Ambrosia

by Aaron Lee Yeager

  Thus Jabez is left largely alone, allowing him plenty of free time to investigate and monitor his vassals with ever increasing scrutiny, blessing them with peace, security, and prosperity, every man woman and child living every moment of their lives in crippling terror that any careless word spoken could bring moútro upon them.

  - The Powers of the World, a Pocket Guide to the One True Pantheon. Published in Agadis 391 H.B. to present

  Storgen stood before the cargo doors of the steamship, Erolina and Philiastra flanking him. The rumble outside made him a little nervous, a fact he hid with his usual disaffected swagger. Gáta sat atop his head, licking her arm with her rough little tongue. He flexed his wrist, the tendons giving a little painful pop. Though the cast has come off, the bones had not set right, and he found his range of motion was less than it had been. The damage from the curse of the forest lingered with him as well. His skin felt like it was cracking whenever it flexed, especially at the knuckles and elbows. His ribs were bothering him as well. Every breath gave a little painful jab, a reminder of the beating he had received at the hands of Skotádi. And though the swelling around his eye had finally gone down, when he closed his other eye he could tell that clearly he had lost some of his peripheral vision.

  And then there was the fear. He knew that if he stepped through that door, more pain would come. It was only a matter of time. Each of his scars seemed to burn in turn, each one a sharp reminder, a lesson life had tried to teach him over and over again. That to try is to invite further suffering. A small part of him wondered if he would eventually learn that lesson, if he would eventually give into despair and give up. He fought to crush it back away into the corner of his mind like he always had, but it seemed harder than it had been before.

  Noticing him fretting, Erolina reached out and tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Hey, are you all right?” she asked in concern.

  “Always,” he answered, forcing himself to smile.

  While Philiastra just wore her usual coveralls, Erolina was dressed in a very stylish silken peplos with matching earrings, bracelets, and a fashionable fur chlamys. Even the clasps at the shoulders and neck had been carefully selected to compliment the rest of the outfit. It never ceased to surprise him how much time Erolina spent on her appearance when she wasn’t in her armor, and he found himself staring at her lovely reflection in spite of himself.

  Her green eyes narrowing, Philiastra stepped a little closer to Storgen, so that her shoulder was touching his arm. She made sure that Erolina noticed.

  The closeness of the walls was starting to get to Storgen; fortunately Priestess Ophira pulled the release lever and the door swung down forming a ramp.

  They were met by a riotous sight. Tens of thousands of humans packed the docks and buildings, cheering and waving banners. Fireworks were launched from the airship above, arcing in beautiful curves of smoke above the city, where they transmuted into beautiful fountains of light, forming the shape of the fox crest.

  “Oh wow, they aren’t booing this time,” Storgen remarked as he stepped out into the light. “It’s a little disconcerting, actually. I don’t think I like it.”

  Triumphant brass instruments played the Erotanian anthem, underscored by rhythmic stone xylophones, giving the familiar song an exotic and rural feel to it.

  The musicians themselves really got into it, their glassy black stones flashing in pulses of neon as they struck them with their curved sticks.

  When Storgen raised his hand and waved, the crowd really got going. They raised up their arms, pumping their fists into the air. When Storgen did likewise, they screamed in excitement. They sang his name, calling him the Human Blade, The Fist of Ambera, and the Invincible Man. Many of the young women in the crowd wept to see him, and at least one of the older women threw her drawers at him, the oversized garment landing atop his head.

  “It would seem the rumors of your exploits have become somewhat exaggerated,” Priestess Ophira remarked as she plucked the large pair of drawers off his head.

  “Fifty-two duels I went undefeated,” Erolina remarked as she stepped out, and in all that time I never had a single fanfare. Fifty-two. This guy wins one fight and suddenly I am playing second fiddle.”

  “Anyone can win a fight with a weapon from a god in their hands,” Philiastra commented.

  “Says the alchemist,” Erolina shot back.

  “You want me to correct them?” Storgen asked.

  Erolina shook her head. “I don’t fight for their applause, I fight for my people. Let the humans indulge their fantasies.”

  “It’s been a long time since the humans really had someone to root for,” Philiastra noted as she shielded her face from the light of an exploding firework.

  The crowd parted and a small group of ailuros drew near. They were shorter than humans, with large feline eyes and covered in a coat of soft fur. Their triangular cat-like ears twitched at the ruckus around them, their long tails swishing about in irritation at the noise. Unlike the humans, who were dressed in drab brown rags, the ailuros wore vibrantly bright colors, long petal-like skirts tied on the left side of the waist, and bolero vests with multiple layers of gold chains worn about the neck. The lead among them was older than the rest, his long whiskers thick and droopy like a mustache, his fur faded, his eyes slightly clouded.

  “I am Paliágáta,” he said without bowing, his voice slightly accented, as if each word were purred. “May our voices whisper to you from the ageless stone. My people have been enslaved to Nisi for many centuries. Now, I am told we are enslaved to you instead.”

  Priestess Ophira placed her hands over her ears and bowed formally. “It is an honor to meet you.”

  “I’m sure it is,” he grumbled, walking past her and stepping before Erolina. “Scythe of Ambera, I assume you are the reason for this petty exchange of power?”

  “Nope, it’s his fault,” she responded, pointing a thumb at Storgen.

  Paliágáta turned to Storgen in disgust.

  “Hey, nice to meet you,” he said putting out his hand. “I’m Storgen, and these are my friends.”

  “Friends?” Ophira kvetched, dusting off her robes. “Making a lot of assumptions right now.”

  Paliágáta looked at Storgen’s outstretched hand but did not take it. “What’s with the stick?”

  Storgen looked at his quarterstaff. “It helps me learn to punch better.”

  “I’m sure it does. And what is that on your head?”

  Gáta hissed at the elderly Ailuros, flicking out a tiny swipe of her claws.

  “Oh, this is Gáta,” Storgen explained, taking her off his head and nuzzling her against his cheek.

  “So, you bring an enslaved feline before me as a symbol of how our relationship is to be?”

  Storgen crinkled his nose. “Um, no, I always bring her with me. She’s not my slave, she’s my pet.”

  Paliágáta twitched his whiskers in offence. “And you humans think that is a meaningful distinction, do you?”

  “I assure you he did not mean to insult you,” Ophira blustered worriedly.

  He refused to look at her when he responded. “I’d love to insult you in return, human, but I’m afraid I won’t do nearly as well a job as nature did.”

  Ophira’s mouth fell open. She couldn’t believe she was being snubbed so openly.

  Storgen smiled brightly. “Oh, I like him.”

  Gáta took another angry swipe at Paliágáta, managing to wrestle herself from Storgen’s grip. She landed on the dock, where she lifted one leg and began to tinkle on Paliágáta’s fine leather boots.

  Philiastra covered her face in shame. “This is not going well.”

  Calmly, Paliágáta bent down and grabbed Gáta by the scruff of the neck, the kitten hissing angrily as she was lifted aloft. Storgen moved to grab her, but Erolina placed a hand on his chest and bade him stay.

  The elderly Ailuros gave off a serious of rumbling sounds, just at the very edge of hearing, more of a trilling o
f the air then actually sounds. It caught the kitten’s attention, and she made a few angry hisses in return.

  “She says you have been most kind to her.”

  “You can understand her?” Storgen asked aloud.

  “Of course I can.”

  “But she’s just a cat.”

  “I had been lead to believe even lowly human champions were trained in etiquette,” Paliágáta said, handing Gáta back to Storgen.

  “Yeah, I kinda skipped that class.”

  Paliágáta rested his hands at the small of his back. “You should choose your words more carefully in the future, then. I don’t tolerate racism in my domain.”

  Storgen gave an impish grin. “Is that a fact?”

  “You calmly claim to be intolerant of racism, yet every word you speak drips with venom,” Ophira observed.

  He looked at her for the first time, his feline eyes weighing her harshly. “I may look calm, but in my mind I’ve already killed you three times.”

  Storgen laughed and produced a basket. “Well, this is going just swimmingly. Just swimmingly. May I present to you a gift of the finest smoked Pterra Bison meat. It’s the saltiest thing on the planet, next to you that is.”

  “May our voices whisper to you from the ageless stone.” Each of the ailuros took a piece and chewed on it thoughtfully.

  “My apawogies if it does meet your standards,” Storgen said.

  Philiastra looked up. “Oh no.”

  Paliágáta tilted his head. “What did you say?”

  “My apologies if it does nyot meet your standards,” he said.

  “No you didn’t, you said apawogies.”

  “Nyah, I didn’t. I said apologies.”

  “There, you did it again.”

  “Meow, you’re just being silly.”

  “Storge, stop it,” Philiastra whispered.

  Paliágáta’s whiskers bristled. “Are you making light of the way we talk?”

  Storgen looked at him with complete seriousness. “I would nyever do that, Your Excellency. In fact, I consider it most heavy. Shall we continue with the ceremony?”

  The elderly cat man clucked his tongue. “You will follow us to the Royal Chambers, there awaits the Kleidí, the key to the island.”

  “May our voices whisper to you from the ageless stone,” Storgen repeated as they followed them down the docks.

  “You don’t get to say that. Only we get to say that.”

  “Sorry if I misspoke, it wasn’t on pawpous.”

  Philiastra smacked Storgen on the back of the head.

  “Ow!”

  The crowd was thunderous, threatening to break through the rope barriers that held them back as Storgen passed, waving their banners and pumping their fists in the air for him.

  “Oh, he has so many scars,” one lady called out.

  “Dude, not cool,” Storgen called back. “Those are not scars, I have a skin condition.”

  “Are those scars from fighting minotaurs?” another asked.

  “Just this one,” Storgen said, pointing to his forearm.

  “What are the others from?” a man asked.

  “Street fighting, mostly.”

  “Did you hear that? He fights street crime.”

  “Are you a vigilante?”

  “Where’s your cape and mask?”

  “My what?”

  Something pelted him in the head, and a hotel room key fell into his hands.

  “Come by and visit me,” a busty redhead called out, blowing him a kiss.

  “What hotel?”

  Erolina plucked the key from his hand and tossed it back to the woman. “His dance card is full, thank you very much.”

  “It’s not like I was gonna go,” Storgen defended.

  “Yeah, uh huh.”

  Philiastra chuckled darkly. “Hello, Ms. Kettle, Ms. Pot just called, she says you’re black.”

  Erolina furrowed her brow. “Kettles and pots do not talk.”

  “Well, of course they don’t.”

  “Then why’d you say that?”

  “It’s a turn of phrase…ugh, never mind.”

  “Is it true you swept the plains of the minotaur tribe? one lady asked.

  “No, it was two tribes,” Storgen responded, “but I spared them after they washed my feet.”

  “You shouldn’t encourage them,” Erolina scolded.

  “Well, what am I supposed to say? I’ve never had people happy to see me before.”

  “Don’t let it go to your head,” she warned. “They’re cheering for the weapon you wield for Ambera, not for you. Never forget that.”

  “Yeah, but Ambera never gave me a weapon.”

  “That’s right,” Philiastra added proudly. “Unlike you, Storge did it all on his own.”

  Erolina let off a small growl.

  “Is it true you were grown in a vat?” an old man called out.

  “No, but I was raised in a cage,” Storgen called back.

  “Just how old are you?” a kid asked.

  “What day is it?”

  “Tiu’s Day.”

  “In that case, I’m really really old.”

  “Did you really kill a demi god?” a dirty little boy asked.

  “How do you know about that?”

  His little eyes lit up with hope. “So, it’s true? It’s really true? A human did that?”

  Storgen grew sad. “That one I actually did.”

  The priestesses and guard came out of the steamship, dancing out with ribbons and fire-blowers. A huge gaudy banner of Ambera was unfurled along the side of the vessel, and the ship’s cannons fired bundles of confetti and candy out into the ecstatic crowd.

  Storgen felt a little more comfortable as they worked their way into the city and past the crowds at the docks. Kólasi was unlike the other cities of Erotan. It was old. Older than the empire itself. Layers built upon layers, like an odd sandwich made of history. Compressed compact grey stones were the lowest foundations, joined with such precision that the joints were all but invisible. They had once been great curtain walls of an ancient fortress, though no one now recalled who had built it or for what purpose. Fifty and sixty ton slabs of stone, marred with countless pockmarks of graffiti and impacts from ancient battles. Above the sharp edges and corners were the modern layers. Mud and wooden houses crammed in without thought or plan, cheek by jowl, all of them squirming with life, dry willowy eyes and jagged, gap-toothed faces, poverty-addled bodies as thin as rails, cheekbones jutting out through pallid skin.

  Several smaller cities had long ago grown together to cover the entire island, like a single great mountain range of stone, wood, and glass. The peaks rose above the clouds, glimmering glass towers of the upper spires that rose above the haze, glimmering in the sunlight and clean air, winking at passing ships, promising splendor and decadence and trade and profit, but to the inhabitants they sent a very different message. They tauntingly stood as reminders of what others enjoyed but they themselves would never have.

  The whole island was surrounded by a ring of thick fog; thousands of fishermen skimmed the surface of the mist with their small airships, letting down nets and pulling them free filled with brightly colored flying fish.

  And, of course, above it all, lay the ruins of the heavens far above, broken celestial buildings peeking out from behind storm clouds, desolate roads and ravaged stumps, all that remained of the realm where the gods once lived long ago.

  Pops followed at the back of the group, with the attendants carrying the bags. One by one, he took out his heroine figures and held them up, so that from his point of view they were right next to Erolina as she walked before him.

  “You’re comparing my backside to theirs, aren’t you?” Erolina asked without looking back.

  “I apologize for nothing!”

  “Maybe if you weren’t jamming that big old thing in people’s faces all the time they wouldn’t look at it so much,” Philiastra suggested.

  Erolina paused and thrust out her hip
sensually. “Aw, that’s adorable. Are you jealous because I actually look like a woman, little twig?”

  “Little twig? What is that supposed to mean, you old maid?”

  “Old maid?! I’m only twenty-nine!”

  “What is that in dog years?”

  “Pah. This coming from a jailbait loli. Don’t worry, little seed, I’m sure you’ll grow up to be a pretty flower one day.”

  Philiastra puffed out her cheeks. “Stop treating me like a kid, I’m nineteen.”

  “Yeah, out of a lifespan of twelve hundred. That makes you, like, what? Two years old?”

  “That’s not how math works, you ignorant savage!”

  The two of them snarled at each other, sparks of magic passing between them.

  “Are they always like this?” Paliágáta inquired.

  Storgen shrugged. “Only on days that end in the letter ‘y.’”

  The Acropolis was a mighty citadel of stone archways and marble statues, its surface kept clean and polished, with shining brass embrasures and cauldrons of blue fire lining the outer pylons. Ailuros guards in golden armor stood watch over every tower and rampart, and a full three sets of gates had to be passed through before the front entrance could be seen. The first of brass, the second of silver, and the third of gold.

  Storgen whistled as they stepped inside the opulent building.

  “There’s so many beastmen around here,” Philiastra noted, counting only a handful of humans in the hall. “It doesn’t even really feel like we are in Erotan anymore.