“Well, that’s a whole story, isn’t it?”
And then, against Iahel’s silent judgment, Logan recounts, without lies, their encounter with the twofooters’ march, how he lost his legs, Iahel’s brave and audacious rescue, and he ends the tale by forewarning of the imminent assault in Carvinga.
Carson listens with quiet eyes and at one point lights a green cig. As Logan finishes, Carson, taking a long drag, lets the room fall silent. “If you’d indulge me, I have something I’d like to show you.”
With little pause, he stands and exits the room. Iahel and Logan exchange an apprehensive look before following the curious old man.
The house is a gallery of oddities teeming with statues cast of countless materials; multisized paintings stacked on top of each other unhung; piles of papers, a notesbook, and old tomes; globes of the hundred and thirty-three states; and maps written in the ancient languages. He continues through the lower floor to an office kept in similar disarray, then steps across the room to a glass trophy case that stands behind a large wooden desk.
“Here is where we kept a bit of brass. A sliver in size, at the most. My great-grandfather discovered it on this property almost a hundred years ago. Though it bore no marks or interesting properties other than being in an unusual place, he kept it, likely since he was a bit of a luckers. As you might guess, my family is in the collections business. With our specialty in artifacts and treasures of the old Land. Some of these things we keep around for sentimental reasons. And most of it, there’s no telling why we keep it or what it does.” He grins softly. “That brass sliver was no different. Sitting there. In that case. For decades without a thought. Pieces like that fade, forgotten around here. But then, three and half months ago, it was snipped.”
“Stolen?” Iahel asks. Sanet had said he gave it to her . . .
“It’s the only position I can determine. To tell the truth, I didn’t notice it was gone until a group of men, wearing red capes, approached the house and demanded I turn it over. I thought they were tipst at first, but they pulled guns. A whole messy affair. So I led one of them, their leader I assume, here. And that’s when I realized it was missing.”
“Did their leader have a burned face?” Logan asks.
Carson’s eyes widen. “Yes. He did. He went by the curam Franz, if I remember. After I indicated that the brass wasn’t here, they tore the place apart. Then they sent one of them north, while the others, including Franz, headed south, where I overheard they had other business to attend to.”
“We had a run-in with Franz over a month ago,” Logan recalls.
“My appizement,” Carson doubles, then continues with an air of exhilaration in his voice, “In any sorts, once they left, their interest in the brass, and the fact that it was suddenly missing, naturally ignited a bit of curiosity.”
He walks with a lightened step across the room to an unadorned cabinet. The thrill of a mystery to a bored old man. He pulls from the cabinet a massive tome, which he promptly plops on the desk, tossing a thin whiff of dust into the air. He opens it and scans for a specific passage. “Here.”
Logan and Iahel walk around the desk to view the page from a better angle. Where his finger points, there’s an illustration of a large sphere. It’s drawn next to a denizen slightly smaller in size.
He says, “I believe that that sliver of brass is a fragmented bit of a larger orb.”
“An orb? For what?” Iahel asks.
“Ah, a mystery this all is. I asked the same question. So I started to research the purpose of orbs, and the only thing I came across,” Carson spins on his heel and pulls from the same cabinet a smaller leather-bound book, which he hands to Iahel, “was this.”
She reads the title aloud, “The Unknown History of Ranparts.”
“The only folk I can find who have anything to do with orbs are ranparts. Usually, they commission a smith to craft them, or, if they already have one, they’ll pass it down to their acolyte. In any sorts, ranparts use them for many reasons, such as performing ceremonies and all number of various tricks, but what is odd is that a typical ranpart’s orb is usually the size of a fist.” Carson makes said fist to demonstrate. “Not the size larger than you or me, as this illustration suggests.”
“Are you proposing it’s a ranpart trying to make an orb like that?” Logan asks.
“That’s my theory. This sliver we had, I’ve looked it over many times throughout the years. Though it was small, it had a single smooth edge, something that didn’t seem in narrows with those of a smaller sphere. Its curve was too wide, if that makes sense? I also believe that it’s for a ranpart because there’s not much use for brass besides in an orb. Brass is one of the many lost metals created long ago.”
Logan looks to Iahel, who nods in agreement before speaking. “We were traveling with someone who was looking for pieces of brass. It’s clear now that she’s the one who came here before the crimson men did. She even told us about this place. Though she said you had given the brass to her.” Logan eyes Iahel knowingly, who shrugs him off. “Anyway, while we were traveling, we found a second fragment hidden in this stonetin within the Tunnels.”
Logan doubles, “She told us a ranpart had been looking for them, so your theory holds up. He was offering a heavy coin for their recovery.”
“Which is why I think the crimson men are after it.”
At the revelation, Carson smiles broadly, as if his ideas had gone too long unsubstantiated and had finally found corroboration.
“Luckers sent. Though she should have told me. She didn’t have to snip it. I guess that’s beyond the tale now. The real question is, for what purpose?” Carson, sitting down at his desk, strokes his beard.
They each remain quiet in thought before Logan speaks up. “This may sound flam, but this friend of ours, the woman who stole your piece, believed that reuniting the brass would end a war.”
“A war?” Carson questions.
Iahel wonders aloud, “Perhaps the march happening now, between Misipit and Carvinga?”
“The crimson men did mention something about a war. They repeated this phrase, ‘Seven from the advent of the Roar.’”
“Roar? That’s a king, right?” Iahel questions.
“Not exactly.” Carson starts. “A Roar is one of the many positions within a royal family. The Roar is the voice, the one who delivers proclamations and speeches. They’re usually the leader and the one who inspires the masses. But it’s not the only position. There’s the Lion, who’s the body of the family, the spirit. There’s the Mane, who serves as the face of the royal family, usually the most amiable, acts as a diplomat of sorts. They’re usually behind the tall curtains. The Tail, who’s the strategist, the planner. And last is the Paw, who is the might of the march. While the Roar leads, the Paw is the strength to crush and conquer its enemy. But a royal family hasn’t ruled in over . . . three hundred years? The terms are antiquated, if anything.”
Logan attempts to work things out aloud. “Seven from the Roar . . . perhaps that’s seven weeks? Which is almost how long it’s been since they claim the advent chanced.”
Iahel remembers Bernard and Logan talking about that day. The day the crimson men burned down Bernard’s house, sending his partner left.
“How does a seven-week-old baby give speeches that inspire a war?” she asks, unimpressed.
Carson sits down. “Obviously they don’t. There wouldn’t be babies created outside of the Paseco.”
“Paseco . . . I’ve heard that curam before, but never really understood it,” Iahel states.
“Well, when the Laws were written, the remaining folk of the Last War turned over their ability to procreate. Or at least that’s how the story goes. They made a bargain with something known as the Paseco, which would help control the population. As no one trusted folk would follow such an . . . unnatural way of things. What or where this Paseco is has long been lost over the millennia. Today, going to a nearby children’s square to adopt a child or two is as com
monplace as the sunset. Folk approsh not needing the worry of unwanted children, and prefer being able to have them when and where they choose. I’m sure it was controversial at the time, but with a war that nearly destroyed everyone in their recent memory, many accepted the Law as a necessary compromise. After two and half millennia, not many people even think about the Paseco. Especially younger generations. It’s just the way of things.”
“I’ve only heard the curam in passing while I was in Organsia. Don’t the Victors have a connection with it?” Logan asks.
Carson shrugs, losing interest in the topic. “No one really knows. A secret lost in time. Nothing we can do about it.”
Iahel contemplates the story. “You’re right in that I never really thought about where we came from. So, if that’s all true, then it would make sense denizens are celebrating a birth. A baby that’s not created from this . . . Paseco.”
“Maybe. In truth, none of this doubles up. Brass orbs. Pasecos. Wars. But if research and history tell us anything, it’s that a ranpart isn’t known for logic or folksy ways. A fascinating enigmit for sure.” Carson leans back in his chair, lost in thought. After a major, he stands. “Well, it’s well past my sleeping hours. Why don’t I show you a room? You’re welcome to stay here as long as you like, though I must warn, I make a shameful mornmeal.”
“Approsh,” Logan responds, standing himself.
Iahel’s thoughts about all the various elements circle her mind, lost in the thrill and terror of what it all might mean.
Carson walks them across the manor to a small guest room on the second floor. After showing them a few of the amenities, he tips them good morrow and slips off to his master upstairs.
Logan turns down the sheets. “Question now is . . . do I take these legs off?”
“I don’t think so,” Iahel states, remembering how awful it was to see him put them on.
“Doubled. I’m not sure I could handle getting them back on.”
With that, Logan heads into the relief room to shower. Iahel lies back, blanket pulled tight, allowing the comfort of the bed to fade the past few days into an odd and dire kiptale.
❖❖❖
A small girl stands in the doorway when Iahel yawns and opens her eyes. The room is bursting with sunlight. Iahel sits up, covering herself. “Morn.”
The little girl waves meekly. After a minor, a handsome woman with short gray-and-blonde hair appears and grabs the girl in surprise, another boy in tow behind them. The girl laughs at the snatch and tickle. Once she holds the girl correctly, the woman turns to Iahel. “We’re serving mornmeal if you’re hungry.”
“Approsh.” Iahel nods.
The woman smiles and leaves, the children following. Iahel stands, dresses, and shakes Logan awake. He’s sweating and in a fitful kiptale. “Logan. Logan.”
He grunts and startles himself awake. “No.” He looks at Iahel and shakes his head. “Apory. Malicious thoughts.”
“They’re serving. We should be polite.”
Logan nods.
After he’s dressed, they make their way to the dining area. The aromas of eggs over and under, roasted garons, and fried jellies fill the air.
“It smells incredible.”
Logan and Iahel sit down. The woman sits next to the boy who was up on the previous night. The little girl sits close to Iahel, smiling at her while chewing her fingers. Carson sets the last of the mornmeal on the table.
“Enjoyments.”
They eat until they’re full, discussing all varieties of things: the tormisands in Radiba; how the plateau sometimes receives small remnants of them; the peculiarity of how short the last one lasted, under a week.
“Not even sure it could be called a tormisand,” Logan says.
When Iahel attempts to bring up the march, she’s abruptly quieted by Carson, who gestures toward his children.
Mareen, the woman, switches subjects. “If you’re not in a hurry, we could use some help in the gardens today.”
Logan agrees without question, and Iahel follows. “Of course.”
After cleaning up, the children begin to run around outside, chasing the horde of cogs, which scurry about for a bit and then turn to pursue the children. Iahel and Logan are tasked with picking weeds as Mareen prunes various veggies and fruin plants. The morn passes with gentle ease, Iahel feeling wholly at home. She looks over at Logan, whose muscle and sweat look handsome on him. My little Radiba boy.
It’s then that the little girl comes up to Mareen and whispers in her ear. The woman’s face twists. “Carson.”
He looks up, rubbing dirt from his hands. “Yes?”
She shakes her head. “You two should come as well.”
Iahel’s heart skips. The march. They make their way through the house to the front yard where the little girl points out into the distance. Iahel scans the crest and catches a large black carriage over a mile away. It looks to be parked, still and motionless. “What is that?” she asks.
“The Victors,” Logan states, rubbing his hands on his jeans.
Mareen turns to Logan. “Victors? Are you in debt?”
Logan steps backward, fear sweeping across his face.
“How did they find him?” Of Logan, Iahel asks, “How did they find you?”
Logan wipes his brow, shaking his head in absolute disbelief.
Carson continues to watch them. “What are they doing way out there?”
Stepping forward, Logan answers, “They’re letting me come quietly.” His face is riddled with angst.
“Well, you can’t go,” Iahel states plainly. “Not now.”
“They found me. I don’t know how, but they know where I am.”
Iahel turns to Carson, who quickly defends himself. “It wasn’t us. We have nothing to do with them. I’ve never been to Organsia.”
Iahel returns her gaze to the black carriage.
Waiting. Silent. Still. Ominous.
“This can’t be happening. They can’t just take you.”
“Why are you in debt to them?” Carson asks.
“I bargained for an answer about my sent father. I didn’t know how much they’d want for it.”
Iahel is upset. “You little cog. Why didn’t you stay with Sanet? She has all that coin coming. We could have used it to help you.”
Logan looks her in the eye. “I didn’t want to put her in danger. Or Bernard. Or you. Can’t you see how they are? I’ve been here no more than a night, and they’re here. Threatening us. Threatening near strangers.” He gestures to the family, then steps into the yard.
“Logan, wait. Stop,” Iahel yells. “Stop. There has to be another way!”
Logan, having now stepped past the fence, turns back. “Apory, Iahel. They’ll never stop, and I can’t stop them. This is a debt that doesn’t go away. There’s not another way.”
Mareen steps in. “I won’t let them any closer to my family. You both can solve this how you want, but we can’t have them any closer.”
“Fight, you shnite beast,” Iahel calls out. Words that fail to matter as Logan turns to the Victors. Iahel steps into the yard and catches up to him. “You can’t leave me. You can’t leave me too.”
He drops his head. “Iahel, this was always the way. I made my choice.”
“But did you get your answer? About your father?”
Logan shakes his head. “I realized I didn’t want an answer. And they asked for more.”
“Why? Why do you have to suffer if you got nothing for it? It’s unfair.”
“It’s their bargain. It’s their way.”
“You’re a cog. You’re all cogs. Useless, unreliable bastards!” She starts to run toward the Victors.
“Iahel, stop!”
She doesn’t. The Victors are under a mile away. Her adrenaline carries her closer and closer. She pulls out her dagger as the black carriage draws imminent, its size rising impossibly high, towering ten measures in the air. Closer. A denizen emerges from the carriage wearing an expressionless black m
ask with painted white eyes and a clownish grin. He holds a rifle. Behind her, Logan screams at her to stop. She begins to slow.
The Victor raises the rifle in her direction. She stops and steps backward in fright. The Victor fires. Iahel feels the shot strike her shoulder and spins to the ground. She blacks out.
❖❖❖
Light pours into the room. Iahel wakes in the guest bed. Logan. She attempts to sit up, but her shoulder prevents her. She reaches over and feels a thick bandage. Her eyes slip closed, her face an expressionless mask. The rifle. Logan’s scream.
She slips into darkness.
When she opens her eyes again, it’s night out. The sky outside floats in bursts of color. Red, then yellow, then white, then purple. It darkens and then brightens again. Like tiny colorful explosions.
She slips into darkness.
Opening her eyes again, she finds Carson sitting beside the bed. “Morn, Iahel. How are you feeling?”
She attempts to speak but decides against it. She doesn’t feel like facing the Land.
She slips into darkness.
Dusk light filters into the room where Mareen cleans around her, dusting and picking up various clothing. Where is Logan? Iahel thinks she says this aloud. Mareen doesn’t answer.
She slips into darkness.
“Time to start walking, young lady.” She’s shaken by Carson, who has her by the shoulder. “Come on. Up and up.” Iahel squints as the light presses on her skull. Her head feels crushed. Every joint and pressure point aches. “Come on.” By the hand, she’s led from the bed. There’s a deep wound in her shoulder. Feels like a knife, not a bullet. She grabs for it but finds the bandage. “You’re healing nicely. You’ll be good in a day or so.”
She looks to Carson. “Logan?”
“Apory, Iahel. The Victors have him.” This stops her. “There was nothing you could have done. What was done was done.”
As quiet as a snip, she whispers, “But it’s unfair.”
“It seems that way, but he did not have to go into a bargain with them. He should have known better.”
Advent of the Roar (The Land Old, Untouched Book 1) Page 23