by Nick Webb
Creeping up to the door, he reached out a hand to turn the handle. The door swung back before he could touch it, revealing the imposing figure of his father.
He did not look happy.
Unyielding. Obedient. Perfectly obedient. At least, that was what the lieutenant had assumed about the army now at his command. Obedient they were, of course—really they could be nothing else. But his master had claimed unyielding as well, though at that moment, they seemed to yield easily enough to the bog he had led them through.
At first it was ones and twos that fell into the deeper parts of the thick mud and turgid water of the vast, fetid plain, but soon whole companies began thinning out due to the soldiers who, once they fell in, never seemed to be able to swim or wiggle their way out. A few even screamed as they sank under the murky soup, which quite surprised the lieutenant—he didn’t think they were capable of that. He made a note to ask the master about it. But most simply disappeared beneath the opaque surface of the bog.
They were never meant to swim. They were only meant to march, and fight.
By the time the army had extricated itself from the bog, nearly a third had perished. But it was of no concern, thought the lieutenant—the man his master had given the title Ironfist. A fist of iron to lead the armies of stone, his master had murmured one evening, several days before sending his most trusted follower south with the mass of humanity he had gathered over years of painstaking and patient work.
It was no concern because his master had sent men and women enough, and to spare. The city would be flooded with the armies of light and liberation. The nobles would be crushed. The people liberated.
And the world would change, just as the master had said. Just as the Chronicles had prophesied.
Just as the creator himself intended.
Two
“And there was one who fell among thieves, being left for dead. He did lift the poor man up and carried him to his house, placing his hands on him, calling forth the power of the mountaintop. The man that same hour jumped from his bed and praised his healer and Creator …”
--The Lay of Galen Thunderspeak, 7:54
“Father!”
“Shh! Do you want your mother to hear you?” The answer surprised Aeden. He had expected the back of his father’s hand. “If she knows you’ve been out alone, you’d be worse off than what I’m going to do to you.”
Aeden flinched. “And what is that?”
The man glared at him. “And what is that…”
Aeden sighed. “And what is that, sir?”
Eyes gleaming, the man rubbed his gloved hands together—odd, Aeden thought, he didn’t wear gloves to bed. Had he been out? But his father’s words snapped his attention back. “I’m sending you to your favorite place tomorrow. As just one more reminder about our deal.”
“Our deal? You mean … the priests?” Aeden sighed again. So his father meant it.
“Oh yes. You’ll go and bring them our share of their stipend, as a reminder of what will await you if you don’t do well at the tournament.” Aeden could see the man study him. “Our family’s honor must be preserved, boy, for reasons you can’t understand yet. But I tell you, if you do well, I will make it worth your while.”
Now what could that mean? Aeden opened his mouth to ask, but his father hadn’t finished.
“But if you do poorly, I swear you’ll rot the rest of your days away in that warm spittoon they call the priesthood. And if you really embarrass me, I’ll send you to live with my father. After he’s done with you there won’t be much of you left to be embarrassed of.”
“Yes, sir.”
The man looked down at Aeden’s dark cloak and scowled. “Where have you been?”
There was no point in lying to him. He’d find out, and if he knew that his son lied to him, there would be little that could contain his fury. “The barracks, sir. To see the lists.”
“I could have told you where you placed. In fact, I had Lord Caldamon put you in the higher age bracket—he owed me a favor. Owes me several favors, in fact. Each time I look the other way when he skimps on his share of the priest’s stipend, he owes me.”
Aeden’s eyes opened incredulously. “You asked for me to be in the older group? But why? I’m good, but I’m not as good as some of those older guys. Lord Emry’s son—he’s twenty-two, and he’s far better than me. And Lord Dydonna’s son—he’s twenty-four, and deadly with a blade. At least in the lower age group I might have won my bracket.”
“Oh stop being a whining fool. Just think of what a shock it’ll be to everyone to find out that even though you were accidentally placed in the older group, that you pulled out a victory. That’s how reputations are made, boy. And how can I trust you with our family’s name in the future if you can’t bring honor to it now?”
“But, I can’t win that bracket…”
“Nonsense. Of course you’ll win it. It turns out that in a few days Lord Dydonna’s son will be called away to the capital city. The rest you can manage,” he lowered his chin, “I assume.”
The lord’s plan started to dawn on Aeden, and he both marveled at its deviousness and felt a little sick. “And Lord Emry’s son?”
The sly smile covered the lord’s face. He ignored the question. “And so your job will be just to win. Win your bracket. Win the tournament—or at least third place. Do this, and you’ll have a trusted place at my side in the years to come. Fail,” he paused, looking down as he ran a finger along a dusty ledge flanking the entryway, “and you’ll have a bright future as Elbeth’s newest priest.”
Aeden looked down at his boots. A small onion peel still clung to the side of the shaft.
“Did anyone see you?”
“Lord Bleak’s son, and a few guardsmen.”
“Good. They’re of no concern. Now, get to bed.” He jabbed a finger upwards, and Aeden took that as his signal to bolt towards the stairs. “And Aeden—” the man glanced up at his son perched on the first step, “do have a little more trust in me. You could have asked me about the lists, you know. I am your father, and I do love you, in spite of what you may think.”
“Yes, father. I know, father,” he lied. He knew no such thing.
The man regarded him for a moment, and dismissed him with a wave. Aeden crept up the rest of the stairs to the third floor and tiptoed to his room, releasing a long sigh as the door creaked shut.
Aeden left his bedroom early, in the hopes that he could slip out of the estate unnoticed. Out of habit he trailed his fingers along the portrait of his lost older brother hanging at the top of the stairs as he passed, and tiptoed out the door, only narrowly avoiding the steward of the estate, Harvey, who didn’t seem to notice the boy creeping through the front entryway.
The walk to the House of Common Worship seemed short, and within minutes he was handing a small bag to one of the younger priests near the front gate. Mission accomplished, he tried to duck out before anyone could engage him in conversation, but a voice calling his name told him he’d failed.
“Aeden! So good to see you! Come here!” He recognized the voice of Priest Anthony, a youngish priest who had recently entered the order.
“Hey Priest Anthony. It’s been awhile, hasn’t it?”
“Indeed, friend.” The two made light conversation, Aeden wondering how he could get out of the hall as quickly as possible, and yet trying to have pity on the young man—Aeden was probably the only visitor he’d had in weeks.
“—and so I thought, my friend Aeden has the same problem! He desperately wants to be in the priesthood, and yet his father wants him to join the royal guard! Well, I just told him to listen to the words of the creator and study the Chronicles, for they say…” Aeden tuned out, focusing instead on the large circular stone dais where the priests stood for their teaching in the center of the hall. Twelve shallow marks surrounded the circle, rubbed smooth with time and weather—the priests prided themselves on the age of the stone and the building, claiming at least two thousand years of hi
story.
“Aeden Rossam! Come here, young man. I want to talk to you.” It was the high priest—the Hegemon of the Worship House. Priest Anthony shut his mouth and hurried away.
“Yes, your grace?” Aeden managed a slight bow. This was the only man of any real authority in the priesthood, and even that was sketchy. This particular Hegemon was the second son of the fourth duke of Elbeth, somewhat advanced in years—well past one hundred and thirty or so, but not quite as old as his father who still held the fourth duke’s title. Aeden tried to force a thin smile, but struggled to look him in the eye—he detested the man.
“Your father was here last week, and I must say I’m truly excited for you to join us!” He rubbed his gnarled hands together. Join them? Aeden almost thought he’d misheard. “But I must say, I don’t think you’re quite ready, yet.”
“You know, I think you’re right. I’ll probably just go join the royal guard instead next year—” Aeden began, but the man cut him off.
“But you could be, with a little study. Tell me, young man, do you study your Chronicles? Have you transcribed your own set?”
Aeden shrugged. “I’m nearly done.” Which was partly true. He was nearly done trying, at least.
“Do you know your history? Are you versed in the politics of the kingdoms and the customs of the many lands around us?”
At this Aeden felt a little more confidence, and the desire to show off to the old decrepit priest overcame him. “Oh, I get by. I am the son of the sixth duke, you know—my father is holder of the ancient scepter of King Rossam the Second, which means that if we lived a thousand years ago I’d be the prince.”
“Tell me then, Prince,” the man said, in a mocking tone, “what is the nearest kingdom to the north, and what is its chief city?”
Aeden shook his head. “Trick question, as the two kingdoms to our immediate north are Volda and Vaasa, with the third kingdom of Ramala north of them. The chief city of them all is the common city, where the three kings hold court in three different palaces, though each also has a ceremonial capital separate from the common city. North of Ramala are the icy wastes, and to their east lies the mythical land of the Falafim, though that is debated since we don’t have much contact with the northern kingdoms.”
The priest glowered at him, and Aeden wondered if that meant he could escape from the interrogation. Alas, the man continued. “And to the south?” Aeden opened his mouth to retort an easy answer but the priest held up a finger—out of the end of which jutted a sickeningly long fingernail. “The kingdom of Franckland, yes, I’m sure you know. But tell me about the lands around it.”
Aeden shut his mouth and thought. He had studied the maps, though to be honest he had never taken an interest in geography or politics. To know his family’s place was enough. If only he was a great wizard like in the old legends, he could blast the holy man back and escape in the kicked-up dust. He mentally reached out an imaginary hand and shoved.
Unfortunately, the priest remained quite still, expectantly awaiting his answer. “Well, in the center of the kingdom of Frankland lies the great fiery mountain, whose smoke can be seen from the city of Penumbra. They’re barbarians so we don’t really know—”
“That’s all you can tell me?” The priest raised a skeptical eyebrow. Clearly Aeden’s pretend magic hadn’t affected him at all. Maybe next time, he thought with an inward grin.
Aeden shifted on his feet and tried to judge from the man’s demeanor exactly how long this interview would last. He tried to imagine a lifetime within the priesthood, and shivered. “Well, east of them is the land of the Daedwithe—the people we must pass through on our long journey when we feel the call east in the twilight of life.”
“Yes. Well at least it seems your mother has taught you something, blessed woman. Do you know why they are the Daedwithe?”
Aeden shook his head.
“They are the shepherds of the departed. Their sole purpose, their holy mission given them by the creator, is to guide us when we make the journey—to shepherd us safely east, past the trials and obstacles. And though they live, they are set apart from the world, never to partake of its joys. Almost as if dead, no?” It was a question, but Aeden knew better than to think the man wanted an answer. “Interesting how the living who are not allowed to live are called to shepherd the dying who go east to live forever. What consigned them to such an honorable and terrible fate I don’t know. Only the creator in his wisdom knows of such things.”
“Yes, your grace,” Aeden mumbled.
How long could he go on? Aeden considered joining the priestly order just to get the man to shut up. The priest opened his mouth to continue the interrogation even as Aeden sighed and hunched his shoulders, which the man seemed to notice. Deep crease lines on the man’s face, betraying many decades of earnest frowning, bunched up into a scowl. “Very well, young one. You may go. Do come back soon.”
“I will,” he lied.
Back on the street, the midmorning crowds had just started to thin for the midday meal, and Aeden could smell the rich aromas of roasting meat and baking bread, with the hint of anise and lavender. His path took him near the lord of the city’s estate, and in front of the imposing building—a fortress, really—stood a smaller, more utilitarian structure. The healer’s clinic. The base of operations of the Society of Healers in the city of Elbeth.
Aeden couldn’t fathom why the master healer would invite Priam to join the society. He was an ok swordsman, sure, but he had shown no inclination towards being able to mend his own nicks and cuts, let alone the maladies of others. He was hopeless with social etiquette, not having been raised in a noble family—really, being the son of the “twenty-sixth duke” had done nothing for him.
But why not Aeden? Rumor had it that the members of the society held great powers. Some said deadly powers, which Aeden thought silly since why would a healer require anything more deadly than a small blade for extracting thorns? And their prestige commanded even the respect of the king, who had proclaimed, as the previous king had, that the healers were to have open access to every city and land within the kingdom of Puertamando.
On a whim, and slightly out of jealousy, Aeden veered towards the lord of the city’s estate, saluting the guards standing at the front gate—he recognized them from several upscale parties they had stood guard at before—and marched towards the healer’s clinic.
Several people sat in chairs by the entrance, waiting to be seen by a healer. Tables and couches littered the main floor, while doors lined the walls leading off to what looked like an assortment of offices, bedrooms and storage rooms. He walked across the main floor and approached a seated woman who held her hand against the head of a man lying on the table before her. Large oozing pustules covered the man’s face and neck, and he coughed in fits and spasms. After a minute, she lowered her hand and looked up at him, “Yes?”
Aeden bowed low and said, “I’m looking for the master healer.”
She motioned to the chairs by the front door. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait like everyone else. There is no special line for nobility. Only in times of crisis.” And she placed her hand back on the man’s head.
Aeden stammered, “No, wait! He summoned me,” he looked away so she wouldn’t see the lie in his eyes, “He asked me to meet him here this very afternoon.”
Without even looking at him she continued, “Doesn’t change my answer.” She pointed to the chairs by the door. “Sit.”
Somewhat stunned, he found his way back to the chairs and sat. He passed the time examining the other waiting people who stood one by one as they were called, the newly healed leaving the building with smiling faces, often rotating their shoulders or rubbing their arms or heads in happy disbelief. He looked at the man across from him. Old, toothless, torn clothing. Open sores ravaged his face and hands, and he coughed almost ceaselessly, scratching his arms and shaking his head, as if in deep conversation with himself and disagreeing with what he had to say. Sometimes vehementl
y. The man noticed Aeden looking at him.
“What do you have?” he croaked.
Aeden, pretending he thought the man was talking to the woman next to him, examined the floor—wood boards fastened to the underfloor with iron nails.
“What do you have?” the man repeated.
“Excuse me?” Aeden looked at the man, faint disgust on his face.
“What do you have? Are you sick?” The man licked his cracked lips, chasing down stray drops of drool.
“I’m … here to see the master healer. On business,” he responded curtly.
“Oh! Business!” The man excitedly bobbed his head, which Aeden thought strange since he thought the man clearly had never done any business in his entire life. “You must be a nobleman!” He got to his feet and approached the wide-eyed Aeden, “Nice to meet you!” he said, extending his scabby hand to the grimacing boy.
Aeden looked at it in horror—though his carefully trained manners prevented much of it from spilling onto his face, and nodded to the man, “Very charmed. I …”
“I will see you now, Tompkins!” Aeden looked up at a tall, robed man standing nearby. He instantly recognized the face, the face that had loomed over him as a child and healed him and Lord Rossam of the plague that ravaged Elbeth.
Tompkins hobbled away towards the master healer, who continued, “Good to see you again, Master Rossam. Please. I’ll be but a moment.” He strode off with the sick man in tow towards a pair of chairs in the center of the room and the master healer placed his hand on Tompkins’s temple. Aeden rested his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. What was he doing here? What if the woman told the master healer that Aeden said he was expected? He surmised he wouldn’t be happy, and yet he couldn’t imagine that kind face being angry. Ageless and serene it seemed, like a man who had found his calling and had desires for nothing else.