and sleep-deprived as a result,” he added with a smirk. “Based on our preliminary findings, he’s a hotheaded youth, sharp of tongue, distrustful of others, and incredulous regarding our ways.”
“Hmm,” Dominus murmured. “Is he a danger?”
“Not particularly,” Ratheburg replied. “He’s naïve and narrow-minded. Self-interested and without any sort of leadership skills.”
“His occupation?”
“Quite convenient, in fact,” Ratheburg answered. “He’s an initiate in the Guild of Seekers.”
Dominus stopped, turning to stare at Ratheburg, and the man stopped beside him.
“His will is that strong?” Dominus asked.
“I hear he’s being taught by Thorius himself,” Ratheburg confirmed. Dominus frowned, feeling suddenly irritated with the man. Ratheburg should have lead with that information.
“I must speak with Thorius then,” he decided. “What of the Original’s affiliations?”
“The whore and a few others,” Ratheburg answered. “Misfits, naturally…and also initiates, coincidentally.”
They came to the end of the hallway, where there was a set of closed double doors. Standing before them was a tall man in his thirties, with short blond hair and blue eyes, and a short beard. Beside the man were two members of the Royal Guard. The man bowed as Dominus and the others approached.
“Your Graces,” he greeted, nodding at the other dukes. He turned to Dominus. “Father,” he added.
“Conlan,” Dominus replied, stopping before his son. He eyed Conlan critically, noting his own likeness in the man. A few years in the Acropolis should have softened those features, molded them into a figure more resembling the other nobles here. Conlan’s will was strong, but not that strong. Or so Dominus had assumed.
“I received word that you wanted me to accompany you?” Conlan asked. Dominus nodded.
“Yes,” he confirmed. “Your presence is requested for the transition.”
“Shall we, then?” Duke Ratheburg prompted, gesturing at the doors. The guards opened them, and Dominus stepped through…onto a large balcony overlooking a large inner courtyard. Thousands of people stood below, the crowd hushing as Dominus made his way to the edge of the balcony. The Acropolis�
�s walls enclosed the courtyard, stone gargoyles gazing down at the gathered people atop the roof.
Dominus strode to the edge of the balcony, resting his cane against the stone railing and staring down at the people below. He felt their eyes upon him…and the presence of the other dukes standing behind him, as well as Conlan and Axio. Duke Ratheburg walked up beside him, smiling broadly.
“Good afternoon, Lords of Tykus,” Ratheburg greeted the crowd, his voice booming across the courtyard. The crowd applauded, and Ratheburg held up his hands for silence. “We are gathered here today in remembrance of our king, of the passing of the vessel that held him.”
The crowd hushed.
“For over half a century our king served his people,” Ratheburg continued. “He began his life as Varka, heir the throne of Tykus, a man destined to continue his father’s great sacrifice.” He paused, gazing over the crowd. “He ended it as King Tykus, founder of this great city!”
The crowd applauded again, and this time Ratheburg let them, waiting as it died off slowly. Then he lowered his gaze.
“Sadly, he never sired an heir,” he continued solemnly. “But Tykus the Legend, in his infinite wisdom, foresaw this occasion, and decreed that in such an event, He would still have the occasion to live on. To guide His people generation after generation, for eternity.”
He gestured at Dominus then, a smile on his lips.
“It is the wisdom of Tykus that brings us our newest vessel for our great king,” he stated. “That in the absence of an heir, the Duke of Wexford shall ascend to the throne.” He paused then, raising his arms to the sides. “It is with great pleasure then,” he declared, “…that I introduce to you your future king: Dominus, Duke of Wexford!”
The crowd burst out into applause again, and Dominus smiled back at Ratheburg, turning to gaze out at the crowd of nobles. Ratheburg waited for the applause to die down, then addressed the crowd once more.
“After his father’s untimely death during the Civil War,” he stated, “…Duke Dominus fought back against the dark forces that threatened to destroy this great kingdom. He used his superior strategic mind to help end the war once and for all, spearheading the evisceration and expulsion of the terrorists that dared rise against us. He drove out their leader, the great brown bitch who imagined herself a queen, a Legend,” he added, his voice dripping with disdain.
The crowd booed, and Ratheburg smirked.
“But Duke Dominus was not done,” he continued. “After driving the terrorists out, King Tykus ordered the destruction of their corrupted city, which Duke Dominus executed, smashing it to bits. Then he tore the very soil from the ground, tossing it into the sea, so that no citizen standing upon it would be tainted against our great kingdom.”
Ratheburg lowered his arms.
“Lastly, he oversaw the creation of the great wall protecting our city,” he continued. “And since its erection, not a single immigrant, nor animal, nor dark creature from the Fringe has entered our great nation without our consent!”
The crowd roared, and Ratheburg grinned, raising one fist in the air triumphantly. At length, the crowd quieted, and Ratheburg lowered his arm, turning to face Dominus.
“Now, after a lifetime of impeccable service,” he continued, “…what more perfect end to one’s career than to let oneself become the vessel of our great king.” Ratheburg put a hand on Dominus’s shoulder, then turned to face the other dukes, one of which handed Ratheburg a crown. It was made entirely of bone – the bones of one of Tykus’s sons – with jewels embedded within.
Ratheburg paused, then handed Dominus the crown.
“So it is that we,” he declared, “…the dukes of the great kingdom of Tykus, crown the Duke of Wexford king of our people!”
The crowd applauded yet again, and Dominus held the crown in his hands, lifting it above his head for all to see. The applause died out, and Dominus lowered the crown, his gaze sweeping across the crowd.
“Thank you,” he stated, his voice echoing off of the courtyard walls. “I am, and have always been, a humble servant of my people.”
He paused, looking down at the crown.
“It has been a great honor serving my country,” he continued, gazing at the crowd once more. “There is no more awesome responsibility than to ensure that this great nation, and its people, endure the passage of time. For it is time, and the insidious corruption of the outsider, that are constant threats to our way of life. Only through constant vigilance can we maintain our borders and defend that which makes us…us.”
He lifted his gaze to the crowd.
“It has been my life’s work to defend us from the dilution of our culture, of our bloodlines, and our traditions by those who do not share them,” he stated. “It has been my pleasure and my privilege,” he added, “…to be your Duke of Wexford.”
The crowd applauded, and Dominus let them, waiting until they were done to continue.
“Duke Ratheburg is correct,” Dominus stated. “It is Tykus’s will that the Duke of Wexford ascend the throne in the absence of a direct heir.” He sighed, lowering his gaze. “That is why I cannot accept this crown.”
There was a collective gasp from the crowd, and Dominus heard Ratheburg take a sharp breath in. He felt Ratheburg’s eyes on him, but ignored the man, keeping his eyes on the assembled nobles.
“I cannot accept this crown,” Dominus declared, “…because I am no longer the Duke of Wexford.”
“No longer…?” Ratheburg hissed in his ear. “What are you saying?”
“I’ve chosen my heir to replace me as Duke of Wexford,” Dominus revealed. He turned then, facing Axio and Conlon, who were standing behind the assembled dukes. “In fact, he is standing here with us today.”
“Dominus…” Ratheburg began, but Dominus cut him off.
“The successor to the late king,” he declared, “…and the rightful wearer of this crown, is my son, Duke Conlan of Wexford!”
Chapter 12
Hunter stared at Master Thorius in disbelief, hardly believing his ears. His teacher frowned at him.
“What’s wrong?” Thorius asked.
“What was her name again?” Hunter pressed.
“Neesha,” Thorius repeated. “The Outsider’s name was Neesha.”
Hunter stared at Thorius a moment longer, then lowered his gaze, feeling numb. Disconnected. As if he were a suddenly a spectator in his own life. He felt suddenly woozy, and shook his head.
“I need to sit down,” he muttered, swaying a little. He felt Thorius’s hands on his shoulders, felt himself being lowered to sit on the floor.
“What’s wrong?” Thorius pressed, kneeling before Hunter, his hands still on Hunter’s shoulders. Hunter glanced up at him.
“You’re sure it was Neesha?” he asked. Thorius nodded. “And she was…brown,” he continued. Another nod.
Jesus.
“Who is she to you?” Thorius inquired, his eyes boring into Hunter’s. Hunter took a deep breath in.
“She’s my mom,” he confessed.
“Your what?”
“My mom,” Hunter repeated. “She…went through the Gate uh, seven years ago, almost eight.” He shook his head. “I came here to find her.”
Thorius dropped his hands from Hunter’s shoulders, sitting down on the floor and eyeing Hunter with an unreadable expression.
“I see.”
“But…” Hunter said, “…you said she came here fifty years ago.” He shook his head again. “That doesn’t make any sense.” But it made even less sense that another black woman named Neesha would’ve come through the Gate.
“That’s not entirely true,” Thorius countered. “We’ve noticed that there is a…temporal anomaly with Originals passing through the Gate. Time seems to flow differently between our worlds.” He stood then, offering Hunter a hand. Hunter took it, and was hauled to his feet. “In fact, it is a near-universal finding on Originals, that the timing between arrivals is much longer here than on the original world.”
“It could.”
Hunter turned away from Thorius, staring at nothing in particular.
She was here.
He felt a sudden giddy sensation. She’d made it across the Gate, made it alive. And she’d been here, in Tykus, in this very city!
Then he had a terrible thought, and he turned back to Thorius suddenly, his heart skipping a beat.
“What happened to her?” he asked, feeling a chill run through him. He immediately regretted asking, afraid of the answer.
“No one knows,” Thorius admitted. “She was driven out at the end of the Civil War, past the Fringe.” He grimaced. “It’s unlikely she survived, and even if she did, she’s almost certainly died of old age by now.”
“Oh,” Hunter mumbled, his heart sinking. Thorius was right, of course; it’d been fifty years here since she’d arrived, and she’d been in her late thirties when she’d disappeared. Even if she happened to still be alive, she’d be nearly ninety by now. He felt an all-too-familiar glumness come over him.
I was too late.
“I’m sorry, Hunter,” Thorius apologized, putting a hand on his shoulder. Hunter glanced at him, then lowered his gaze, moisture blurring his vision. He blinked it away, gritting his teeth, saying nothing. Thorius sighed. “I think that’s enough for today,” he stated. “You should go home and get some…rest.” He paused. “I do have an artifact that has absorbed a considerable amount of positive emotion, if you want to borrow it.”
“No thanks,” Hunter muttered. He sighed, then glanced up at Thorius. “Thank you for telling me,” he added. Thorius nodded.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Hunter left him then, walking out of the room and through the hallway to the foyer. He exited the Guild of Seekers, making his way back to the Outskirts. His stomach growled, but he hardly felt like eating, and walked to his apartment instead. He climbed the three stories to his apartment, closing the door behind him and flopping on his bed.