“Roe…” Mend said somberly. Oh great, is he going to sulk now? “In your sleep, you mentioned something about knowing where I’m from.”
Roe sighed, closing her eyes. “Did I? Well I don’t. But he knows. So let’s go—”
Mend rose from under her bed— Oh no, he’s going to see what I look like! “Look away!” But it was too late. He stood over her and she saw his face for the first time without one of his guises. He was lighter skinned like her father with short black tousled hair and those solid gray eyes she thought belonged more to stouthearted king than a cynical troublemaker. Red ‘blood’ smeared his cheeks, giving him a ruggedly handsome— they locked eyes and her stomach fluttered. They both turned to the opposite direction, him crossing his arms.
“Don’t tell me you just…,” Roe gasped
“I… I, well I… I really can’t help it memorizing stuff, Roe,” he pleaded. “If it makes you feel better, I memorized what Josie looks like too.”
“You know what she looks like too? But we have rules, damn it. For a reason.”
He turned his back. “Right. Rules. You gotta kill me now, right? Gods, you guys and your oaths. Josie’s fine with it, by the way. But I don’t know; maybe she’ll still try to suck the memories out of my brain with a needle.”
“Rules keep us safe, Mend. Help us get the job done.”
“Well, I can’t show you the way if I’m blindfolded.” That much was true and the damage was done; maybe Josie had some pull with Rochelle about this. She knew Mend wouldn’t draw up pictures of their faces and send them to some Count or Countess, but then again, he’d done dumber things by accident. “Fine,” he barked. “I’ll…draw you a map. You can—”
“No, you gotta come with me.”
“Like I said, I can’t lead you blind.”
Roe rolled her eyes. “If Josie said it’s fine, you can turn around, Mend.” And he did, but he looked away to the right. She smirked, finally seeing a human expression matching his sulking, and such a messy man too; he got red paint everywhere— Roe looked away too; it wasn’t polite to stare, but she did notice he carried a bag over his shoulders. “What’s in the bag,” she asked, trying to loosen her restrains.
“Oh this,” he took out a vial of blue liquid. “Siga’s cure. It’ll taste like havjark pepper mixed with molten lava, but the stuff works. You’re gonna need it.”
“That’s the cure, huh?” Blue liquid, the same as those two gave her back in her jail cell in Ruby City. Coincidence? How or why? “Help me out of these,” she asked. “And you’ve got to come with me. He said he’d tell you where your from. Don’t you want to know?”
“Like I care,” he crossed his arms, again. He then walked to door and peeked out. “I’ll show you the way, but you can see yourself to the shore from there. I don’t want Josie finding us.” Good enough. “You strong enough to walk?”
She fought back her cheeks from reddening. No way was she going to let that walking disaster carry her. “I’d better.”
Cyne Munda
Cyne Munda stood outside his office on a marble balcony that overlooked the Knives Sea. Down below the First Fleet conducted their maneuvers. Some of the ships were docking, others taking on supplies, others going through inspections, while other ships made their rounds circumnavigating the island. High above it all watched the Brenindor, an airship of war; its massive build floating as easily as a balloon, and indefinitely since it was tethered so close to its anchor, the Shard, on the island. The only one in the world. But that would change, Cyne knew. There was nothing mystical or divine about the Shards or the so-called Vassals of the Almighty. They were objects and beings, more advanced and differing in nature, yes, but neither omnipotent nor unintelligible. They worked on principles, far different than any he had ever known, but principals nonetheless. They weren’t absurd creations of nonsensical mysticism; that much he knew.
“And what to do about this,” he whispered, once again opening a letter he had received that morning. Despite his discipline and training, he couldn’t completely ease his anxiety over what the letter said. He had already organized his office throughly twice now, aligned all the books, sorting them by subject, region, author, then title, shuffled his clothes in a sequenced order for upcoming events, finished his morning correspondences, and seen to the search for Glen and that young Shadows Agent —they couldn’t leave the island.
But this wasn’t like him, to distract himself. No, he wasn’t distracting himself; he needed time to calm himself so he could think rationally and not be pulled by the emotions of a beast. She would hope for that.
The letter in his hand was short and concise, but letters like these didn’t need to be long. ‘Cyne Munda, former Minister of Industry. Amerand child is found. Erase the the twelfth letter and there will be harmony. Signed, W.” W for Warborne. Twelfth letter, L, for Ladress.
“Markus, I’m sorry,” he whispered. Baron Montgomery had risked everything, lost everything, to keep the son of Emperor Vasiphon of the King-Maker Lands, Vasiphon II, from falling into that Prophetess’s hands. And it was all for nothing. Had Warborne destroyed the Ryujins —Cyne’s own people— to reclaim him? Was that the so-called ‘will’ of the King-Maker too? To give authority over men to his insane butcher of a wife. “Bah,” Cyne sounded, folding the letter back into his pocket. Perhaps it would have been a better idea to send the child into the Sands, but how could anyone in the Amerand Court have predicted the Sands successfully resisting her. “Hypothetical drivel.” The true question was what he was going to do.
Cyne had already written a hasty ‘Long live the Amerands!’ on the letter as a reply, but that was foolish. She may or may not have the child, and calling her bluff wouldn’t be wise. And the gall of Iselia, asking Cyne to murder the man who saved him and so many others from her ‘purity tests’ —her own husband— by threatening to harm a child. Bah, another reason to disbelieve in the gods if their representatives acted so cowardly. If she knew him as well as she thought, she would know this behavior would sicken him. Maybe she did know him well enough. They were together for almost thirty years before her ‘enlightenment.’
Was there ever love in their marriage? In the beginning, perhaps. Before Cyne’s terrible mistake that exposed her to the King-Maker. Before her sudden ‘conversion’ to that inane religion. What made her believe her actions would achieve her professed ‘ascension’ was beyond him. But madness needn’t make sense, but neither should he have encouraged the woman all those years ago. Ascension. Bah, a fool’s errand without proper methods, controls, and goals. Ironic that he had everything he needed now to study the phenomenon. He had Mister Blue and the Sea Roar and the ingenuity of Sera Gallegos and brilliance of Siga Ladress. But, Iselia could have her King-Maker ‘god’ drown her in emotional ecstasy for all he cared about that project anymore. Bigger things were at play now…and if the King-Maker really spoke to her, she knew it too.
“Iselia, you fool.” It was clear to him why she wanted Siga gone; Siga and he had talked about what she might do once she found the Citadel Cannons under construction near her lands. But, he had hoped Vasiphon would remain safe. He had hoped in the coming strive she would be disposed and Vasiphon Amerand reinstated or at least a steward until he grew to age. “What options do we have,” he asked himself. He’d have to discuss that with Siga; the acquisition of the Golden Lady might have to be delayed. The Rushnik Family wouldn’t be happy with that. And the longer they waited on the Ruby City question, the longer Siga’s brothers had time prepare. Cyne took in a deep breath, using his King-Maker skill to encourage in him a sense of stoic calm and mastery. “Simply a puzzle,” he breathed out, and he relished in puzzles. “There is always a solution.”
A knock came at the door and Cyne walked back into his office. “Come in,” he said, remaining on his feet with his hands behind his back. He found by standing, people around him often emoted a sense of authority, attentiveness and efficacy onto him.
A young lieutenant Lauso Brower
—an accomplished interdisciplinary mage— staggered inside, panting with her black and blue uniform in a disheveled state.
“Is there a reason why you are not properly disposed,” he asked.
“Sir, it’s the emperor. He’s sent me to get you. He’s fallen ill during his meeting with the Regent. Doctors can’t stabilize him.”
“At a time like this,” Cyne blurted out, storming out his office with Brower following him. “What did the doctors say?”
“His cognition is almost gone, his heart is failing and his breathing is erratic. They said he’s aged thirty years,” she replied and Cyne could sense she disbelieved her own words.
“Any word of our kidnappers and our two patients?”
“No, sir, but they couldn’t haven gotten far. Patient B couldn’t have the strength to move.”
“Don’t underestimate our doctors,” he replied. “She may be well enough. You’re a mage, are you not? Then stay with me.” Cyne had given that ‘Glen’ miscreant Sera’s letter to her brother with a tracking spell on it. They would be able to find him at the very least. And why would Siga fall ill now? Mister Blue must have taken his strength back, but why now? Because Glen was on the loose? Siga had dismissed Mister Blue’s concerns about the boy, but it may have been better if he had heeded them. If only Nurse Lora and her cohorts had dispatched the boy when he and Doctor Yah’v left the room as Cyne had hoped. He even enraged the woman with emotions of fear, anger, and revenge. But instead, she and Miss Twilight were carried off by her two cohort ‘fishermen.’ Yes, that miscreant boy certainty seemed more than a bumbling fool. An act? If so, then Cyne wouldn’t need a tracking spell to know where he and Miss Twilight were headed.
The Lieutenant hastily readjusted her uniform and padded sweat from her brow; she was winded, Cyne could see, but he sensed undue worry and frustration in her. Worry that he would reprimand her and frustration for being reduced to an errand runner. Two emotions he knew would lead to mistakes. But also attentiveness and eagerness with an undercurrent of self-doubt. She desperately wanted to prove herself, he concluded. Even after so many years, it still amazed Cyne how many emotions and influences a human can be subjected to at once, often times contradictory and subconscious. Alright Miss Brower, I’ll give you your chance. “Lieutenant,” he said. “Fetch me another mage. I want you to lead a guard unit into the Main Facility. Mister Blue may be in danger.” Cyne could almost see the thrill shoot through her as she gave him a hasty salute and veered off to an adjacent hall. “Now why would those two seek you out, Mister Blue?”
The One-King
The One-King stood out on the rampart of the northeast tower, gazing up upon the stars, his towering figure, three sizes of men, august and regal like a great and mighty star at the rising of an ever-expanding kingdom, the strong arm of an army and the divine aegis over the land, an unmovable mountain, a lasting legacy. He was the Black Monolith, shinning out his unfathomable might and wisdom. Count Aesir Von Aster always quivered in his presence, weak kneed and sweating, and now was no different as he steeled his nerves under the archway that opened out to the balcony. How could he ever grow accustomed to this honor? The One-King was to be served because he earned his place among the pantheon. He wrestled with the old gods and won. The God-Killer, he would do what the Almighty couldn’t, save the world once and for all.
Aster knelt and bowed low before the One-King’s back, his black armor like an obsidian obelisk, once hot and molten, now cooled by his master’s will and made to serve. It didn’t gleam nor call the eye to attention, but its angular smooth surface, unblemished by sword or sorcery, stated a simple fact: the One-King cannot die.
“One of them is coming,” the One-King whispered, his voice virile like a deep rolling thunderclap. “The Sea Roar is weakening…but I hear the most astonishing rumors. Lairgor, my friend. You cunning devil; I struck you down. I strewn your entrails and hewed your head. I burned your corpse. How could you still be alive? But never did I imagine you would use your anchor nor did I think it possible.” He growled deeply like a rumble within the world. “Damn you. With your knowledge, won’t you help me, help us be free? Or, have even you forgotten your former glory? Will I have to send to you back? And where is Zandagor? How did she delay her summons? Her anchor is diseased now, but had she come…. Had she come, Ragnarok would have seized her. Lairgor, could you have foreseen what I have done? Ragnarok, he never bothered with the anchors before. Why? Yes, one of us is coming soon. But with whom will she side? Chose freedom, my sister.”
Aster, not wanting to appear as a sneak or a snoop, acknowledged his master with a “Sire.”
The One-King turned his gaze southward, upon other stars. “Eventually, we all have to come back, falling like rocks from the heavens, dethroned once again. How long do we have to go on obeying a dead god?”
Aster cleared his throat, “Ah, Sire.”
“What is it you want?”
“Sire, she’s becoming visible again.”
The One-King turned around. “Finally,” he sighed exasperatedly, before passing Aster inside. With respect, Aster turned his head away, feeling a power from his master like an invisible wall pushing on him, threatening to topple him over.
Aster rose and followed far enough behind as not to be affected by his aura. And as his master strode on, gem chandeliers blazed into brilliance, lighting the suspended corridor of his Black Crown Citadel that led from his private northeast balcony to the main citadel structure.
Although the One-King seldom roamed the Black Crown, its stark onyx construction housed six spired towers, each facing either cardinal or ordinal directions. They connected to the main structure by way of a suspended hallway, open to the sky by a curved window. Down below, the courtyard can be seen, massive baileys separated by the towers, yet enclosed by a machicolated double walled fortification with their own smaller towers of defense. And for as far around the citadel he could see, forests were leveled and a mote, now overgrown with dangerously entangling vegetation, was installed with the One-King’s manifestations prowling constantly without need of sleep, food, or rest. The Black Crown was as unassailable as the crown on the Golden Lady’s head.
Even this late into the night, Aster could see lights flashing down below; the city was in chaos for they knew what drove Aster to summon his master. Eventide, such a beautiful name that befit a queen for the sunset of an old era, and the beginning of a new, the goddess of Shadow and Light, the goddess of the Veiled Goddess Shard, had finally released her power once more.
For three years now, she had made herself, the southwest tower, and much of the surrounding ground and citadel invisible, giving the name ‘the Broken Crown’ to those who lived within its walls. But, now it was no longer broken; the Black Crown was whole, and the One-King, once again, strove to convince —by his gracious mercy— Eventide of the honor in joining him.
Once they crossed the main structure and suspended hall to the southwest tower, they started their descent; all the while, the One-King murmured to himself about things Aster didn’t understand. Far off places on other worlds, suffered indignities, and self-resignation to desperate events, a terror in silenced places and silenced minds, councils and rulers, worshipers spread in a sea of lights, battles fought in thoughts, battles won with exile, and that great enemy that even the One-King grew cold in saying its name: the Silence. But, Aster was only a servant, after all, in a long lineage of servants from his ancestors to today, serving this same man. And for him, he had served eighteen years already.
The descending stair winded Aster, causing him to slow, yet the One-King continued, undaunted, lower and lower till reaching the bottom and disappearing into the one room cell deep within the ground. When Aster reached the room, he remained outside, not daring to enter.
The last time Eventide appeared, he followed his master inside and was punished severely for it. But for what he saw, enduring a few weeks as a living statue, was worth the precious memory. A black onyx- skinned woman much
like his master, and tall and proportioned like his master, as well, yet with black keen eyes that at once saw through him, beheld him entire, and judged his worth accurately, and lithe, supple, with a flowing fine muscular flesh, beautifully appropriate for a goddess that if not for a fear of her divine redress, would rouse the carnal appetites of any man. She hung naked from imbued shackles of what magic, Aster did not know. It couldn’t be magic. What magic could hold a goddess like that?
He could already hear her mumbling, fatigued from her exhaustive efforts, but she should know, no one can defy the God-Killer for long. “…Where are my warriors? My ministers and champions? Stay hidden. Don’t come to me. Stay hidden—”
“Shh,” the One-King hushed her. “You have your warriors. You have worshipers. They are near, here, very near. …I’m sorry, my dear Eventide, for what I’ve done, but this indignation must end. We have lowered ourself enough; we have served long enough. Join me before we forget too much.”
“Forget too much,” came Eventide’s strengthening voice, delicate like a fluttering dragonfly, yet with a hidden sting of a hornet. Aster gulped as sweat condensed on his forehead; he knew he shouldn’t listen, but dared to remain longer. He heard her soft laugh. “Blekengor? How…long…?”
“Aster,” boomed the One-King, the vibration rippling through his skin, flesh, and bone. “Bring me the glass jugs and pump to draw out her blood.”
“Yes, Sire,” Aster replied, but he didn’t leave. He already knew what his master wanted; anticipated it from three years ago, and already prepared the glass jugs and drawing station in the next room. No, he wouldn’t leave and miss this opportunity to listen to what the gods speak of amongst each other.
Call of the Chosen- Broken Kingdoms Page 73