Belmundus (The Farn Trilogy Book 1)

by Edward C. Patterson

  “Lord Belmundus,” she said, resentment in her voice. “Are you ill?”

  “No, my lady,” he replied, settling his head on her breasts. “I’m always happy when I’m here with you.”

  “I hope your duties in the marketplace have not caused you to fuss about them when you are here.”

  “No, my lady. The Myrkpykyn runs smoothly, even when I am here. My Danuwa attends to business well.”

  “There, then,” she said, stroking his hair. “Your mind should be clear of all distractions.”

  However, it was not. He imagined the hand to be Littafulchee’s and, with the Trone’s aroma in the room as she served, it was hard to be up for the Scepta. He wondered how Littafulchee felt seeing him entangled in Charminus’ arms, her breasts, her legs — and then to watch him as he explored her geography better than a Spanish conquistador. It unnerved him. But if Charminus suspected, the jig would be up. So he mustered his complaint about Tappiolus as a distraction.

  “Charminus,” he said, passionately. “I haven’t been honest.”

  “Why, Lord Belmundus, what is your ailment?”

  “None, but . . . I am saddled with Lord Tappiolus and his constant prying into my affairs.”

  “He is the Provost.”

  “Yes. I respect that. However, he uses your Eye to spy on my every move.”

  “We have discussed this before, Harris,” she said.

  When she used his real name, it was from annoyance and a sign for him to desist.

  “I know, dearest. And I would not bring it up again if it were not that he has taken it upon himself to chastise me for doing a good job with his own son . . . your son, Melonius.”

  “Melonius is not my favorite.”

  “He could be . . . now, Charminus . . . dearest. He has many qualities you prize. I know, because I’ve distilled them in him, and they are qualities you admire in me.”

  Charminus gazed at him, sharply, but with renewed patience.

  “And this worries you to distraction?” she asked. “It keeps you off your form that a son of mine is raised to betterment and you are chastised for it?”

  “It is The Eye and Tappiolus’ wanton use of it putting me off my form.”

  She grinned, and then hugged him

  “I shall speak to Lord Tappiolus, and perhaps I should see Melonius — perhaps reappraise him for . . . marriage. My father has returned from serious negotiations in Protractus.” She suddenly demurred. “A shadow grows again. He has concerns.”

  “A shadow?”

  “You need not worry,” she said. “Put aside care. Let it not distract you from your best form. I shall ask Lord Tappiolus to be less obtrusive with you. I cannot deny him The Eye. As Provost he needs it, but he can apply it more rationally in your case.”

  Harris assessed that Tappiolus would likely increase his spying, but the request threw Charminus off the scent. Now if only Littafulchee’s scent were somewhere other than Mortis House, Harris could get on with his occupation.

  3

  In the sustiya, Harris sat on the piles of aniniya awaiting Littafulchee to come. Yustichisqua helped Tomatly stack the bars, and then arrange wooden sticks in neat rows. Cosawta sat at a distance, brooding. He had fallen off the wagon again — his sqwallen habit taking him out of commission for a week. However, a liberal dose of pilocarpinus had him back on the road to recovery. He grumbled and spat. Harris dared not disturb him. The man was powerful, even in this state, and could have landed a lethal blow before apologizing at the inquest.

  Harris found the sustiya an odd place — a silo more than a sacred Cetrone citadel. He also thought it odd it went undetected by the regulati. Surely, if they partnered with Cosawta as the ferryman for their barter-trade across the Forling, they would suspect the surplus would be stored somewhere. It’s ironic how, when greed is paramount, convenient blindness aids the beneficiaries.

  Littafulchee appeared on the gangway, toting a basket. As she drifted down on her zulus, Harris had a guilt pang. That basket was for him — victuals of his favorite mongerhide and special treats for Yustichisqua. The food had been surreptitiously lifted from the Scullery Dorgan and brought here perilously. Still, as Littafulchee drifted toward him, Harris couldn’t shake the idea of her service to Charminus — carrying the tray and rattling the Corzanthe bottle and goblets. He didn’t want this service now. Yet, as she approached, he was taken by her grace — her deportment ritualistically applied. She was like no other being he had ever encountered. Still, she was Cetrone, but he had encountered other Cetrone women. Littafulchee towered above them. All Cetrone treated her with respect and she deigned it acceptable, like an affectionate mother. She was above the common lot. Harris would know why.

  Cosawta grunted, turning at the prospects of the picnic. He certainly was welcomed to it. In fact, it was more his than Harris’. But the ferryman hesitated, perhaps seeing the sweet melting of temperament between the Didaniyisgi and the Cetrone maid, his sister.

  “Sweet lady,” Harris said, rising.

  She curtsied.

  “Lord Belmundus. We are well met.”

  “Always, when devoid of the Scepta.”

  “Always,” she said, raising the basket.

  He took it, setting it on the stockpile. Yustichisqua inched forward, peeking in.

  “It is for all,” Littafulchee announced.

  “Only offer it to Cosawta first, old man.”

  This removed the basket (with company) from Littafulchee. Harris took her hand and led her aside. He stared into her eyes, only to be diverted by her crystal ornament.

  “Fear not,” she said. “It is a simple gem from Cetronia — a lyricadim — worn for show and not for power.”

  “Although I suspect its power lies in its prestige,” Harris said.

  “You may think it, Lord Belmundus.”

  “I would know it, my lady,” he said. He pulled her gently into his arms. She didn’t resist. “I would know who you are, Littafulchee of the Zacker.”

  “You have named me.”

  “I have wondered. I realize the Z on the Secret Door does not stand for Zorro.”

  “Zorro?”

  “A poor joke, my lady. But it could stand for Zin.” She frowned, and pulled away. “I didn’t mean to offend, only Lord Tappiolus has spoken of a shadow growing across Farn and, as a consort, I know my lessons in Promise and Prophecy.”

  “Zin is a hard word for any in Farn to hear,” she said. “You should know it and not speak its name. As for Zacker — Zacker is no more.” She turned. “You see before you the blood line of a fallen house, but only drops remain, not enough to raise Farn’s hope.”

  “Only Cetronia’s?”

  “Perhaps,” she said. “But you are that hope now.”

  Cosawta stood beside them, having listened to this tête-à-tête unnoticed. His eyes were swollen and tearful, as if in the pronouncement of the lost realm of Zacker, his heart would burst.

  “We must not speak of it, sister,” he said, turning away.

  “It saddens him,” she said to Harris. “I pray you, Lord Belmundus, do not drive him to the sqwallen with such talk.” She bowed. “Gather your thoughts among the mongerhide and be settled in this. We look to free the Cetrone from bondage, but Zacker is long gone. Let it be so.”

  Cosawta whimpered like a child, falling into Littafulchee’s arms. This hadn’t been Harris’ plan. He wanted to know if he stood in the presence of the descendants of the fallen house, but he would have been content to listen to legends — history with a sad, but conclusive ending. Instead, he received a brutal confirmation of this blood line and watched, while brother and sister caressed. Caressing is what he intended, but not among the siblings.

  Littafulchee and Cosawta drifted away to a place of consolation. Yustichisqua sat beside Harris now, munching a strip of mongerhide.

  “What do you know about Zacker, old man?” Harris asked.

  “I am too young to know much, oginali.”

  “Only being
fifty-two or so.”

  “Yes. What is there to know? How important would it be?”

  “Aren’t you curious about your heritage?”

  Yustichisqua knelt, lifting his waddly wazzoo.

  “I know about the yuyuli.”

  “The Weeping Road — yes. Fascinating, but there’s more to it, and you know it.”

  “Do I?”

  “Aren’t you curious?”

  “Cetrone gossip much and tell many tales, oginali, but mostly about other Cetrone and to no advantage as most have no advantages.”

  “But you do.”

  Yustichisqua stood.

  “When I want to know things, I ponder my waddly wazzoo. In its light, I sometimes see things.”

  “See things?”

  “It is the light of truth, oginali. That is why all Cetrone carry one and protect it dearly. It is like a book to us, keeping all knowledge.”

  “All knowledge,” Harris mused. He grabbed a mongerhide strip from the basket. Tomatly came close, so he pushed the food nearer, letting the diminutive Cetrone help himself. “A book, you say.”

  “Yes,” Yustichisqua said. “But there are no books on Cetrone history. But why should there be? Our history is simple. We were happy in Montjoy until the Yunockers came. We helped them and called them our brothers. They took our help and then took our land and then our freedom. They were the enemy before the Ayelli arrived on the hill. Then all people decided to hate us and send most away beyond the Forling never again to be a bother. Just the slaves are here.”

  “Still, beyond the Forling there are free Cetrone.”

  “That is why we work here,” Tomatly piped up. “Someday they will come and help us overthrow the heavy yoke, they will.”

  “They?” Harris mused. “I believe you’re right, Tomatly.”

  “Yes, yes,” he twittered. “I am right because the Seneschal believes this to be so.”

  Seneschal?

  Harris stood. Yustichisqua gathered the basket.

  “Leave it for our friend here,” Harris said.

  “Are we leaving, oginali?”

  “Yes. It’s time to consult my book of knowledge.”

  Yustichisqua grinned.

  “We are not scheduled to be in Mortis House.”

  “We are not scheduled to be in the Kalugu either, but does that stop the Didaniyisgi and his Taleenay?”

  “But I cannot enter the Cartisforium, oginali.”

  “Why not, old man? No door is barred to you as long as I’ve a say-so.”

  “Do you have a say-so in that?”

  “Who knows?” he said. “And who cares? Come.”

  Little Bird grinned and handed the basket to Tomatly, who hovered on his zulus like a moth over daisies.

  “I am going to where no Cetrone has ever been,” he said to Tomatly. “The Cartisforium.”

  Tomatly grunted and slipped into the shadows to eat to his heart’s delight the delicacies of the Scullery Dorgan, surreptitiously lifted and precariously brought by his mistress, Littafulchee of Zacker. He cared not for this Cartisforium, wherever or whatever that might be.

  Chapter Eight

  The Shades of Zacker

  1

  The door of the Cartisforium was made of kaybar, a puzzlement to Harris, because the place barred Trones. However, Yustichisqua offered to pull him through, an experience Harris declined. Although having plunged into the sustiya a dozen or more times through the kaybar wall, Harris found the journey through solid objects as unnatural as it was uncomfortable.

  “Let me hold the door for you,” Harris told Yustichisqua, who giggled, entering the octagonal inner sanctum.

  Giggles soon dissipated, Little Bird struck dumb by the austere place. The three Sceptas’ shimmering light shone through the stained-glass effigies. Awestruck, he bowed, and then knelt.

  “They won’t bite,” Harris said. “And this ain’t church,” although the spirits of time stirred.

  “If I am arrested here, oginali,” Little Bird explained, “I will end my days in the Porias.”

  “From what I’ve been told, that’s a short in and out.”

  “I do not wish to burn.”

  Harris gazed at his Taleenay. Perhaps this was the most daring of trespasses.

  “If you wish to leave and bow like an inflated rug in the hallway, you’re welcomed to do so. I’ll think no less of you.”

  Yustichisqua gazed back toward the door, and then sighed.

  “But I would think less of me, oginali.”

  “Then let the show begin.”

  Harris guided Little Bird to the octagonal altar’s far side. The Book of Farn was anchored like a galleon on a mahogany sea. The relic flickered when Harris approached it.

  “It knows me,” he said. “I wonder if it guesses what I’ll be asking?”

  “You might be the first one to ask it.”

  “I probably am. Nobody seems to give a shit about Zacker.”

  At the word Zacker, the book’s cover opened, the pages rustling, and then it snapped shut, the lock as secure as a nun’s vow. Harris cocked his head, grasping his Columbincus, which already commenced glowing. Tony flickered, as did Yustichisqua’s dagger — gasohisgi.

  “You have action on your belt, old man.”

  Little Bird snapped his hand over the hilt, and then gazed at the Book of Farn. Harris unclasped the Columbincus from his cloak and pounded it into the keyhole.

  “Tell me about the House of Zacker,” he said — simply, not elaborating.

  He assumed he could fine-tune the inquiry as revelations peeled from the onion.

  The Columbincus turned in the latch and the cover opened again, this time slowly, the book cleaving to a point midtome. Like his inquiry concerning Tippagores, a cloud arose from the vellum, forming and reforming. Harris couldn’t discern the emerging shape — perhaps a map. But the cloud turned rust-colored, and then divided into seven cloudlets — biscuit dough readied for the oven. Each hovered over the altar, forming funnels, wide side down, and then settling in a circle. The light faded. These funnels sprouted arms and heads — ancient female heads.

  “The Yodanado,” Yustichisqua gasped.

  “A projection, Little Bird,” Harris said, but watched intently as waddly wazzoos kindled and humming began. The central crone opened her eyes.

  “Lord Belmundus has come,” Euforsee said, her voice hollow, but clear. “We knew he would, because he is destined to do so.”

  She held up her waddly wazzoo. Yustichisqua cowered.

  “Who is there in the shadows?” she asked. “Is that Yustichisqua, son of Kittowa?”

  Little Bird grunted.

  “We have come,” Harris said. “I would know . . .”

  “You shall, but first you must listen and learn — watch and understand. You must hold these secrets in your heart, too tender they to tell the world, because hearts are cold to it. Other hearts are tenderer still and would be crushed by the reminder.” She stared at Yustichisqua. “Kittowa’s son, be prepared to weep, but be prepared to give your life for the fate this inquiry reveals.”

  She waited for his reply. He grunted, but did not turn his eyes away.

  “Good, then. Good . . . all is well as we unwrap the past and let the light come forth.”

  With the word light, the room went dark — abysmally dark, encouraging Harris to join Yustichisqua in grunting. The humming continued, and one dim waddly wazzoo drifted to the altar’s center. It brightened gradually until it revealed a circle of thrones, and a tree stump mid table. Harris recognized the figure emerging from the stump — the Primordius Centrum. Harris prepared to hear the incantation of the Promise and Prophecy again. It seemed appropriate. The last time the Yodanado had assembled, Euforsee had chanted it. The first time he heard it was from the grim specter that grew at odds within this tree. Instead, the Primordius Centrum raised an accusatory hand and pointed at the figures planted on the ten thrones — the Electors of Farn.

  2

  Har
ris recognized the rulers of the realm — Cheelum of Volcanium, Yama of Aquilium, Yunoli of Aolium, Yeholu of Terrastrium, Sestanum of Protractus, Dunaliski of Magus, Lododi of Pontifrax, Kuriakis of Montjoy and two others — both new to him. One he guessed was the Lord of Zin and, as he guessed, he heard Euforsee whisper Grimakadarian, Lord of Darkness. Harris shuddered, looking to Yustichisqua, who nodded, having received the same whisper. As unsettling as this voice was, Harris was glad for the annotation. He dared not look at Grimakadarian, for fear of being turned to stone or silly putty. In his first visit here, watching the cavalcade of the nine realms, Zin had unnerved him. Arquebus had commanded Harris to shut his eyes when Zin appeared. But now, as his attention drifted to the dark Elector’s black throne, the images of hell were suppressed. Grimakadarian was clad in ebony armor like a pot belly stove.