The Beggar King

by Michelle Barker

  When he opened his eyes, the brass plate was ajar, as if indeed it were a door. He stared at it, dumbfounded. Perhaps this was a way out. He had to remain on his knees in order to see inside. But there was no inside to speak of. It didn’t lead out, but it wasn’t a room either.

  He leaned forward. There was something unusual and electric in the air, the way it felt outside when a storm approached. There was power, and all Jordan could think of was glorious darkness, and it was dizzying and he wanted it, he wanted to hold it in his hands. Something sounded around his head, like the flapping of a thousand wings.

  And then he came back to himself in a jolt and backed away, slamming the brass plate shut. He ran to the first wooden door he could find, wrenched on its handle with all of his strength until the door came open with a lurch that threw him to the floor. Picking himself up quickly, he sprang forward and shut the door behind him. He leaned against it, breathing hard. His hands were shaking.

  The room in which he stood was stacked from floor to ceiling with scrolls. He’d found the library archives. Into one wall was cut a small door that must have led to the larger part of the library, but Jordan moved instead to the back of the long room until he spied the opening that Ophira had generously called a window. It was so narrow that he had to press his head to one side in order to squeeze through, and his ears scraped against the stone sill.

  Once outside, it took Jordan a minute to get his bearings. He had landed in a small weedy courtyard surrounded by a low stone wall, over which he scrambled into yet another larger enclosure. He crossed it at a clipped walk, letting himself out through a metal grated gate, and then took the rest of the route home at a run.

  When he burst through the front door, his father was sitting in an armchair resting his head in his hands, the reading room darkened.

  Elliott looked up with a frown. “Where have you been? Feirhaven Merralee said . . . ”

  “They’ve been taken somewhere,” Jordan interrupted, hurling himself into the chair next to his father. “High Priestess Arrabel, Mom, I don’t even know who else. There are Landguards with daggers and sticks and tall black boots. One of Arrabel’s mystery keepers. . . . ” He couldn’t continue. The thought of the hanging man and the hungry crows above him filled Jordan with dread. He bowed his head and closed his eyes.

  Elliott’s large rough hand was on Jordan’s back and he leaned against it, exhausted. When at last he straightened, his father was watching him.

  “There’s going to be a ceremony in the Meditary tonight.”

  Jordan’s forehead wrinkled. “What kind of ceremony?”

  “I don’t know . . . ”

  “But where have they taken Mom and the others? When will they come back?”

  “We’ll go to the Meditary tonight. We’ll find out what’s happened. Surely,” Elliott said. And then softly, again, as if to convince himself, “Surely someone will know.”

  Four

  SMOKE AND CEREMONY

  THAT EVENING THEY JOINED A THRONG of Cirrans making the long climb up the uneven stone road to the plateau at the top of the mountain. No one regarded the holy tree, even though the feast day was over. People kept their eyes down. There was no music, no conversation, no ribbons or fancy dress. Jordan wore his short pants and Elliott his brown carver’s robes. Those whose sons or daughters had been members of Theophen’s guard were dressed in plain grey mourning garb.

  Jordan and his father followed the solemn crowd and crossed the courtyard gardens to the eastern archway that marked the entrance to the large domed temple known as the Meditary. Two guards were positioned there. The customary bowl of cleansing water, into which everyone dipped their fingers before entering, was gone. Elliott began slipping off his sandals but one of the guards tapped the ground with the end of his stick and barked, “Shoes on.”

  Jordan was bending to unfasten one of his sandals but his father held him back. “Do as he says.”

  Jordan peered through the archway. Inside, Landguards were clomping around on the marble floors in their boots. Elliott nudged him into the large round room.

  Gone were the small colourful kneeling carpets. The central font, which had always glowed with the orange of a firestone, was covered by pieces of wood. Burning torches lit the temple with unnatural brightness. Elliott’s lips were pressed into a thin stern line. Around them people spoke in hushed tones, their faces pale and eyes widened.

  Ophira stood with three of the seers, all three older women wearing their veils and saffron robes. Jordan knew them by their shapes. The shrunken Mama Manjuza leaned upon the tall girl’s arm for support. Behind the veil were wise eyes and an old-apple face, as well as long hairs upon her chin. To the average person, Manjuza seemed harmless. But anyone who knew her wouldn’t be fooled by her frail-old-lady act. Once she’d hexed a merchant for selling wormy tomatoes, and it had taken five years before he’d produced a good crop.

  Next to her stood the sturdy Mama Petsane, arms crossed and legs askance as if steadying herself for a fight. She hadn’t brought her stew spoon, but she still looked as if she were just waiting for someone to say the wrong thing so she could thump them with it. The third could only be Mama Bintou, for she was holding her knitting.

  When Ophira saw Jordan, she motioned for him and Elliott to come over. As they approached the women, Jordan and Elliott bowed, pressing three fingers to their forehead. “May the Great Light shine upon you,” they said.

  “And upon your family,” replied Ophira and the grandmas.

  “Shame on you, Jordan,” growled Mama Manjuza.

  “Take off your sandals!” said Mama Bintou.

  “Show some respect,” added Mama Petsane.

  Each of the old women was barefoot, their sandals beside them on the floor. Jordan glanced at his father who was already surreptitiously removing his, then at Ophira whose eyes were fixed upon the Brinnian Landguards that stood stiffly against the walls, watching the gathering crowd.

  “You don’t be listening to them black-booted boobies,” Petsane said. “They think they know what’s right for Cirrans. Bunch of clod-hopping donkeys, and in our Holy City.”

  “I knew it all along,” said Manjuza. “I knew it would happen.”

  “Ach, you don’t know nothing,” muttered Petsane.

  “Two years ago I warned our high priestess,” said Manjuza. “I say to her, that mountain range ain’t gonna keep the peace between Cirrans and Brinnians forever.”

  “Yeah, yeah, you be right, as usual,” said Petsane with a loud sniff.

  “I hear they paid a sorcerer to make their path,” Mama Bintou said, her eyes roaming the room. She clutched her wool and needles in one hand but it was only for show. She was searching for a mind to read.

  “That couldn’t be, Mama,” said Elliott. “Brinnians don’t believe in sorcery.”

  “Brinnians believe in whatever gets the job done, and don’t you think otherwise,” snapped Mama Petsane. “They’re gonna stomp on our Cirran ways because they can.”

  “They got the bigger boots, eh?” said Manjuza. She laughed and then began coughing.

  “You should quit smoking that sasapher, Mama,” said Ophira.

  Jordan edged closer to her. “Did you hear anything about my mother?”

  “All the grandmas say she’s with Arrabel,” Ophira replied.

  “Where have the Brinnians taken them?”

  Ophira busied herself with a fraying pocket. “We don’t know.”

  “Aye, what’s she doing here?” grumbled Bintou, pointing with her needles to a small older woman who stood across the room alone. Her grey hair was in a tumble and she wore a long stained coat and rubber boots.

  “Sweet sasapher,” Ophira said to Jordan. “It’s Grandma Willa.”

  Willa had parted ways with her seer sisters many years ago, having given up prophecy for the utterly non-magical pursuit of door-making. Most of the sisters thought her mad and wanted nothing to do with her.

  “Look how she march around this
place like an Uttic fishwife,” said Petsane. “Boots! In the Meditary. Just imagine!”

  “Where’s her robes?” said Manjuza. “And how come she goes out without her veil?”

  “Fancies herself a real door-maker now, I reckon,” said Bintou.

  “Ach, she can make all the doors she wants,” said Petsane. “Once a prophet, always a prophet. Don’t matter how fast she runs from it, it’s gonna catch her sooner or later.”

  Ophira shushed them and pointed to the northern archway. The chatter in the temple gradually stilled as a tall man strode in and stood before the central font. He had long black hair, a beard that ended in a point midway down his chest, a long nose and dark hooded eyes. He seemed to be smirking. Jordan grabbed Ophira’s arm.

  “I’ve seen him before.”

  “That’s not possible,” said Ophira. “No Brinnian has ever crossed those mountains. We wouldn’t even know what one looked like.”

  “No, Phi, that man was at the archery contests. He stood beside me.” Great Light! The coup had been taking place right before Cirran eyes and no one had realized it. Had Jordan unwittingly made things worse by answering the man’s questions? Tonight he was wearing black robes — normally the robes of a sorcerer — that fell open to reveal a jewelled breastplate. In one hand he gripped a golden staff. Yesterday he’d seemed like any other pilgrim.

  When he snapped his fingers, Landguards surrounded the font. Jordan couldn’t see what they were doing but then Ophira gasped, “That’s cedar wood! He’s setting fire to it.”

  “That couldn’t be,” said Jordan, but when he strained to see, there were flames and smoke and the smell of burning. The tall cedars of Somberholt Forest were filled with the Great Light’s healing magic. Those trees were never felled. Jordan often stole away into the forest and lay at the soft mossy base of the great cedars, staring up at their invisible crowns. Invariably he would fall asleep, and dream about the birds pulling clouds across the sky. “Good evening.” The man spoke in a rich, deep voice.

  Everyone was listening. “My name, in case you haven’t heard, is Rabellus, King of the Brinnian Provinces. And as of last night, ruler of the Brinnian Empire.” He paused. The only sound in the room was the crackle of the fire.

  “Too long have Brinnians lived surrounded by the forbidden riches of Cir and her provinces,” declared Rabellus. “We have offered trade and fair exchange, and your high priestess has spurned us. Why? To protect you? No, friends. To blind you to the reality of progress. But I come here to bring you good news. The tyranny of the Cirran priesthood has ended. Arrabel’s Landguards were not as mighty as she thought. Those who did not perish in battle waved the white flag of surrender.”

  Surrender?

  “They’ve been imprisoned far away from here,” Rabellus continued. “It seems they did not want to serve the new Brinnian Empire.”

  “Long live the empire!” shouted the guards.

  The Cirrans shifted restlessly, and here and there a muffled protest could be heard. “Empire!” one fellow scoffed.

  “Let us begin your Brinnian education,” said Rabellus. “You people have been fed lies about the workings of this world for too long.” He waved his staff in the air. “But I come here to tell you the truth. The Great Light is a myth. And last night, finally, it was proven. There were no flames upon your so-called holy tree. All along it was the high priestess’s charade, a display of smoke and ceremony to keep the Cirrans in their place. It was the priesthood who blocked passage into Brin. You’ve been prisoners in your own land. You have lived as blind folk, but we Brinnians have come to give you back your sight.”

  The protests grew louder, though they were quietened in an instant by the guards rapping their long sticks upon the marble floor.

  “We welcome Cir and her provinces into the Brinnian Empire. We welcome you Cirrans as our own.” Rabellus threw his arms wide. “Behold, your emperor!”

  “Long live Rabellus,” cried the guards. Everyone was stunned into silence.

  And then a tall man stood and cleared his throat. The Cirrans knew him from his blue beaded robes as the chief healer, Malthazar. Elliott laid a hand upon Jordan’s shoulder as if to support himself.

  “Cir and her provinces have always been independent and free,” Malthazar said in a warm tone that had comforted families for years. “We are guided by a priest or priestess, one of our own, chosen by the power you claim does not exist. Many of us live by the mysteries you deem a charade. You cannot impose Brinnian rule upon us. You do not honour our traditions. You do not understand the Cirran ways.”

  “Bravo, Malthazar,” Mama Bintou said quietly, as three guards moved in on the healer.

  Rabellus raised one hand. “Leave him.” He turned his attention back to the assembly. “Cirrans, tell me, have you seen this Great Light? And pray, what has become of your burning tree? It seems to have stopped working.” He let out a snort. “Any circus fire breather could do as much.”

  The entire room seemed to hold its breath.

  “Your holy tree has been visited by crows, the birds that feast on death. And I understand Cir is a land that loves its birds.” Rabellus waved over one of the guards who carried a large book. “Behold,” taunted Rabellus, “one of your so-called mysteries.” He took the book and flipped roughly through its fragile yellowed pages until he came to the one he was after. No sparks of light issued from the parchment in his hands.

  “Prayer for the Feast of the Great Light,” he read as if he were bored. “Blessed is the Great Light, light of all lands of Katir-Cir, light of our path. We pay homage to the holy tree, light of our darkness, lamp to the world.”

  “The Book of What Is” was the phrase that raced around the room as everyone recognized the holy words. The Cirrans were spellbound. Every land in Katir-Cir possessed such a book, though its content and usage varied from one place to another. But there was one thing common to them all: they were each symbolic of their land’s very identity.

  Elliott whispered, “How could he have gotten his hands on that?”

  Rabellus had stopped reading. “There are no mysteries. As of this moment, you are Brinnians.” Without warning, he threw the book into the fire.

  “No!” yelled several people at once. Malthazar bounded towards the central font, but this time Rabellus did not call off the Landguards.

  “Put him in prison,” he commanded. They seized the healer and dragged him, shouting and struggling, out of the Meditary.

  For the first time Jordan noticed just how many guards there were in the room. More must have arrived while Rabellus had been speaking. The Cirrans were sorely outnumbered.

  “You see that?” shouted Mama Manjuza. “Ye don’t need magic or skill to destroy mystery. Ye just need muscle.”

  “Bravo, Mr. Mucky-Muck,” called Petsane. “You and your black-booted boobies are doin’ a fine job.”

  “Who said that?” Rabellus bellowed. But no one would ever have suspected shrunken Manjuza and fat Petsane. The guards strode right past the veiled women, unable to find the culprits.

  Elliott’s face was drawn, his jaw clenched.

  “It couldn’t have been the real book,” Jordan said. He touched his father’s arm and found that Elliott was trembling.

  “Oh yes, it was,” said Mama Manjuza. “I saw the wax seal on the cover.”

  Rabellus’s arms were raised, golden staff in one hand. “Let there be fire!” he proclaimed, and the guards cheered. “Let there be feasting!”

  Two Landguards appeared with long skewers of some kind of meat. Then more guards carried in a small deer trussed to a stick. When they placed the sacred animal onto the font flame, Jordan gasped, and a woman nearby fainted. The Meditary filled with the acrid smell of its burning flesh. People pushed towards the eastern archway, covering their mouths and nostrils with their hands. Jordan was about to follow when his father stopped him.

  “We must try to understand,” Elliott said. “It may be our only way to find Tanny.”

 
; A few Cirrans took pieces of skewered deer flesh and placed them into their mouths, chewing hesitantly at first and then with greater relish.

  “How could they?” Jordan asked.

  “It only takes a single act to make the unthinkable possible,” replied his father.

  “’Tis the work of the Beggar King,” said an older man nearby. “Didn’t cross the bridge on Great Light’s Feast, now, did he? The evil wasn’t chased away. And what’ve we got ourselves now?”

  Mama Manjuza wheeled around to grip his wrist with her strong age-spotted hand. “Foolishness!” she spat. “You make evil into a man and ignore the truth. Every one of us got the darkness in us sure as we got the light.”

  “Not just the Brinnians be killers,” added Mama Petsane. “Not just the Cirrans be good.” She moved towards the archway and Manjuza followed, steering Ophira away.

  Jordan’s breath had quickened and he almost gagged at the smell of roasting deer flesh. He eyed the exit, but his father had now stopped to speak to an undercat who wore the emerald and black zigzag robes of a scribe. Jordan recognized the grey of his furry face, the sly golden eyes, and the way he spoke with his hands fluttering about. It was Sarmillion, scribe to the great scholar Balbadoris.

  Sarmillion was the reason why Elliott T. Elliott possessed so many beautiful volumes of the old tales, for the undercat often made copies for Jordan’s father. They would sit together in Elliott’s reading room, talking late into the night over tall glasses of billy beer, their faces aglow with candlelight. Jordan had overheard them, sometimes discussing their work, sometimes arguing over ancient runes.

  “I don’t know what’s become of your wife,” the undercat was saying into Elliott’s ear. He was taller than Jordan but not as tall as Elliott, and so had to strain on his toes in order for the larger man to hear him. “I wasn’t here last night,” he continued. “I was out — with a friend.” His shoulders sagged as if he was embarrassed and Jordan noticed he, too, had taken off his golden slippers despite the guards’ command to leave them on. “Few of Arrabel’s people remain. That scoundrel Rabellus wants me to stay on as his scribe but I can’t bear it. I’ll be gone before morning.”