by Cole Pain
Presario was beyond Ramie’s comprehension. Although the fire was a tragedy, Ramie would have never done what Presario had done: shut out the world, denying himself life, love and friendship, and most important, denying others a wealth of knowledge. Although some entreaties were rewarded with Presario’s reply, it took an act of the Maker to make it through the town to see the man.
Ramie thought back to the accounts of Presario’s replies and stopped pacing. Ramie turned to the town, eyes falling on the building closest to the keep: House of Harlots. His mind spun.
Presario only answered women!
Ramie glanced at the crooked wooden door as if it alone could reveal Presario’s secrets. Why did Presario only answer women? Why did he turn men away? Ramie glanced back toward the town, thinking about the two men and the girl. Did they only show themselves when men walked through the town? He wondered. The girl would be a useless deterrent for women, unless she focused those midnight eyes on them and screamed.
The door opened, shattering his thoughts. Arri stood back, allowing him entrance. It was the first full view Ramie had seen of the castle’s interior, and all he could do was stare.
Books lined the walls from floor to ceiling. He had come to the right place. He would be surprised if there was a book in the Lands Presario hadn’t read at least ten times.
Arri shifted. “Are you coming, or are you going to stand there gaping all day?”
Ramie stepped inside, a shiver running down his spine at the old man’s words. It was said the blind had better senses than most, but Arri’s white eyes were uncanny.
Arri closed the door behind him, bolting it quickly as if an army had lined up outside. A portrait of a boy with brilliant blue eyes, cherry-brown hair, and a kind smile hung behind the door. The boy was just reaching manhood. He sat up straight and proud, daring the artist to capture all his nuances. It was Presario, as he was before. The painting had been slashed in anger, slicing the boy’s face and causing the painting to appear ominous and not enchanting.
Maybe Ramie was being too harsh on Presario. No, he thought, Presario should have picked up the pieces and gone on.
But Nigel hadn’t.
The thought knocked Ramie off balance. Although Nigel’s situation was different, it had the same result. Both Nigel and Presario had denied everyone a chance to know and love them.
Ramie followed Arri without question, suddenly feeling like a knave in a shrine. Torches were placed every few cubits in standing wrought-iron holsters. Light danced with chameleon subtlety over the profusion of books, which seemed to have no end.
Arri turned down a dark, narrow corridor halfway down the hall. Ramie was about to follow but he stopped short. The skeletal shell of the blackened castle loomed only cubits away. Ramie took a step forward, morbidly enchanted by the sight. The boards below him became a jagged, precarious precipice. The bony bowels of what had once been one of the most glorious mansions in Yor reached upward with twisted features. Only a small section of hall remained visible in the distance. Paintings hung unrecognizable, tattered curtains fluttered in enigmatic drafts, and ashes and dust were pilled high in every corner. Though furniture was sparse, there was enough evidence of former inhabitance to cause the torchlight to bring shadowy specters to life.
All evidence of Ramie’s anger evaporated. Why didn’t Presario board up the sight? It must be painful to look upon one’s former life and be reminded of its tragic end. Ramie made a mental note to offer his own men for the job, maybe even help rebuild the entire keep.
Fearful Arri would grow weary of his hesitation, Ramie turned and hurried down the smaller passage. A lone light flickered from under a doorway at the end of the hall. It danced just enough to help Ramie maneuver through the books surrounding him.
He heard soft, eerie music as he approached. It climbed higher and higher until Ramie’s hackles began to rise. The old man turned toward him with iridescent white eyes. It was an experience Ramie would never forget: the darkness, the music, and the eyes.
Arri stepped aside, indicating for Ramie to enter alone. Ramie nodded his thanks, trying his best to keep his regal demeanor, but his hands shook with the same unnatural twinge he had sensed in the streets of Mintree.
Presario may be a recluse, but he was far from an ordinary man.
Arri left without a word, his soft footfalls echoing impending doom. Ramie leaned into the wooden door until he had regained some of the Augustus confidence. He concentrated on why he was there: Ista’s lies, his kingdom, the Lands, and most importantly Ren and Nigel. If he was there for one reason it was for Ren and Nigel. He couldn’t let them down. He wouldn’t let them down.
He opened the door and stepped into a large library. Books were arranged from floor to ceiling in exquisitely polished shelves. A huge redwood desk, covered with papers, styluses and scrolls, sat in the center of the room. All items were arranged with careful precision.
The knowledge residing in the room was fathomless, and Ramie knew the books held in the library and the halls only scratched the surface. How many other chambers had he been led past? How many floors were still useable? How many thousands upon thousands of volumes were hidden in Presario’s castle? Presario was called the man of most knowledge. Now Ramie knew why.
Despite the overwhelming number of volumes, what drew Ramie’s eyes were the paintings. They surrounded the room, but instead of being hung – for every wall from floor to ceiling supported a shelf – they were propped against the shelves. Not an inch of floor space was untouched by their frames. Some were even stacked one on top of another.
They were all images of water: waterfalls, lakes, streams, rain, floods, oceans, and glaciers. Every depiction of water was represented: water, the opposite of fire. Ramie’s chest tightened. He had no right to judge this man. He had no idea what kind of pain Presario had lived with since the fire.
Ramie swallowed his pride and turned to the corner fireplace from which the only light in the room emanated. A huge chair sat before the fire, the back far taller than the man who sat within its depths. All Ramie could see of Presario was one wrinkled hand clutching the arm of the chair.
With quick calculation Ramie determined Presario was only thirty-five. Ramie turned away. The wrinkles weren’t from age. Ramie had only seen one other hand as melted as the one before him, and that man hadn’t lived through the night. The memory was painful to recall. Ramie couldn’t imagine living the memory. If the rest of Presario’s skin was as festered as the hand Ramie couldn’t begin to conceive the torment Presario had endured.
When Ramie turned back, the hand was gone. A winding sound shattered the silence and the music started again. Ramie hadn’t even noticed the music had stopped, but as it rekindled the spectral drone seemed to enwrap his soul in a pod of loneliness.
Ramie took a step back, unsure if he wanted to feel what the man before him felt every day.
“It seems the Augustus family will not let me be.”
Ramie jumped at the sound of Presario’s voice. It was pleasant, soothing, even compassionate, but it was contrary to what he had expected. The voice didn’t parallel the foreboding feelings, the ominous castle, and the shriveled hand. Ramie thought back to the picture he had seen of the young Presario: the cherry-brown hair, the brilliant blue eyes, and the kind smile. The voice fit that face.
Ramie cleared his throat. “I don’t understand. This is my first visit.”
“And you believe you are the entire Augustus family?” Presario’s tone was sarcastic, condemning. Ramie balked, but his confusion overpowered his anger.
A hollow laugh came from the chair. “Yes, that would be what the mighty Ramie Augustus thinks. He and he alone constitutes the name.”
Ramie drew a furious breath, but before he could speak Presario’s voice marred the silence.
“Years ago the Black Knight came to me. He was near death. I had to make a decision. Would I help him live and be seen? Or would I maintain my heterodox haven and perhaps be responsible
for his death? I chose the former. He was the only one, until you, I have allowed into my halls.
“So I say again, it seems the Augustus family will not let me be.” His voice stayed in an advisor monotone but Ramie sensed the inflection of Presario’s voice at the irony of his words.
Ramie finally found his voice. “Then I owe you my gratitude for saving my brother’s life.”
Presario’s chuckle sounded like paradoxical music: happy but sad, enticing yet distant.
“Ironic, don’t you think? You threaten me with your title and then discover the Augustus family owes me a blood debt. An old adage theorizes that since you have threatened me, the very person who helped your family parry death, your very soul is given to me to command in death. The nullity commanding the sovereign, very ironic indeed.”
Ramie’s anger ignited. “You forced me into a threat I had no intention of carrying out. You shun the world, molting your genius when it appeals to you, denying others even parcels from your hand. You were the most talked about advisor of all time, Presario, not a twin, not a triplet, but you. I don’t use my title for its own sake but for the sake of the people of the Lands. My need is great, Presario, and you would have turned me away without thought or care. Are you that deformed in heart as well as in body?”
Ramie winced as soon as his words were out, but there was no taking them back. The music had stopped and the only sound was the crackling fire. Ramie wondered how Presario could endure to sit before the flames. Ramie supposed it might be Presario’s way of defying the memories.
“You put me in an awkward position, my king,” Presario hissed. “Do I listen to you because of the sincerity of your need? Or do I banish you because of your haughty words and arrogant judgments? I believe you could take lessons from the Black Knight, my king. Ironic don’t you think? The brother who kills has a pure heart and mind, yet the brother who rules has less worth because of his foul mouth and swift dictums. Anger leads to destruction, Ramie Augustus. I am proof of that. You need to peruse the mural for its theme before you judge the artisan’s purpose.”
Ramie didn’t want to admit the truth of Presario’s words but was unable to avoid them. He was passing judgment on someone he knew nothing about. He had secretly condemned his own brother without thinking through the implications: the perils Nigel would face if he had stayed, the danger to their family, Nigel’s feelings. No, he had only thought of himself and how Nigel had deserted him.
“When your brother was here he mumbled a lot in his sleep. He was concerned more about you than his own life. He wept over and over, praying you would forgive him if you gleaned the truth. I wonder if you have?” Presario’s words cut. Ramie remained silent.
“Now whose heart is deformed?” Presario asked. “I wouldn’t leap to judge me if I were you. You need to purify your own soul much more deeply than I. All I do is try to live in peace. Would you castigate a blacksmith who didn’t want to fire another piece of iron? Would you condemn a furniture builder who didn’t want to carve another piece of wood? How am I different from someone who doesn’t care for his profession any longer?”
Presario paused to wind the music box once again. “You debase me for the town’s demise? Be wary of that imperious thought. I don’t control the town as you think. Those who remain do so on their own accord, although I do reward them for their efforts. All they want is a solitary place to practice their craft. All I need are a few to turn away those who seek my advice.
“The only thing I’m guilty of is ceasing production on my father’s fields. Yes, it has caused the town to die, but it’s my land and Yor isn’t destitute of soil to raise cattle and grain. But I know your mind. You still believe I’m vile. You think I’ve forced people to leave, but you still don’t ask the reason behind it. What you don’t see, what you don’t care to know, is that it pains me to see Mintree a ghost town. I’m alone. I’ll always be alone. It’s by choice, yes; but that doesn’t make me apathetic. I liked looking out the window and seeing children at play. I enjoyed chance sightings of trysts between lovers. I delighted in the bustle of the market and witnessing the latest garish fashions. No, I didn’t close my father’s fields to bring the town to ruin. I chose to do so because I loathed everything about my father at the time. It may seem trite to you, but it was everything to me.”
Presario paused, heaving a sigh. “I don’t explain my actions for your consent. To be brazenly honest, I don’t explain myself to anyone, king or no king. You may deplore me or you may extol me. I don’t care which. I allow you to ask your question because of your soul. Although it’s quick tempered, it’s true. You’re the only man, besides your brother, who has made it past the girl. All others give in to her, married or unmarried, devout or heathen. All.” Presario slapped his hand down in harsh judgment. “But know neither your title nor your heart gave you leave to come into this house. I allowed you entrance because of a man I know and respect. That is your brother, my king, not you. Nigel has given you entrance. Remember that. Ask what you will.”
Ramie knew Presario was right, about everything. His own admittance was belittling. Closing his eyes Ramie tried to regain his former confidence. It evaded him. He thought of Ren and why he was there. It gave him what he needed to speak to the man he had degraded without righteous cause.
“The crown prince of Zier has been pronounced a traitor and his kingdom has fallen to a sorceress who has survived since the Wizard War. She claims the crown prince is the one to fear and rallies the Lands behind her. She has encouraged all kingdoms to send those with the power to train under her, and people go, hungry for the rewards the Quy can give them. She is forming a force she calls the Collective, claiming it will be under no rule but will work for all the Lands. I know she lies. This woman’s tentacles reach through the Lands as it is. With a collective force under her she’ll be able to infiltrate the Lands and crush all resistance.”
Ramie waited for Presario to speak. When he did not, Ramie continued. “I’m in a perilous position because I know the truth yet I have no proof to show. Currently no other kingdom will join me in the fight against her. Without regard to magic my army is insignificant compared to hers. With regard to magic my army is dead before the first taut of the bow.
“I would wait longer but I fear with each breath I take her hold strengthens and mine weakens. I’m here to obtain advice on attempting an offensive against the Collective. The crown prince of Zier has fled, but I want to assure when Ren returns it won’t be too late. He’s honorable, Presario, much like Nigel. If you like my brother you would like Ren.”
Presario remained silent. The crackling of the fire continued but the embers were burning low and there was an acute chill in the room. Ramie rubbed his arms, wondering if Presario would risk being seen to rekindle the flames.
“I didn’t realize the synergy would be a prince,” Presario said.
Ramie looked at the back of the chair in confusion. “I’m sorry?”
A variegated hand lifted from the confines of the chair and slashed the air for silence. The fabric of Presario’s robe crawled up his arm, exposing seething flesh far more dreadful than the hand.
“It’s of no importance.” Presario laid his hand back on the ball of the arm, long fingers careening over it with slow precision. “You’ve come for nothing. You know what you must do. You’re looking for reassurance, something I cannot give. All I can do is help you understand your thoughts.
“You’ve just said Ren is honorable and has been pronounced a traitor by a knowledgeable sorceress. If that’s true you don’t want this sorceress training people with magic. She’ll mold them into shadows of herself. Your decision isn’t whether you should oppose her. Your decision is when and if you should go against her with force. On one hand emancipation will bring freedom for the people and an ultimate good, but it will also shed an unfavorable light on you. You’ll have conquered Newlan. There will be suspicion and outrage. You’ll have also killed the people’s channel to learn the Quy. On the other ha
nd, if you choose to remain idle any more time without an offensive is time this sorceress has to train those with her. The more time passes, the greater the threat. You are a king. You know what is right. Although the road is perilous, you already know the answer.”
“But how do I mount an offensive against something I know nothing about? What defense do I have?” Ramie asked, his voice betraying what little hope he held.
“Go to the table,” Presario said. “I’ve left you a book. Although most accounts of the Quy were plundered some were hidden and many have found their way here. I pay a handsome price for rare books, and people from across the lands come here to sell them. Over the years I’ve collected many on the Quy. The one I now bestow to you is my most prized piece. It should be of use. It’s called a Patois Paragon or patoi for short. Do you know this term?”
“No,” Ramie admitted, walking to the book and laying a dubious hand on its leather cover.
“Patoi means ‘the model of words.’ Books holding the patoi cognomen are literally teachers of what is contained inside. This book is a patoi for the Quy. The emotional weaves inside start from the most simplistic and finish with the most convoluted and precarious. It’s old, as old as the Alcazar I should think. The first Calvet, Omar, created it. From that day forth every new thought and emotional weave he found significant was recorded in the book. With each generation the book has been added to, up until the destruction of the Alcazar.
“The book’s words, shall I say, come alive to the reader, so you’ll be able to learn with swiftness.”
Ramie stared down at the monstrous book as Presario droned on. He could feel the power residing within, enticing him to open the cover and learn what was held in its depths.
The book would be a guide to him and to his army. He would be able to fight Ista with magic.
The fire blazed hotter, banishing the chill in the room. Ramie turned to find Presario had put another log on the flames. Ramie frowned. He thought he would have noticed Presario’s movement. He turned his attention back to the book.