by Nick Webb
He motioned to another servant, who brought another, larger wooden tray, this one bearing an elaborate, elegant, and deadly-looking sword. Still in shock from his previous victory, Aeden couldn’t believe his ears as he heard the herald announce the overall winner of the tournament. He hadn’t even noticed, but he’d scored more points against his opponent than all the other champions.
The lord approached Aeden with one hand offering the sword and the other extended for greeting. Aeden took the sword, and the lord pulled him in close with his other hand, saying loudly in his ear as the crowd cheered, “You were my favorite … so cunning and ruthless. Well done.” Aeden’s heart sank a little. He hadn’t meant to be ruthless. Just the best.
The lord kissed Aeden on the cheek and pulled away, leaving him with the prize. He lifted it high into the air, looking up at it in awe. The craftsmanship was remarkable: the edge deadly sharp, the hilt a work of art, the grip a solid piece of light, nearly white, metal that seemed to shape itself perfectly to his grip.
Aeden attempted to return to the center of the stands when the ceremony finished, pushing his way through the waiting fans who pressed on him like an ocean wave. His family descended the steps, meeting him halfway, and they departed the grounds, walking home with a crowd of neighbors and well-wishers following close behind. His sister bobbed up and down next to him as he walked, chattering and singing—he cheerfully bumped into her, knocking her off course, and she shrieked with delight and ran into him once, then over and over after hearing him laugh. Entering the gate to the estate, Aeden turned and waved at the crowd one last time, before closing it and turning to his waiting family.
His father turned to him, and Aeden thought he was hallucinating when he saw the briefest of smiles pass the man’s lips. “I have news for you later. In the morning come see me. Though I suspect neither of you will hardly sleep tonight.” The family walked towards the house. Aeden turned to Priam.
“Wow.” He exhaled.
“You were amazing. You really were. I thought you had lost it, but then you did what you did, and … yeah. Wow.” Priam said.
“You had a nice fight there too, at the end. If it hadn’t been for that trip … it would have been yours. Next year.” Aeden clapped him on the back and walked towards the house. Priam followed with a sigh.
Five
“And you will lay your hand on their heads and you shall become one, even as them of old …”
—Instructions, 1:5
The next morning, Aeden awoke with a yawn and turned to his side, seeing Priam had already left. He left the plush bed, yelping as he stepped on the armor he dropped on the floor the night before, and quickly dressed.
As he glanced towards his desk, he saw his beautiful new sword, grabbed it, and strapped the hilt to his belt so that it dangled comfortably at his side. Descending downstairs, Aeden tentatively popped his head into his father’s study and saw him hunched over his desk reading a parchment.
“Aeden, come in,” said the man, without looking up. He entered and sat on the other side of the desk from his father, who looked up from his reading. “Wonderful job yesterday. Truly wonderful. A little … dirty, there at the end, but not unfair—you won soundly.”
“Thank you, father. I trained hard for it.” Aeden murmured.
“You did indeed. You dedicated yourself, and you did it. I’m proud of you. In fact,” he paused, looking down at the paper he had been reading, “I have a contract here from Swordmaster Arino.”
“The Swordmaster? The captain of the city guard?” Aeden perked up.
“The same. I took him aside yesterday after the tournament and asked him if he would personally train you before you apply to the royal guard. After your performance yesterday he could hardly say no—he was flattered, in fact. Flattery will get you everywhere—remember that,” the man grinned at him. “Aeden, you’ve worked so hard and shown so much potential, I just thought I owed it to you to give you the best opportunity for training before …”
“Wow!” Aeden interrupted, jumping to his feet and running around the table to grab his father’s hand. He couldn’t recall a time in his life that his father had praised him so. Proud of him? “Thank you, father! Wow! You’re actually paying the Swordmaster himself to train me? How much will that cost?” he said, glancing at the parchment on the desk.
The lord brushed it aside under another parchment before Aeden could read it and replied, “Enough. We have quite enough, though we may have more in the near future. Anyway, your lessons start tomorrow morning.” He looked at the boy, “Only if you’re interested, of course.”
He whacked his father on the shoulder, then cautiously withdrew his hand, realizing he had never touched the man with such camaraderie. “Interested? Please, father. I’ll be getting up early from now on for this.”
“Truly a miracle. We should tell the priest,” came the dry reply. “Aeden, this is not just to satisfy a whim of yours. I have great plans for you. Our family, long ago, sat at the head of the kingdom. You may fear me, or hate me, or love me, I don’t know and I don’t care, but the way I have brought you up is for your own good—certainly kinder than my father was to me, the old brute. What I’m trying to tell you is … someday I may need you at my side, and I will need both a warrior and a counselor. Anyway,” he slapped the desk, “leave me in peace. Go eat your breakfast.”
Aeden bounded out, forgetting that he’d meant to ask his father a question that had been gnawing at him since the day before. And what of Lord Bleak, he’d meant to ask. Did his father have anything to do with his disappearance? But he decided against returning to his father’s study, unsure he wanted to even hear the answer, and headed instead for the dining room where the servants had left food for him, knowing he’d get out of bed eventually. He wolfed it down and left the house, wandering aimlessly through the city.
A few hollers and whistles directed at him reached his ears—people from the crowd who recognized the young champion—and he waved proudly in return. A familiar store to his right caught his eyes. He entered the confectionary’s shop and strode confidently up to the woman at the counter, a newfound bounce in his step. “Madam Rutkin! How delightful to see you!”
The rotund woman dropped the balls of hard candy she was working on, fluttered her hands about her face and breathlessly cried, “Master Rossam! Oh, it’s such a joy when you drop by!”
Aeden winked his long eyelashes and assumed a syrupy smile. “Is your lovely daughter around? I would love to have a … private conversation with her …” Aeden knew the rotund daughter was, in fact, at a dress shop several streets over, but he thought—and as his father joked to him that morning—flattery will get one everywhere.
“Oh no! I’m afraid she just stepped out. Please come back this afternoon and she will surely be here. I will make her stay until you come. Here. Have some of these, and do come back!” The woman hovered over her wares, picking out an assortment of candies to give to the boy, and he left the shop munching on the sugary lumps while continuing down the street.
Aeden thought about the last match. He had been desperate. He knew he would lose, and it angered him. The memory of looking down into the man’s eyes, who stared back up, enraged, and then … the event seemed freshly seared in him mind. He tried to speak into the man’s head, as the master healer had done.
It just may have worked.
He changed directions and aimed for the estate of the lord of the city. The master healer would be disappointed, but with an illustrious career in the royal guard just around the corner, he’d never have time to join the healers.
He marched down the street, sword swinging at his side, and saw the entrance to the estate, the sick and the afflicted still arriving in ones and twos before being directed to the healer’s clinic at the side of the grounds. Pausing, Aeden thought for a moment, turned, and walked down the street to the communal hall. He sprang up the steps and entered the building, light streaming in from the east, though clouds already threaten
ed to cover the sun.
“Aeden!” cried Priest Anthony as he ran over to greet the boy. “Amazing yesterday! Amazing! I thought you were going to place second, and then, POW! Very well done!” he spluttered as he shook his hand. “And the next day, you come to see me? What an honor. Truly. What brings you here?”
The priest sat, Aeden took a chair next to him and began. “I just wanted to continue our conversation from the other day.”
“Very well,” the priest said. “What’s on your mind?”
“In the Chronicles, it tells of the Creator coming to us in our minds and hearts, and speaking to us. I can think of many passages where the Creator tells the person something—either a prophecy or a warning, or a message of love, or whatever—it’s always directly to their minds. Why is that?”
“Well, Aeden, it’s not only to their minds. I can think of two instances in the Chronicles where the Creator directly appeared and spoke face to face with his creations. First was when he created us. He stood before our first twelve parents and he touched them one by one on the head with his finger, and they drew in their first breaths. Then he addressed them—sang to them, really, singing the song of beginning. You know the rest of the story, I’m sure.”
Aeden nodded, “Yes, there is that one. And the other? I’m having trouble remembering.…”
“The other was over a thousand years ago, when our forefather, Galen Thunderspeak, ascended the mountain to beg for the deliverance of his people from the dreaded armies of the evil Lord Shagoth. The creator descended out of heaven …”
Aeden finished for him, “Oh yes, I remember now, and he touched his head with his finger, symbolizing the re-creation of his people, and promised to vanquish the dark lord if the people would return to the ways of the creator.”
Priest Anthony remarked, “Very good. Not many people understand the symbolism. You must pay attention to my remarks during the communal meetings.”
“Most of the time. Actually, my mother is constantly talking to me and sis about the Chronicles. But, Priest Anthony, how come every other time, the creator talks to people in the Chronicles in their minds instead of appearing before them? Does he really talk to us in our minds? Have you heard him in your mind before?”
The priest hesitated. “Well, no, he hasn’t to me. The hegemon thinks that this is purely symbolic. I believe it is literal, but I know of no one who actually has heard the voice of the creator in their minds. Sometimes though, it’s as if I can feel him calling to me. It’s more in my heart than in my head, however.”
“So, it might not be real, then?”
The priest looked concerned, “As I said Aeden, many believe it is symbolic, but others believe it is real. You will have to work that out with the creator yourself.”
“How? By asking him?”
“Perhaps. Study the book. Study the Chronicles. Finish your own copy, such that you own the words and make them yours. Maybe then, someday, you will find the answers you seek.”
Aeden got up. “Thank you, Priest Anthony. I must be going now, I was supposed to meet someone, but I am grateful for your help with this matter.”
The priest arose and bid the boy farewell. “Until we meet again, Aeden Rossam!”
The boy left the hall, resuming his walk to the healer’s clinic. He saluted the guard, who saluted back, and approached the building. Entering, he found several ill commoners waiting in the chairs by the door. Aeden sighed as he sat down, waiting for a healer to come and winnow the line. One by one, the sick were led away by the healers and at last, he found himself at the head of the line when another healer approached.
“Come with me, my lord,” said the same woman he had met before.
“I’m just here to see the master healer. We have business to discuss.”
“Well why didn’t you say so when you arrived? He’s back in his office,” she said, pointing to the rear of the room.
“But last time I was told … oh never mind. Thank you.” He could not quite hide the exasperation in his voice, nor in his step as he marched back to the office.
Aeden cautiously peered into the room, “Master? Are you here?”
“Yes, my dear boy, come in, come in.” The graying man, who had been kneeling, arose and walked to the door, putting his powerful arm around Aeden’s shoulders and pulling him into the room. Aeden cast a sidelong glance at the man “What were you doing?”
“I was praying,” the old man replied, sitting down in his chair with a grunt.
Aeden took a chair next to him. “You? You pray?”
“Yes. Does that surprise you?”
“Well … no … yes. Maybe. I just thought that the society was the opposite of the priests. I mean, you seem nothing like the chief priest—the hegemon.”
“Opposite? No. Just different. Much different. And yes, I pray.”
The answer was good enough for Aeden, as he came with other questions. He intended to let the master healer down as gently as possible, but he had questions first. “You said we were Rohva. What does that mean?”
“It means we are mechanical beings, Aeden. We are people of metal, covered in flesh.”
“Well sure. That’s what the chronicles tell us. That’s what the priests tell us—that the creator made us special out of all his creations. Cattle and sheep have white, brittle bones, whereas the creator made his children better.” Surely he knows this, he thought.
“It is true, we were created special. But we are different in more ways than you know. We are mechanical, Aeden. Here, let me show you something.” The healer rummaged through the items in his desk and pulled out a silvery toy. It was a man, made of shiny metal, apparently steel, but it had a knob on the back and several gears stuck out behind it.
“Look at this.” The man said, extending the toy to Aeden. He accepted the offer and examined the toy. It was cold, very smooth, and heavy. Tiny engravings revealed themselves as he looked closer, though they were indecipherable.
“What is it?”
“A toy, nothing more. I use it to explain to future society members what our true natures are. That knob in the back—twist it several times.” Aeden wrapped his fingers around the piece of metal protruding from the toy man’s back and twisted. When he let go, the toy’s arms began moving up and down while the head turned from side to side.
“Very fun. Where did you get it? I reckon my sister would enjoy one.” Aeden remarked.
“It does not matter where I got it. What matters is that you understand now, that I, you, all of us, are almost exactly like that toy. Just as you supply power to it by turning the knob, which moves the gears you see and thereby moving the arms, we too have a power source which supplies energy to our bodies and minds. Except we are far more than this toy, obviously. Our creator put a great deal of work into us.”
“Master, I’m afraid I still do not understand what you are getting at. Of course we are somewhat like this. We eat food to power our bodies, and the creator himself sustains us with his holy power. Just because we have metal bones and skulls does not make us … well I’m still not even sure what you’re claiming that makes us.”
The man sighed. “My boy, Aeden, I suppose I will have to show you. Come here. Let me touch your head.”
Aeden took a step away. He didn’t wish to repeat the dreadful experience from the previous week.
The master raised his eyebrows, “It won’t hurt. Trust me, it will be all right. Wouldn’t you like another demonstration?”
Aeden stammered, “Well … yes, I would. That … thing … you did, talking in my head and all, is that all you can do, I mean, we can do?”
“Of course not. We can do many wonders that would cause the priests to not just remove us from the communal hall or the kingdom, but would very well cause them to execute us. I can teach you all in good time, but there is much yet that I do not know.”
Aeden paused a moment, and confessed, “I did it. At least I think I did. That thing you did to me. Speaking in my head. Yesterday, du
ring my last round of the tournament, I tried to speak in the mind of my opponent, trying to get him to yield. He looked shocked, and he did. Yield, that is.”
The master looked at him in disappointment. “Yes, I saw the whole thing. Not the most honorable way to win the tournament, I must confess—you could have simply rapped the man on the chest with the sword instead of holding it to his neck and won with far more honor. And now that you’ve told me this, it becomes worse. To use the knowledge of our true nature for personal gain at the expense of those who do not know is … lamentable.”
“I’m sorry. I did it on a whim. It was an intense moment. I didn’t want him to force me to cut him further …”
“And so you should have released him and won properly!” The master grew a little agitated, but quickly calmed himself. “Excuse me, Aeden. I am not being fair. This is all so new to you. Come, let me show you more. And by the way, you truly are a brilliant swordsman, in spite of how it ended—though seeing that last part makes me glad you’re on our side,” the man said with a wink.
“What will you show me?” Aeden asked, relieved that the man let drop his tournament performance.
“I will enter my mind, and bring you with me.” Aeden looked confused, so the healer continued, “We have the ability to enter one another’s minds, and we can see and talk to each other there. This is the second of our powers. There are seven total, but the master of our society thinks we have only scratched the surface of what is possible for a rohva to do.”
Aeden wrinkled his brow, “I thought you led the society. Who is this master you speak of? How many of you are there?”