by Isu Yin
Aberthol followed while all in the hall watched his every move.
As if remembering some duty, Illiam turned and cried out to the assembled, “Rejoice, this is a day of celebration—one hoped for through generations.”
The hall erupted into noise as everyone spoke at once.
He bade Aberthol sit in a large padded chair that did not seem a match for the rough-hewn timber table. Illiam sat across from him.
A young girl followed and stood nearby—his pursuer, his caretaker. She flashed him a quick smile.
Illiam gazed across the table, his eyes dark coals under bushy gray eyebrows. “We were in the midst of a celebration marking your birth.” For a long moment, the old man stared at Aberthol, and then realized the girl’s presence. “I apologize. My manners have departed—my granddaughter, Elise.” He turned toward her and said, “Please fetch us food and drink. I am certain the king has many questions.”
After a quick bow, she disappeared in a rush.
Illiam did not take his eyes off Aberthol, who began to grow uncomfortable under his gaze.
At last the old man spoke. “I must confess you surprise me. I have waited my whole life for your birth, and here you are, but you do not appear as I expected.”
Aberthol struggled to put words to the thoughts swirling within his head.
“Again I must apologize,” said Illiam. “You caught us all by surprise, bursting into the hall. I was preparing to come to you today, to help you better understand your place in the histories of Nuadaim.”
He smiled, and Aberthol sensed the warmth of his gaze. This is a man I can trust.
“If you have any immediate questions, please ask,” said Illiam. “I will do my best to answer. However, because of your early departure from the Sanctuary we will not be able to talk at length. After the Presentation we will have time aplenty.”
Aberthol thought for a moment, and then leaned forward and spoke in a hushed voice, unsure if he was prepared for the answer. “You said you waited for my birth. How old am I?”
Illiam’s face broadened in a warm smile. “A simple and most excellent question, but one that will not elicit so simple an answer.” He leaned forward, mirroring Aberthol’s expectant posture. “You are both newly born, and aged. You might say that when you awoke in your tomb, you were reborn. Therefore, you are a babe. However, birth from the womb of your mother took place three hundred twenty and seven years past, being how we the race of man mark time.”
Aberthol sat back and stared at the old man. “But how? I do not understand. How can I be both so very young, and exceedingly old? I feel neither.”
Illiam smiled and raised his hand. “Surely, this is not alien to you—your knowledge is beyond my comprehension. I am here only to help you orient in the present.”
Aberthol gazed at him in puzzlement. My knowledge? I know nothing.
Just then, the girl, Elise, returned with a tray of food and two large mugs of dark ale. Two young Neglafem followed her, and stood at attention behind Illiam. Elise arranged the meal, first before Aberthol, then Illiam. After setting the table, she sat down at the old man’s feet.
Aberthol smiled at her as the aroma from the warm brown bread and steamed vegetables caused his stomach to murmur. He ate while wrestling with Illiam’s words. Nevertheless, try as he might, he could not put his mind around the concept of being both centuries old and a newborn.
He set his gaze on Elise. Although small, she was not a child as he’d first thought. She seemed to be in her early twenties, or only just under. Surely, I am about her age.
Elise smiled as she realized he stared at her, and quickly looked away, her cheeks blooming in red.
Aberthol turned to Illiam. Next to this old man, I feel more the babe than his elder.
The chieftain, intent on his food, or more to the point, his drink, did not look up as Aberthol studied the room. Everyone spoke in concert, filling the hall with noise. There were men and women of various ages, even some children, but again Aberthol felt younger than most.
How can I be centuries old or a newborn?
Illiam set his mug down and bridged his hands in front of him, elbows resting on the table. “In the quiet of my room at night I have begged the One Who Is to allow me to see you before I die, and here you sit.” He grinned. “I never gave up hope, of course, but as you can see my years draw short.” The old man looked around the noisy room. “Please forgive our excitement. Our people have waited a very long time for this day.”
“You say I am a king? You say I am over three centuries old?” Aberthol shook his head. “I do not understand. There must be some kind of mistake.”
Illiam looked at him, his smile turned to puzzlement. “But surely you do understand, for so it is written: ‘The king shall bear answer to life’s greatest mysteries.’ Your mind must be awash with history. You have beheld history. You have created history.”
“I do not... I have not,” Aberthol sputtered.
For a long moment, Illiam sat and stared at him. “There must be a time of disorientation, something unaccounted in the scrolls.” The old man smiled once more. “Do not fear. We have prepared for centuries, and we will help you remember. This evening I will take you back to the mausoleum of your birth. There the lore of Nuadaim is depicted in the paintings.”
He stood and looked Aberthol squarely in the eyes. “New histories will begin. The groans of Nuadaim have at last been answered.”
Illiam motioned to the two men behind him. “For now, Lord Aberthol, if you will allow it, you are to be made ready for the Presentation. It is written: ‘The king must be presented to his people, midday, soonest after his coming forth.’“ He turned and spoke with the young Neglafem. “Please help the king prepare.”
Aberthol, disoriented and unsure, allowed the Neglafem to escort him from the room.
Elise caught up and walked in step with him. “Do not be afraid, Your Majesty, my people have been in preparation for your coming since before the birth of the grandfather of my great-grandfather.” She smiled again, reassuring him a little.
As they walked, Elise spoke excitedly about the significance of the day.
Aberthol studied her. There were moments when she seemed to forget her presence with a king and was quite affable and relaxed. Aberthol found this endearing. Already he grew tired of the way those he passed bowed, gazing at him with a mixture of reverence and fear.
A splash of freckles dusted the bridge of her nose, which helped her appear younger than indeed she was. Her eyes, a dazzling green with a glint of mischief, peered at him through the protective cover of her long eyelashes. “I am talking too much, Your Majesty. I apologize. This is a long-awaited day for our people.”
“Please, do not apologize.” Aberthol sensed a twinge of guilt as he realized he heard nothing of her last few words. “I am enjoying your company.”
The bridge of her nose crinkled as she smiled, and she continued. “We approach the room where you shall be made ready. Then the presentation of our new king will take place. I myself have longed my whole life for this day. At long last I shall gaze upon the wonders of the outside world.”
Aberthol, captivated by her movement, suddenly registered what she’d said. “You have never ventured outside?”
There is so much beauty in the land.
Elise grew serious. “Oh no, the Neglafem are forbidden to leave the Chambers of Waiting. Our complete devotion is required. We are dedicated to the care and protection of the king, until the time of welcome has passed. None in the hall we just departed, nor any Neglafem for over three centuries, has had contact with the world outside these halls.”
Aberthol was again amazed.
“In truth,” Elise continued, “it is written the king alone will be the first to step forth into the land of our peoples. Signals have been given telling those outside you are coming, but we are forbidden from speaking with your subjects until your presentation is complete.”
The two young men stopped as they
reached a pair of doors, gilded with gold leaf.
Elise turned to Aberthol. “Here I bid you goodbye until the Presentation. I have been honored by the chieftain with a small part in the ceremony.” She bowed and walked back down the hall from whence they had come.
Aberthol followed her slight form with his eyes.
Each of the two Neglafem opened a door and stood aside as they motioned Aberthol to enter.
He walked into a lavish space. Rich fabrics of purple draped the walls, and the floor glistened in polished white marble.
The young men closed the doors behind and one showed Aberthol a door off the main room. Steam poured forth. “Please, Your Majesty, a bath has been drawn for you. Enter and find rest.”
The other said, “We are squires of the king. My name is Erbin, and this is Celdar. If you require anything, do not hesitate to ask.”
Aberthol thanked them and entered the bath. He relieved himself in a privy off the main room, and then settled into the steaming pool. The hot water did much to untie the knotted anxiety in his muscles. Events of the past few hours replayed in his mind. He was obviously not what Illiam had expected. Somehow, the old man thought he should know who he was—should know the histories of Nuadaim. Illiam spoke as if....
As if I am something more than a man, something more than even a king. He mulled it over for a moment. Yes, he and I have much to talk about.
When Aberthol finished, the squires assisted in manicuring his beard and giving his tangled hair a much-needed trim.
The main room held a large full-length mirror, and next to it stood a mannequin adorned with a suit of mail and rich robes. Erbin directed Aberthol to stand in front of the glass as, piece-by-piece, the squires placed upon him the royal array. They draped a hauberk of golden chain over his shoulders. The mail shirt was much lighter than it appeared. Around his waist, Erbin clasped a belt with a long, jewel-encrusted scabbard.
At this, Celdar lifted a gilded casket, about two lengths of a grown man’s arm, from a table beside them and gingerly laid it at Aberthol’s feet. Erbin knelt with him and they each released a clasp in unison and opened the box. The pair reached inside and lifted out a glimmering sword—the very blade from the mausoleum.
Aberthol marveled at its beauty, and once again yearned to touch it. Loequazh Thabo.
The squires remained kneeling and held the blade hilt first, toward Aberthol.
He reached for the sword and grasped the pommel. Sulfur assaulted his senses and his vision blurred. Aberthol heard himself speak as if from some distance. “He knows you are here.”
***
Before him, a man climbed a rocky mountain slope. Thick smoke belched from a fiery crack below. Beyond the ruddy glow, waves crashed on a black sandy beach.
The man replied, “Who knows I am here?”
“The Dark Master—I have witnessed his approach.”
Aberthol recognized him, Vuzhex Mqueg.
Vuzhex spoke. “I—who are you?”
“If you know not, who am I to say?”
“But how did you...?”
“There is no time for questions,” Aberthol said. “The enemy approaches.”
Vuzhex glared past Aberthol and his face filled with fear.
Churning red smoke burned Aberthol’s eyes as it swirled and coalesced into the shape of a man. A faint white glow outlined the figure as he stood gazing down upon them.
Aberthol turned to Vuzhex. “Can you grant me a weapon to aid in our defense?”
“I’ve none but the sword at my side, and this.” Vuzhex held a newly forged blade toward him. It had no hilt, its edge not yet sharpened.
“It will suffice.” Aberthol snatched the hot metal from his hands.
“But you have no right,” Vuzhex screamed.
Aberthol glanced toward the figure above. “There is no time. Behold.”
Before them stood a being Aberthol somehow knew.
“I have come to behold your handiwork.” The deep resonance of the figure’s words echoed within Aberthol’s ears. At once, he knew the voice of his enemy, Threim-Zhure.
The figure in white spoke to Vuzhex. “I am an admirer of exquisite works of creation, so when I gained knowledge of your efforts I knew I must come bear witness.” Then he turned toward Aberthol and extended his hand. “May I?”
For a moment, Aberthol was compelled to grant the enemy’s request. He beheld within Vuzhex’s eyes his sudden desire to see Threim-Zhure hold the blade.
Then Aberthol remembered: I am not here. He chuckled. “Your voice has no power over me.”
Vuzhex stood in shock, but Aberthol continued. “You understand, do you not? Your power cannot reach me.” Aberthol grinned. “But I can reach you.”
He lunged toward Threim-Zhure, and blue fire blazed along the hammered steel in his hands. A thought filled his mind: I can end the struggle of millennia now.
The enemy, however, had expected the attack and stepped aside. At the same moment, he drew forth a long silver dagger, grabbed Vuzhex Mqueg, and put the blade to his neck.
“I know not your name, but I sense you are bound to this pitiful creature.” Threim-Zhure’s face split with a crooked smile. “If I kill him, you also will be subdued.”
Aberthol faltered, somehow knowing the truth of his words.
“Ah, I see I speak with wisdom.” Faint ripples of crimson smoke curled about the dagger held to Vuzhex’s neck.
Aberthol lowered the sword. “What is your desire?”
“As I have stated, I simply wish to behold this magnificent weapon—to honor fully its craftsmanship.”
Vuzhex’s eyes pleaded for Aberthol to hand over the blade.
“Very well.”
Threim-Zhure opened his free hand and, for an instant, Aberthol imagined the outstretched fingers changed to crimson, taloned claws.
Nevertheless, he extended the blade toward Threim-Zhure.
The dagger to Vuzhex’s neck slipped away, but Vuzhex did not try to flee.
Why does he not escape?
Aberthol dropped the steel until it touched Threim-Zhure’s palm, and blue sparks exploded on the blade. Energy poured up the arm of Threim-Zhure, as well as Aberthol’s, who still held fast to the hilt end of the sword.
Vuzhex staggered back, released from the hand of Threim-Zhure.
Aberthol stared in amazement as the shimmering white form of Threim-Zhure changed. Crimson smoke poured from him, flowing out of the pores of his skin and engulfing the light. The smoke swirled like blood in water as blue fingers of electricity erupted within the shadow.
Still Aberthol held fast.
Threim-Zhure laughed as power filled him. Then the world around the three men began to melt. The stone, upon which Aberthol stood, rippled and blurred. The orange sky twisted in fire. In a rush of wind, the very universe around him stretched toward Threim-Zhure. Like a red whirlpool, the strength grew in the enemy and sucked at the world. Rock melted and flowed into the dark shadows.
Aberthol beheld his own hands. First, his fingers, then his arms began to elongate toward the whirling blackness of Threim-Zhure. Fear gripped him and he clawed for something to hold on to, but his hands and feet found no purchase. He floated in a void.
Still Threim-Zhure laughed.
Then at last, Aberthol gained footing and leaned away from the all-consuming vortex. For a moment he held firm, but then, in one fluid move, he allowed the blade some slack and yanked backward with all his strength.
The weapon flew free from the grasp of the enemy, slicing Threim-Zhure’s palm. The chaos ceased.
Aberthol crashed backward to the now solid stone, with the blade across his chest, and looked toward his enemy.
On the stones, clutching his bleeding hand, knelt a withered old man so bent with age that he appeared incapable of standing. A whimper escaped his lips. “Such power... such power.”
Dark tendrils of smoke played about the twisted figure, but like the blood that poured from his hand, the immense power he wielded a
moment earlier drained from him.
Aberthol’s vision began to darken as Vuzhex Mqueg lurched to his feet and moved toward him. Blue sparks continued to dance along the hammered steel in Aberthol’s hand, as Vuzhex gently released Aberthol’s fingers from the blade and lifted the sword skyward.
Sobs behind Vuzhex receded, and Aberthol sensed the figure of Threim-Zhure fleeing.
Vuzhex Mqueg held the sword aloft as if in offering to the sky, and exclaimed, “I dub thee Loequazh Thabo; Bane of Death.”
Aberthol’s vision blurred and the shadow above him receded into a fog.
Vuzhex’s voice echoed from a distance. “You should not have interfered, but I thank you.”
***
Aberthol opened his eyes and found himself lying on white marble.
The two squires knelt over him. “Your Majesty, are you well?”
He sat up and saw the sword at his side. “Loequazh Thabo.”
Erbin glanced at his partner, confusion etched on his face.
“I was there. I....” Aberthol frowned. I was nearly consumed.
Celdar and Erbin helped him stand. Celdar asked, “Do you need rest? I can inform the chieftain we will be delayed.”
Aberthol shook his head. “No, I am well.” He tried to comprehend the dream. It was more than a dream. I was there, but my actions were not my own.
He looked at the sword on the marble floor—such power... such power—and turned toward Erbin. “You were about to give me the sword.”
Erbin glanced at Celdar, then released Aberthol’s arm and retrieved the blade. He and Celdar knelt once more before Aberthol, and he held the ancient weapon, hilt first, toward him.
With caution, Aberthol reached forward and gripped the pommel.
Erbin spoke of its pedigree. “In your hand you grasp Loequazh Thabo—Death’s Bane—forged in the fires of Midaque Bazhor by Vuzhex Mqueg, great grandson of Lexuije Mqueg.”
Celdar continued. “This sword, handed down through ages past by the descendents of Lexuije Mqueg to your father Heulfryne Nauile, is now bequest unto you. Dark have been the millennia since its forging.”