The Kingdom

by Bryan M. Litfin

  Whirling away from the railing, Piair left the balcony and went inside the palace. It was time to take the pulse of the streets. He was about to call for a royal litter when an idea hit him. What if I mingled in the crowd anonymously? Wouldn’t that be the best way to learn what my subjects truly think? Piair was contemplating how to accomplish this when one of the servants solved his dilemma. The youth had just left the bedroom with a porcelain chamber pot in his hands. Piair stopped him.

  “Give me your tunic,” the king ordered.

  After changing into the peasant garment, then rubbing his face and hands with dirt from a potted plant, Piair went downstairs and exited the palace through the stables. A hostler’s cap and an old horse blanket around his shoulders gave him an even greater degree of anonymity.

  The streets of the Citadel were alive with activity, but not of the sort that might be expected in Chiveis. Instead of fishmongers and food vendors haggling over their wares with their customers, Royal Guardsmen moved through the markets with their weapons drawn. The shops were closed and the stalls were empty, yet that didn’t keep the soldiers from their pillaging. Army wagons were being loaded with salt pork, flour, beans, and cheese, along with many other items that didn’t look like military provisions but were valuable nonetheless.

  A scuffle nearby caught Piair’s attention. A fat innkeeper and his alewife wrestled with a guardsman for control of an old nag. The horse was skittish, rearing back on its hind legs as the innkeeper and soldier fought for the lead line.

  “You can’t have it,” the alewife insisted. “How will we draw our cart?”

  “That’s your problem,” the guardsman retorted. He snatched the halter in a firm grip.

  Piair approached the antagonists. “Hey, what’s the matter here?”

  The soldier scowled. “None of your business.”

  “It’s theft!” cried the innkeeper.

  “No, it’s the king’s will!” The guardsman placed his hand on his sword’s hilt. “Stand back, all of you, unless you want to taste my steel.”

  He jerked the horse’s head around and began to lead it away, but Piair intervened. “The people need to continue their livelihoods while the kingdom is at war.”

  “The people need to shut up and provision the Royal Guard! One quarter of their possessions go to the war effort. The surtax was just levied by royal edict.”

  “Looting and horse stealing were never my intent!”

  The guardsman eyed Piair with a cold stare, then approached him in menacing fashion. “Your intent doesn’t matter here, runt.”

  Fury erupted in Piair’s soul. “Give me that horse!” he screamed, lunging for the rope.

  The guardsman’s response was quick and violent. He swatted Piair’s hand away, then smashed the king’s lips with his fist. Piair staggered back and tripped on the curb. He fell into a gutter that reeked of urine. The iron taste of blood filled his mouth.

  “By the sword, Chiveis lives,” the guardsman declared.

  Piair stared at the soldier, then flicked his glance to the frightened innkeeper and his anguished wife. Though Piair wanted to reveal himself as king, to do so would be to admit blame for all that was happening in the realm. Instead he wiped his bloody mouth on his sleeve. Tears of shame burned his eyes.

  “By the sword, Chiveis lives,” he agreed.

  It was only a matter of time until the torture would be over. Shaphan had never seen anything so horrible. Death would be a mercy.

  Poor Lewth! Just take him, Deu! Make his suffering end!

  A few years back, the kindhearted monk had become one of Shaphan’s best friends. When the community of seekers formed to study the Sacred Writing, Lewth was one of the first to join. His mind was lively, and his wit was sharp. Now he was a wreck of a man.

  “Wat . . . er,” he gasped.

  Shaphan trickled a spoonful of liquid past Lewth’s cracked lips, though he knew easing his friend’s thirst would bring agonizing spasms of his ravaged esophagus. The monk’s face contorted into a mask of pain as he choked down the drink. He coughed and cried at the same time, thrashing in the sticky sheets. A pustule on his neck burst with the exertion and oozed yellow bile down his chest. At last, gagging and moaning, he collapsed onto his pillow.

  “Wat . . . er,” he whispered a few moments later.

  Shaphan’s heart broke. What is this devilish weapon unleashed upon mankind?

  A few weeks earlier, after his nocturnal visit to the laboratory, Lewth had appeared at Shaphan’s door. Both men had rejoiced that the priestess’s great weapon appeared to be ineffective. Then the itching had started, and the sneezing, and the flood of mucus and tears. It wasn’t long before Lewth’s eyes had swollen shut. Bulbous blisters rose in his armpits and groin. Thick fluid clogged his lungs. His airways had been seared by the poisonous vapor, so every breath rasped over a raw wound.

  Lina had tried to help with the medical care but gave up when Lewth’s nighttime screaming wouldn’t stop. Nothing could relieve his internal and external burns. One look at the suffering man made Lina dizzy and nauseated. Shaphan told Lewth it was because the time of her delivery was near, but he knew the real reason for Lina’s distress was his friend’s ghoulish appearance. The man was burning and thirsting and drowning all at once.

  Sighing, Shaphan spooned a little more water into Lewth’s mouth. Together they endured another fit of racking coughs. There was nothing else to do.

  Sometime that night the wretched monk slipped into Deu’s sweet embrace. Lewth had appeared to be dozing, and Shaphan nodded off at his bedside. When Shaphan awoke he immediately noticed the absence of the hoarse death rattle. Lewth’s limbs had the inert limpness of a corpse, and his jaw hung slack. Relieved that the ordeal was over, Shaphan tumbled into bed next to Lina and slept like a dead man himself.

  The slanting light of early morning woke him the next day. He rolled over and yawned, though he wasn’t yet ready to get up.

  “Is he gone?” Lina whispered.

  “Gone from this world, but living forever in the next.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Remember what Teofil said? If you believe Iesus died and was raised up, you will dwell in his kingdom forever. Lewth believed that.”

  “Do you believe it too?”

  “Yes. The Sacred Writing is trustworthy.”

  Lina took Shaphan’s hand as they lay side by side in their bed. “Then I believe it with you.”

  The young couple was silent for a while, until Lina asked, “What are you going to do with . . . ?”

  “We have to bury Lewth in secret. You’ve seen all those signs the Vulkainians have put up. They’re scouring Chiveis for someone with his symptoms.”

  “Maybe we could wait until dark and bury him in the yard.”

  “No, somewhere else. I have to dig a grave, Lina. The neighbors could see me. It has to be outside of Vingin.”

  “Where?”

  “I was thinking of Teofil’s teaching theater. It’s overgrown. Nobody goes there anymore. I’ll do it tonight.”

  “I’m coming with you,” Lina said. “Lewth deserves an honorable burial.”

  The day passed uneventfully. Shaphan left the door to the guest bedroom closed and went about his business, though he didn’t have much of an appetite. When the sun had set, he slipped into Lewth’s room and rolled the corpse onto a plank, then wrapped it in the ruined sheets. The smell was horrendous, and Shaphan had to exit twice to avoid vomiting. At last he got the bundle swaddled in thick burlap and bound with twine. It wasn’t much of a death shroud, but Shaphan knew Lewth wouldn’t mind. He was rejoicing in the presence of Deu.

  A fog settled on the alpine village, diffusing the moon’s light into a luminous white glow. Shaphan dragged the awkward bundle to the stable. “Watch your step,” he said to his pregnant wife. “The ground is uneven here.”

  Though Shaphan couldn’t afford a decent horse, his mother-in-law had given him an old mare that could still pull a two-wheeled cart. A
fter loading the body and covering it with a tarp, the husband and wife made their way to the outskirts of Vingin. They arrived at a small amphitheater with stone risers arranged around a stage. Not long ago Shaphan had taken classes here from Teofil, a gifted professor at the University of Chiveis. All that now seemed like another world.

  Shaphan chose a spot in a copse of trees near the cottage that had served as Teofil’s study. He began to dig with a wooden shovel while Lina rested in the grass, softly singing a traditional Chiveisian lament. At last he stood up in the hole and leaned on the ash wood handle.

  “I think that’s deep enough—”

  “Caught ya!” shouted a rough voice.

  Shaphan’s heart jumped, and Lina screamed as two Vulkainians hemmed them in. The older of the pair hauled Lina to her feet while his companion, a youth with a short crew cut, knelt to examine the burlap bundle. He slit it open with his knife, then turned away with a disgusted groan.

  “It’s a dead guy, boss. Eyes swole shut. Lots of pustules.” He stood up and gripped his stomach, wincing and gagging as he spat out the bile that had risen to his mouth.

  The older leader leveled his acid gun at Lina. “Walk ahead of me,” he ordered Shaphan, “and don’t try anything unless you want to see your wife in pain.”

  “Hey, wait a minute, boss,” the younger Vulkainian said. “I kinda like the way she looks. What if we had some fun first?”

  “Gods, man. She’s pregnant.”

  “So what? We can do what we want, then kill the husband. We can say he fought us. We’ll still get the reward no matter what shape they’re in.”

  The leader thought about it for a moment, then smirked and nodded. He reached for the knife at his belt—and Shaphan swung the shovel.

  The flat blade took the man square in the face. He dropped in a heap as Shaphan spun to face his second opponent. The crew-cut youth was drawing his acid pistol, but Shaphan smashed the shovel against his arm. The gun’s reservoir exploded in a burning spray. Screaming, the Vulkainian clawed his eyes and stumbled away. Though Shaphan tried to follow, the fog was too thick, and the man disappeared.

  Shaphan hurriedly laid Lewth to rest and backfilled the soil. After gathering the Vulkainians’ two horses, he returned to Lina. She stared at him with big eyes. They walked in silence back to their house, leading the new horses behind the cart.

  “I’m scared,” Lina said as they entered the dark cottage.

  “Me too.”

  “What should we do now?”

  “Pack up all the food we have. I’ll get blankets and clothing.”

  Lina gasped as she gripped her husband’s sleeve. “Shaphan! Where are we going?”

  He put his hand on Lina’s shoulder and gave her a grim look.

  “I think you know.”

  Ana hiked up her skirt and set her foot in the stirrup. Throwing her other leg over the saddle, she gathered the reins of her dapple gray and urged it forward.

  “Are you sure about this?” Vanita asked, walking alongside the horse.

  “I can’t wait anymore. I just want to take a look.”

  “Teofil will be worried when he finds out. He’ll think it’s dangerous.”

  Ana smiled down at her friend. “Then I guess he’ll come for me like he always does.”

  “Can’t you wait?” Vanita pleaded. “He’s been scouting the enemy all day. I’m sure he’ll return soon to send another message to Jineve.”

  “The outsiders are on the far side of the river. I won’t cross. I just want to take a look at Edgeton. Besides, the outsiders are apparently Chiveis’s allies now. The Vulkainians have been escorting them into the kingdom in droves. It’s unheard of.”

  “Teofil would want to go with you,” Vanita repeated.

  “I know. But I won’t go into town. I just want to see it from a distance.”

  Vanita sighed. “I can understand that. You’ve been waiting for this day for two years.” She placed her hand on Ana’s knee. “Hurry back.”

  “Thank you, Vanita.” Ana squeezed her friend’s hand, then called for a trot from the gray.

  The game trail was familiar to Ana, for she had walked it many times on hunting trips with her father. The ride was easy, and she settled into the saddle as the evening wore on. Her mind drifted to yesterday’s battle. Teo had wanted her to be ready to flee on horseback, and she had agreed to that plan, but then the idea of fire arrows occurred to her. Though she had merely hoped to start a fire among the Iron Shield’s supplies, Teo’s decision to spread lantern oil on the brimstone crates made the strategy even more effective.

  Ana laughed to herself as she recalled making the arrows. She had once helped Teo fashion similar missiles with resin-coated strips of fabric from her dress. Teo had shot them at outsiders from the very same bluff. She and Teo were strangers to each other then, having only just met in the woods. Though she had liked him right away, and he liked her too, neither knew what to make of the other. Now the dashing Captain Teofil was the man she hoped to—

  What? Marry?

  Ana pushed the thought away. Too many daunting obstacles hindered that idyllic dream. She was under a death sentence for treason, and the kingdom itself was in turmoil as the aggressive invasion was being planned. Nothing in Chiveis was how Ana wanted it to be. She longed to feel her father’s strong arms around her again, to hear the melodious sound of her mother’s voice. She wanted to see the sturdy Chiveisian farmers streaming home at dusk, eager for an ale and a meal. She wanted to sit at her kitchen table and eat goat cheese and pickles like she did as a girl. Ana pictured her little bedroom with its balcony overlooking the town square. It had a dresser, a wardrobe, a fireplace, a sleigh bed—even a bathtub! She had loved to soak there at length, calling for another kettle while her father complained about the cost of firewood. Tears gathered in Ana’s eyes as these memories rushed through her mind. She was adrift in a sea of homesickness when she rounded a bend and spotted Edgeton across the Farm River.

  The first sign of trouble was the presence of the Royal Guard. Soldiers scurried from the village stockade to the dock, carrying sacks and kegs and crates to be piled onto flatboats. One of those rafts approached now, preparing to pick up its load of supplies. The poleman hailed Ana on the shore. “Need a lift across?”

  “Um, no thanks,” Ana called.

  “Then what are you up to over there?”

  “N-nothing,” Ana stammered as the boat drew near.

  “Are you sure?” the poleman pressed. “It’s getting late.”

  “I . . . I guess I would take a ride after all.”

  Ana had donned a cloak to hide her identity, so now she pulled up the hood as she led her horse onto the raft. She hoped the outer garment would cover her Marsayan clothing, which had a different look from what Chiveisian girls wore.

  A stocky villager stopped her as she reached the village gate. “Who are you and what do you want?” he demanded.

  Fynn!

  Ana nearly identified herself to her childhood friend but decided the situation was too uncertain for that. “I’m a kitchen girl from the regiment,” she mumbled with her head down. “The quartermaster sent me for a couple of items he forgot.”

  “Well, hurry up. The gate closes at full dark, and I won’t reopen it for you.” Fynn waved her inside.

  The streets of Edgeton were dismal and empty. Shutters covered the windows where lanterns used to cast a friendly glow. Ana recognized each shop, each tavern, each home. The alehouses on the main square should have been overflowing with thirsty farmers but instead were locked up like fortresses. At any other time the villagers would have been outside enjoying the late spring evening. But on this day Royal Guardsmen and Vulkainian thugs owned the streets.

  Ana passed a withered old man in a worn-out cloak who noticed her as she walked by. His head swung around, and he craned his neck to get a better look. Even in the gathering darkness Ana could see his face was abnormally pale. An eerie redness lined his mouth like the lipstick of a garish
streetwalker. Ana hunched into her hood and hoped the man was only a lecher, not a government informant.

  She arrived at her house. It was dark and forbidding like the rest. Though all the shutters were closed, Ana noticed the flowerboxes overflowed with healthy geraniums, evidence that her mother had tended them recently. She knew her father wouldn’t leave during planting season unless he had to. Perhaps her parents were home but hiding from the soldiers like everyone else.

  She stepped onto the porch and knocked.

  No answer.

  After trying several times Ana sneaked around to the back. A hole in a gnarled tree held a rusty key. Many times as a teenager she had stayed out too late and let herself in with the hidden key. Now she slipped it into the lock once again. The mechanism was stiff, but it turned.

  The chalet was quiet. Ana wandered the rooms, fiddling with the furniture, inhaling the familiar smells. She wanted to jump around in ecstasy, but the mood wasn’t right. No one was present to celebrate her return.

  She walked upstairs, finding her bedroom just as she left it. Her traditional Chiveisian dirndls hung in the wardrobe. A neat pile of logs had been laid in the fireplace. She sat on the edge of the bed, then kicked off her shoes and flopped back on it.

  A tear trickled down her cheek. Unable to contain her grief any longer, Ana curled up on her quilt and wept for a long time. Through burning eyes she stared at the ceiling and cried out to Deu. What has happened to Chiveis? What sickness has infected even little Edgeton on the frontier? Outsiders swarm in while guardsmen loot the people! Where are my parents, who should have welcomed me home? She received no answer to those wrenching questions—yet Deu spoke to her nonetheless.

  “Ana?”

  She bolted from the bed, her heart pounding. Who . . . ?

  The voice called again. “Ana, are you here?” Footsteps ascended the stairs to her bedroom.

  Teo!

  He entered, and she embraced him. As his arms enfolded her, Ana realized how truly solid Teo was. He provided reassurance in an ever-shifting world. Ana found she needed his strength now more than ever.