***
All he knew was that it was dark, he was in a very limited space, and that this space was moving like a snake digesting some small animal. A burst of light invaded his senses and the contractions of that confined space increased in strength until, as though by a miracle, he emerged from it, wrapped in a sticky viscosity.
He opened his eyes and felt pain. The light was blinding. He felt on his skin a dark, icy stream. He took a deep lungful of air and felt like bursting into tears but could only pant.
He felt his body with his hands. That viscosity covered him completely. He began to wipe it off and found himself naked, but that was not the most disturbing thing: there was a gigantic umbilical cord connected to his navel, which beat and linked him to an afterbirth. He panicked. He tugged at the umbilical cord, so desperate that he did not notice the pain until he managed to pull it off.
It was as if they had taken his soul out. Dark blood gushed from his navel. He was going to bleed to death. He tied a knot with the skin that was left hanging and stopped the hemorrhage.
He looked up. What he saw around him was no better. It was an arid land, covered in blood and remains of the innumerable bodies that had been born right there, like himself. Their source was a black flower the size of a horse with enormously long petals joined together, like a hand with the fingers together. Sharp thorns along the stem protected it from any attack.
He looked up at the sky, seeking an answer but found nothing but misfortune, loneliness, and an unpleasant sensation as if something or someone wished to drive him insane and compel him toward evil.
But he decided to resist, to learn, and to dominate that impulse to take hold of the reins of his destiny. No, not everything was lost. He could fight against this black seed! Then, he remembered his name, his purpose, and looking at the flower again, he knew it was the fruit of the black seed which had been implanted in his soul.
He felt his face being slapped, someone speaking to him.
Cold water.
***
He woke up at once, afraid, with his twitching hands grasping Damasio’s cassock. The older man was shaking his pupil to bring him out of his nightmare.
“Argbralius! Argbralius, It’s all right!” The man swallowed. “It’s the second time I’ve seen this. Sometimes you really scare me, lad.”
Argbralius was lying on the floor, soiled with his vomit that reeked of wine. The hangover would be colossal.
“I’m sorry, Argbralius, but it’s already six in the morning. There’s no rest for those who get drunk.”
Judging by his tone of voice, it sounded as if Damasio was not going to hand out any punishment for breaking the rule about alcohol. Argbralius thought it was thanks to Délegas, who would have mentioned his father’s influence to protect his friends.
He was certain that Joermo, Kurlos, and Ánomnos would never be expelled. On the other hand, the boy thought, that would not stop Damasio from giving Argbralius his just deserts. And despite everything—the nightmare, the hangover, the hard work awaiting him—he felt alive and happy.
The hours he had spent with his friends had been a unique experience, and he had passed them like any normal teenager. He drank a deep draught of water and started on his daily chores. For the first time, he approached his duties with an intimate enthusiasm, something created by the brotherly links of friendship. In a way, his friends were his family. He would miss them when he had to set out for San San-Tera.
***
He beat his wings furiously and he wept, but nothing gave him any relief, not even the sensation of floating in the air among the clouds. He had not recovered from his emotional collapse after seeing Lulita—his grandmother, his mother—and Luchy, the beautiful girl whom nothing and nobody could tear from his heart.
He flew and flew and witnessed many sunrises and sunsets while he reflected and suffered. After several days, he landed on the highest and most dangerous peak of the Devonic Range of Simrar. From the top, Alac surveyed the distance. The sun was rising again. The God of Light felt it and spread those wings of his that were ready to receive the grace of nature.
The light of dawn enveloped him in a veil of warmth that drove the cold wind away. He opened his eyes and allowed the first rays of sunlight to fill him with vitality. The dawn gave way to a radiant day that died in another sunset. Wyverns were flying over the summit. Night fell, followed by another day. The cycle was repeated twenty times.
I am the sun which will help you meet your being. I am the strength of your spirit. I am Manchego.
At that moment, the God of Light understood that it was not a question of crossing seas or climbing mountains; it was not a question of beating down walls or cornering enemies. No, finding oneself, he concluded, consists of accepting oneself unconditionally. You are who you are, and you are one, the God of Light said to himself. He felt the expansive smile of the child he kept within himself.
It was night. The sky was clear and showed the splendor of thousands of stars like brilliant witnesses of the miracle which had just taken place.
A moth landed on his hand to rest, perhaps waiting for the sun’s arrival to continue its journey. He felt a tingle and was moved as never before. Wait! A tingle! This meant—
A broad smile spread across his face. He was holding a live insect in his hand. That was the key. This was the moment of truth. He had just accepted himself for who he was and for what he’d become. Boy and demigod had fused. He had found himself.
At last, he had ceased to be a ghost!
The first ray of sunlight emerged in the east and bathed his face. Its warmth caressed his body and soul, and soon he was adrift with the emotions.
He was not the one he had been before, but someone who had matured and had traveled worlds and heavens to find answers. He cried out with joy, full of power, and launched himself into flight to enjoy the world he loved so much.
***
The great day had come. Argbralius received nothing but a brief hug and a friendly slap on the back. Unfortunately, Orolio had asked to return the book, although he had had enough time to study it thoroughly and learn what no other sacristan had.
He trusted that one day, he might find a master who would broaden his knowledge and, with it, make full use of his innate talents. From his seat in the carriage, he watched the Décamon Mayutorum dwindle into the distance. He put his head out of the window. Nobody had come to say goodbye to him, but he knew his friends were thinking of him and that Joermo, Kurlos, Ánomnos, and Délegas would send him letters sooner or later.
He gave the trace of a smile, unable to hold back a tear since goodbye is goodbye, no matter how it is disguised. See you soon and till we meet again sounded like nothing more than euphemisms, a bitter reminder that he might never see his friends again.
Torn away from the only thing he had considered his own up to this moment, the only place where he had found brothers and deep friendships, Argbralius sank into a deep silence, trying to protect himself from the inevitable pain that was already welling up within him.
If only San San-Tera could receive him with open arms so that he might find possibilities and a future of happiness and love.
It was love, after all, that he missed the most. A loving mother he had had, but she was corrupted by the tainted spirit of Trumbar. Her love had been spilled on the floor like blood, trampled on, and so as a child, he had felt only partial love. He longed for it. Longed for his mother and his godfather Vurgomm, the people who he considered true parents. He breathed in deeply and wept in silence.
Chapter XXXV – King Aheron III
He bounced on the wooden seat painted in a washed-out red. The many turns they had taken along the streets, alleys, neighborhoods, and avenues of Háztatlon, with the variety of smells that had drifted through the window, had Mérdmerén disoriented.
He no longer had any idea of where he was. The leather sack over his head did not let the light through. Neither the driver nor the watch said a word. Mérdmerén was surp
rised at how meticulous and scrupled those bandits were.
Up until now, the Faceless Baron managed things more astutely than the king himself. He remembered Chauncy and felt pity. The assassins would torture him, and when they had all the information, they would kill him. All that had happened swelled his vanity.
He had never thought he might play such an important role. From the common middle-class, he had risen to the nobility, which had then expelled him. They had condemned him to a life of assaults and robbery from which he ended up cursed and dragged to a house with a garden to await his death and ended up becoming the deliverer of a message that would save the Empire.
Was it possible that the politicians had not yet found out about the dark forces coming out of Némaldon? Did they not know what had happened in San San-Tera? Did that village not deserve attention?
People would rather cover their ears and their eyes so long as they went on living in peace, even if it might be a simple illusion. Something is terribly wrong with these people and humanity if they are capable of letting crime, evil, and misfortune pass them by. And while those who were called upon to look after our good just fill their bellies, many suffer, the ex-bandit thought.
The carriage stopped, and the door opened. Two powerful arms grabbed his shoulders and made him get out. He walked. The floor was of stone. He climbed three steps, and they sat him on a soft seat. The door was closed, and they took the sack off his head.
The light blinded him. When his eyes got used to it, he saw he was in another carriage that was upholstered in red with very comfortable leather seats. Finding himself among such luxury, he understood why he had been ordered to wash thoroughly and change into clean clothes before setting out.
He was wearing black breeches, a camisole of cotton and cashmere, and an expensive necktie and hat. His shoes were patent leather and shining. He took a look out of the window. By the sun’s position, he calculated it was not yet noon.
All around the buildings were clean white. The streets were so clean they looked like mirrors. They were approaching the walls that protected the palace.
In front of him, a lady was watching him while she fanned herself with a gloved hand. She wore a very elegant brown dress that was gathered in pleats like a big cake. Above her navel swung a triangular pendant of rubies and gold. Her neck was long, stylish, soft, and white like cotton. Mérdmerén thought of his pendant and found it tucked inside his shirt. He sighed in relief.
The lady’s face had delicate features, and her skin shone clean and immaculate, although the first signs of age could be seen. Her lips were thin and long, and her eyes dark and deep. Her hair fell in silky curls.
“My name is Lady Gertrude. That’s how you must address me at all times or by milady, but never forget the treatment.
“I am your companion for today. I am not here to engage in conversation with you, entertain you, or be your friend. I am only obeying orders. That is my job as well as yours.”
“Wait a moment, I don’t work for anyone. I have my own agenda,” Mérdmerén stated.
“That’s what they all say, my dear. The truth is that if we do not carry out the Baron’s orders, we shall have to explain ourselves. And nobody wants that,” Lady Gertrude said, increasing her fanning.
Statues, leafy gardens, and buildings of majestic architecture surrounded the Imperial Palace, which rose on a hill protected by a very high metal ring with pikes pointing at the sky.
Two guards watched the entrance to the palace. Mérdmerén knew they were not the only ones in charge of the safety of those gates and that in less than thirty seconds a whole army might appear. They crossed the gates without question and went up the hill. The gardens here were even more colorful and wide-spread.
After circling a great round fountain—in whose center several statues supported the Shield of Háztatlon—the carriage stopped before the entrance to the palace. Two guards dressed in gold with helmets that covered their face and head with only a slit for the eyes opened the door for them.
The butler, who was waiting for them just inside, came out to meet them.
“Good afternoon, milady,” he greeted. “Welcome back to the Imperial Palace.”
Mérdmerén got out of the carriage with his hat down to his eyes to hide most of his face. He hoped that the years gone by would work in his favor, and that few of those who had known him would not be in the palace, and that those who still were would not recognize him. Anyway, he did not know this butler.
“My lord, Don Arbitrator, may I have your hat, please?”
Mérdmerén remembered that meeting the king with a hat on was considered very bad manners. “Of course, here you are,” he said, using a southern accent he did not have to force. He was beginning to think that walking around the palace was going to be like a children’s game. He would introduce himself as Arbitrator, a landowner from San San-Tera, and would progressively reveal his true identity and mission. He must be careful not to scare the king. Would the monarch remember him? He was just a child when Mérdmerén was a part of the council.
“Go ahead, sir. Welcome to the king’s palace. Are you carrying any weapons?”
“Only my mouth and my fists,” he replied and immediately regretted the pun.
“Good,” the butler nodded with a suspicious glance. “The audience with the king will be brief and taken in the visitor’s hall. Do not try anything strange. You will be surrounded by soldiers and archers even though you do not see them.”
Something made Mérdmerén suspect that the butler was in the pay of the Faceless Baron. It was a look that seemed to say: Everything’s ready and there’s no danger.
As he went through the high doors, he felt a chill. There had been many occasions when he had walked those white marble floors to enjoy dinners and luncheons. Through the great windows, the light of noon came in, filtered by the soft curtains decorated on the sides with thick, heavy crimson velvet curtains that were gathered with countless tassels, bows, and crystal beads.
Spider lamps hung from the ceiling with spear-like leaves, surely imported from Érliadon. Mérdmerén was trying to imagine the show of light when those candles were lit and the marble reflected their brightness.
In the visitor’s hall, Lady Gertrude sat down and drank from a cup of wine with absolute ease. The armchair and the drink appeared to be prepared for her. While Mérdmerén sat down beside her facing a golden throne, he wondered how often would this woman visit the palace. And something else: why would the Faceless Baron want her there?
Two great doors opened, and the king came in, followed by his retinue and the butler who had received Mérdmerén and Lady Gertrude. The woman stood at once and curtseyed. Mérdmerén imitated her, somewhat unsure.
The king walked slowly, very straight with his shoulders back and a raised chin. For the occasion, he had chosen a simple gold coronet. His staff was also gold with a very shiny blue gem.
His clothes were purple and, like his cloak, trimmed with lion fur. His face was a faithful heritage of the lineage he belonged to: beardless face, long nose, slightly snub, and sky blue eyes. Despite the regal poise he endeavored to show, the king looked tired. On his face were the signs of sleepless nights and endless days suffering from some sorrow. His hair, mainly white, made him look older than his years.
The king studied Mérdmerén carefully, paying no attention to Lady Gertrude. The butler helped him straighten out his cloak when he sat down, and it spread behind and on the sides of the throne.
The butler stepped back, and so did the retinue, several steps to lend an intimacy to the meeting. Lady Gertrude and Mérdmerén sat down after the king had signaled to them that they could. Mérdmerén was nervous. He knew his movements were not fluid. He felt as rigid as a village boy who has found himself invited all of a sudden to the king’s rooms. Perhaps this insecurity lent more credibility to his role as a landowner from the QuepeK’Baj.
“Welcome to my city and my palace,” the sovereign began with not much interes
t.
“Good day, my king,” Gertrude replied. “This is a magnificent morning to accompany my good friend Arbitrator, who comes from the South with great sorrow to share with you, your majesty.”
Mérdmerén understood, at last, the woman’s function: her voice, her gestures, and her mere presence relaxed the tense mask of the king, which sketched a light smile. Besides, he could not stop looking at her décolletage.
“Tell me, dear Arbitrator—a rare name for the South, isn’t it? Well, what is the sorrow that has brought you here?”
Mérdmerén breathed. It was his opportunity. “Many thanks, your majesty, for granting me this audience. It is an honor to be in your presence. My king, my lords, I bring grave news.
“With my own eyes, I have seen the surging and expansion of an evil that has not let me sleep in peace in weeks. I have encountered a sáffurtan, one of those sorcerers of the Némaldines, and I have seen him bring the dead back to life and send them to fight as an army.
“My king, I am come to inform you that the evils which assaulted and destroyed the village of San San-tera are spreading throughout the Empire. I fear, my sovereign, that there will soon be a terrible invasion of our feared enemies from Némaldon.”
The king did not seem alarmed. Lady Gertrude, on the other hand, was very affected.
“My dear subject,” the king replied after scratching his chin in silence for a moment. “I have charged three of the most outstanding members of the government with investigating what happened in San San-Tera: Leandro Deathslayer, Garamond the Philosopher, and that mage—I always forget his name—ah, yes! Strangelus Üdessa.
“They assure me there is no immediate danger. But, I must ask, is there a reason why I should believe you and not my subjects?”
Mérdmerén bit his lips. It did not seem as if the king wanted to test him or was being ironic, but an error would land him in a dungeon. “My sovereign, there have been more cases. Have they informed you of them?”
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