The Sons of Animus Letum

by Andrew Whittle

  “Coincidence?” Igallik asked.

  Bysin and Palis shook their heads.

  “I too have to say no,” Nile said. “Although it is not completely sound, there is a line that can be reasonably drawn between these events.”

  The head monk exhaled the smoke from his hookah. “Shall we vote?”

  The Order monks nodded.

  “In favour?” Igallik asked.

  By a show of hands, the monks voted. With a show of four to one, the Order moved in favour of adopting Haren. The motion was really an invitation. The Order had voted to offer Haren sanctuary at the Throne’s Eye. The decision to stay was hers and hers alone.

  “With that settled,” Igallik said, “we can move onto the issue of the twins. I believe we are all in agreement that their arrival was an act of Providence. Nile, do you see it otherwise?”

  “I do not,” Nile replied. “It is evident that Serich went to great measures to send his queen and sons here. They were meant most certainly to arrive at our gates.”

  “And to live within them as well,” Bysin added.

  “Very well, then,” Igallik said. “Upon Providence, it seems that we have adopted the boys. Are they any contentions?”

  There were none.

  As Igallik prepared to adjourn the Order, he opened the floor to any last thoughts.

  “Are there any other matters concerning these rulings?” he asked. “Speak now, brothers, for these decisions will soon become canon.”

  “I have one,” Nile announced. “A consideration regarding the twins.”

  Igallik nodded. “Proceed.”

  “I move to separate the boys,” Nile said. “I think it is reasonable to deduce that the murder of Rhea was equally aimed at the twins: an attempt to kill a line of successors. Forneus’s actions were predatory, and I suspect that he will continue his hunt even across realms. In the interest of survival – and I mean odds of survival – I move that the boys be separated.”

  “I disagree with separation,” Igallik said. “Providence gave us both. I contend that their division would conflict with Serich’s will.”

  “Furthermore,” Raeman added, “if they are to be hunted, we offer them the best protection.”

  “I cannot endorse separation either,” said Palis. “These boys – their origin, their fates, and truly the blood that courses within them – are of a class that makes them very different, perhaps too different for us to fully understand. It would serve them best to have each other.”

  “Anything to add, Bysin?” the head monk asked.

  “I sense that there is already a bond between these twins,” the Instinct totem said. “They are strong on their own. But I sense that they will be greater together.”

  “Show of hands,” Igallik said.

  By a show of four to one, the Order moved against separating the sons of Animus Letum.

  “Are there any other matters?” Igallik asked.

  There were none.

  The head monk puffed once more from his hookah. “Brothers, we are adjourned. Today’s verdicts are indisputable unless an exceptional force or event decrees otherwise. You may return to your quarters.”

  And with that, the Throne’s Eye chose to become three stronger.

  Only time would prove by how much.

  5

  After Haren had left the High Temple, Raine escorted her to the monastery’s library. The library was a two story building shaped like an hourglass. The first story was built with red brick, and the second floor was built out of the same crystal as the High Temple windows. Raine ushered Haren through the doors and then welcomed her into a communal space known as the Spine. The Spine was a massive oval chamber that had a giant brick fireplace, numerous sitting areas, and a series of fifteen foot tall bookshelves that lined its entire circumference. Every monk in the Throne’s Eye was allowed access to the Spine and its resources. There were thousands of books dedicated to world histories, religions, martial arts, and nearly every other topic that had been recorded by pen or print. The library’s only other room was called the Ichor, and only a few monks were allowed entry. The Ichor was much smaller than the Spine in size and incredibly smaller in resources. In fact, the Ichor was a small study with one desk and only one book. The Book of the Eterna was the highest level text in the practice of the Throne’s Eye monastery. Within its pages there were rituals and incantations that could hail the afterlife, ensure a soul safe passage between realms, and even merge the souls of two separate individuals. There was great power within the pages of The Book of the Eterna, and the privilege of reading it had to be earned. The Order monks were the only ones allowed access to the hallowed text; however, there were rare accounts where exceptional circumstances had allowed other monks to read its pages.

  As the sun pushed through the second floor crystal of the library, Haren spun slowly at the center of the Spine, marvelling its impressive bookcases.

  “Even if I had one hundred years,” she said with a smile, “I still don’t think I could read all of these.”

  Raine watched her for a moment. “So you’re a reader?”

  Haren’s gaze would not leave the bookshelf. “When I had the time I was.”

  “The world’s got enough readers, birdy. What we need are writers.”

  “I didn’t say I couldn’t write,” Haren said. “I just figured that I wasn’t that gifted with a pen.”

  Raine stepped next to Haren and joined her gaze. “Our bookshelf is filled mostly with history books,” he said. “The authors aren’t really writers. They’re recorders – they write the stories that have already happened.”

  Haren’s eyes fell off the bookshelf. “Are you making a point?”

  “That I am,” the warrior laughed. “Point is, you don’t even need a pen to be a writer. You can write a history with your actions.”

  Haren smiled. “And I thought the bookshelf was grandiose.”

  “You wrote history today,” Raine said matter-of-factly. “Up until this morning, no woman had ever set foot in this monastery.”

  “Hell of a book,” Haren said sarcastically.

  “It could be,” Raine replied.

  Haren was silenced by the giant warrior’s stare. “Look,” she said finally, “a lot has happened to me over the last nine days. To be honest, I’m not really thinking about writing the future. I’m paralyzed enough by the present.”

  Raine nodded, certain that he knew what Haren meant. “It’s ’cause you’ve got a question,” he said. “Trust me, I’ve had the same one. It’s not the present that paralyzes us, it’s the question.”

  “I have more than just one,” Haren replied.

  “But there is a big one,” Raine guessed. “One that all others follow.”

  Haren looked up at Raine, sensing that he knew exactly which question was at the front of her mind.

  “What is happening to me?” she said.

  Raine nodded. “That’s the one. Fortunately, history holds your answer.”

  After giving the bookshelf a quick survey, the old warrior pointed and then followed his finger to a particular section.

  “Although I think it’s better to write history,” he said as his hand traced a line across the bookshelf, “it’s not so bad to read every once in a while.”

  After his finger brushed down the spine of the book he wanted, Raine retrieved it and blew the dust off its cover.

  “You’ve never seen this book,” he said. “But I’ll bet you recognize one of its characters.”

  With a heavy thud, the old warrior dropped the thick leather-bound book on the table nearest to Haren.

  “Give it a read,” he encouraged. “It has given me more than a few answers.”

  Haren studied the warrior for a moment, and then approached the book. In large script, there were two dark blue words carved onto its cover: Animus Letum.

  “Latin?” Haren asked.

  “Soul Light,” Raine interpreted.

  “And my answer is in here?” Haren aske
d skeptically.

  “Mostly,” Raine said.

  Haren eyed the giant text. As her hand traced over its cover, her fingers moved slowly, tapping the leather as if she were measuring more than just the book’s aesthetics.

  “The author is fond of poetry,” Raine said, “but nevertheless, it is history.”

  As Haren sat down, she was reminded of something her father used to say: “If you seek the future,” she quoted, “you must consult the past.”

  “Sounds about right,” Raine agreed. He then nodded back to the book. “While you consult, I’ll rustle up some food and drink.”

  Haren offered her thanks, and after Raine had left, she carefully opened the leather-bound text to its first page.

  Inked onto the page were quatrains of verse written with black script.

  A death is not a death

  When it serves as a door;

  Instead, it takes a breath

  And breathes in evermore.

  There is time after here

  And a path for the soul:

  This grim road most souls fear

  For your death pays its toll.

  Heaven waits, as does Hell,

  Both are under one sun;

  Good and evil do dwell

  In a land that is one.

  In this land there’s a fight

  The war waged for all souls,

  A war of dark and light,

  And the prize is a throne.

  There are Kings and their Queens

  In wars of great mention;

  There are serpentine fiends

  And men who are Legend.

  These Legends hold the throne

  As Kings of hereafter,

  With blue light in their souls,

  Of might they are masters.

  The Lyrans are these Kings

  Who rule as the righteous;

  With shining hearts they bring

  Great light to the lightless.

  As Haren’s eyebrow rose skeptically, her reason told her to dismiss the book. With an airy exhalation, she pushed her chair back from the table and looked up to the library’s crystal windows. In her village, Haren had explored every religious text she could get her hands on. She had hoped and prayed that one religion – or any religion – could help her understand herself. For so long, Haren had felt that a world awaited her. She knew somehow that she mattered to the world, a pivotal piece in its destiny. She just needed some help to understand how. The voice – the one she had heard her entire life – seemed to convince her that help was on the way. It seemed to promise something more than a poem.

  “Just like all the others,” she muttered.

  “Then surely,” a calm voice said from behind her, “there is no harm in reading a few more pages.”

  As Haren’s body stiffened, she sprang up from the chair and turned to see the head monk behind her.

  “Sorry to startle you,” Igallik said. “I have an unintentional habit of sneaking up on people.”

  Haren offered a weak smile, trying to avoid eye contact. She felt a small wave of guilt washing over her. The head monk had surely heard her dismiss the book. And as Haren’s gut churned, she hoped it had not been a grave insult.

  Igallik brushed a hand through his beard, and after a moment, he pointed to the book.

  “The poetry is a little much,” he said, “but you should know that truth is not limited to a single medium.” There was omniscience in his voice – as if his words had been formed over one thousand years of thought.

  Even still, Haren felt a pang in her gut – the moment when you begin to pity someone. She respected Igallik, but felt sorry for his philosophy.

  “Igallik,” she said, trying to ease the blow, “it is a poem – a legend. There are many writers – even a few in my village – who pen this type of fiction. It is simply a poem.”

  “Was the heron just a bird?” the head monk replied.

  Haren had many thoughts, but no answer. She had no way to explain her last nine days.

  “Read the next three pages,” Igallik said. “I would think – given the details of your arrival here – that these three will be a little more convincing.”

  Feeling that she owed Igallik and the monastery some level of thanks, Haren conceded. She nodded to the head monk – a nod more like a surrender – and then reseated herself. As she flipped the giant text to its next page, her eyes settled on a portrait centered at its top. The portrait was of a giant gray-haired man staring up from the page with electric blue eyes. The man wore a suit of golden armor, and there was a crown resting on his head. As Haren examined the crown’s details, a sudden thought caused her to back away from the book. With her fingers pressed against her temples, Haren examined the crown once more, but soon her wide gaze rose onto the bookshelf in front of her. However, her purple eyes were not looking ahead. They were looking behind. Haren knew that she had seen the crown before – that very day in the meadow.

  Igallik could sense her confusion.

  “Three pages,” he repeated. “I will answer any questions you have after then.”

  Haren rubbed her temples once more, and then tapped her finger on the table next to the book.

  “Three pages,” she agreed.

  Beneath the portrait there were six more quatrains.

  Perian was King first,

  The war God of great might:

  To conquer evil’s worst

  He drew from his blue light.

  Vile Dragons did hunt him

  With great fires and grand scales;

  But his light never dimmed

  And his heart never paled.

  He suffered hellish pains

  And endured hellish Pools;

  Through his foes he took reign

  And established his rule.

  A blue Cauldron became

  The spirit of the land;

  Burning its righteous flames,

  It shined noble and grand.

  In the light of his reign

  Heaven’s bloom had begun;

  Cherry blossoms proclaimed

  That the Lyran had won.

  Through sheer might and blue light,

  The afterlife was won;

  And after siring knights,

  The great King sired a son.

  After a look to Igallik – a gaze that was moved by the crown, but unpersuaded by the verse – Haren turned to the next page. Again, a giant portrait of a man was centered at the top. This man had the same electric blue eyes and crown that the first one wore, but he had no suit of armour, and his body was set into a contemplative pose with his right fist set meditatively under his chin. There were another six quatrains.

  The crown passed to Jerub,

  The King of patient mind:

  He was the wearer of

  The grand traits of mankind.

  His eyes saw through evil,

  His heart saw through pain;

  He sought the retrieval

  Of the souls evil claimed.

  His father won great wars,

  Through his brawn, he was Lord,

  But Jerub won far more

  With his mind than his sword,

  With wits, thought, and mercy

  The first heir chose to build

  His own theocracy

  Where blood need not be spilled.

  Choosing a new flower

  That would hallmark his age,

  He honoured his power

  And elected the sage.

  He built upon greatness

  And thought upon grace,

  Though all saw his greatest

  When his son took his place.

  Haren looked flatly at Igallik.

  “One more page,” she said. There was a cynical tone to her words, as if she were challenging the head monk – as if they had made a bet and Haren was certain that she was about to win.

  “I suspect one will be enough,” Igallik replied calmly.

  Haren eyed the head monk for a moment,
unsure if his confidence was foolish or wise.

  The next page would decide.

  After her fingers slipped between the leaves, Haren turned carefully to the next page.

  Again, there was a portrait centered at its top. This portrait was of two people: a man and a woman – a king and a queen.

  Haren’s eyes quickly noted the king’s electric blue eyes, wild gray hair, and golden armour, but as her stare shifted to the woman at his shoulder, one word – one whisper of shock – escaped from her mouth.

  “Impossible…”

  “I prefer unprecedented,” the head monk said. “Recognize her?”

  Haren did. She had watched the woman die that very morning. The woman was Rhea – an exact likeness. She wore the exact same white gown, she had the same blonde hair, and even her facial features were uncannily alike. The only difference was that in the portrait, Rhea’s emerald eyes had no pupil or iris; they were completely green.

  As Haren looked even more closely over the portrait, she ran her hands through her hair, making small noises like someone putting a puzzle together. The exile seemed to sense what she was being told. However, the truth – the secret that she had sought her entire life – seemed far larger than she had supposed. The world that Haren had waited for seemed to nullify the one that she had waited in. If the book was true, Haren’s world had changed. It had broken. Without looking at the head monk, she began to speak, but after a few broken words, she cut herself off.

  “Was it a charade?” she said finally, a small tremble in her voice. “Was my world a farce? Is everybody’s world a farce? What about religion? What about god?”

  Anxiously, Haren tapped the page in front of her. “If this is true, everyone is living a lie…”

  “I wouldn’t consider it a lie,” Igallik said. “Religions are simply the different costumes we put on the same god. They are variations of the creator.”

  “But I had a brother, Igallik. I had a life. I don’t know if I’m ready for this. I don’t want my past to mean nothing.”

  “But you can feel it,” Igallik said, pushing the revelation.