The Chronicle

by David F. Farris

  “To be fair,” voiced Tazama from her spot near a bookcase, “the young prince has been jerked in every direction by all five former chiefs of the Amendment Order. At this point, he doesn’t know who to trust. He confided in Ophala first, and then felt he was betrayed. He moved on to Rosel and Grandarion, who he then felt sabotaged his kingdom after listening to you, Toth. They’re now dead. So I must ask, now that he’s lost once again, what will become of the two of you?”

  Wert glared at Tazama before looking at Toth. “You let this woman speak far too much.”

  “I don’t ‘let’ her speak, Wert,” Toth snapped. “She speaks when she wants. And because of her, we’ve ended up in the positions of power we see ourselves in now.” Toth narrowed his eyes. “You should be thanking her.”

  Wert’s scowl turned to Toth. He seemed like he wanted to say something, but instead he stormed past and out the door.

  Toth stared at the floor, his body temperature rising. Exhaling deeply, he asked, “What’s the update on Dev Warden Gala?”

  “She was approaching the rendezvous point in the southern Voidlands this morning,” Tazama replied. “I would assume she’s speaking with her colleagues now.”

  The Archaic King marched out of the study. “Good. Keep me updated.”

  * * *

  Dev Warden Gala stood in the southern Voidlands of the Cyn Kingdom, just west of Almawt Woods. It was a vast prairie of dead grass, little air resistance, and no wind. Its most iconic trait, however, was the lost souls that wandered its expanse day and night. The kingdom had three Voidlands—a safer one to the south, and two others considered dangerous because of their proximity to the Linsaniun Mounds. Nobody wanted to venture too close to the Linsani, an animal species composed of the largest beasts in the world—not even the fabled creature, Gale Thrasher, could rival their size.

  As the Dev Warden waited in earnest, eager to abandon such an eerie place as quickly as possible, her robes fended off ghostly figures trying to attack her spirit. Each time something ran too close, a holographic symbol jutted out from her clothing and deflected enemy attacks. The last thing she wanted was for one of these manifestations to touch her. Cynergy was a marvelous energy in the most frightening of ways. Its true power was unknown, but it was understood that it could suck the spirit out of some of the strongest souls—the story of the Unbreakable was a testament to that.

  The grass rustled behind her, but in the Void, that didn’t mean much. Sounds traveled great distances in the Cyn Kingdom. She turned to see two shadowy figures approaching her under the starlight. As they neared, her body relaxed, and the holograms rotating around her slowed.

  “Your robes look like a shining star from any distance, Gala,” muttered the gentleman to her left. “Concealment has never been a specialty of yours.” The hunch in his back was so large that his head appeared to sit in front of his shoulders rather than atop them. A cloak splashed over his hunchback before splitting at the back of his neck. He was a misshapen man, to put it mildly.

  “An unnecessary skill to have when my defenses can stop anything,” Gala whispered, careful to stay quiet in the Void’s thin atmosphere. “You don’t exactly blend in with a crowd either, Pinako.”

  He grinned. “Be careful, Gala. In this kingdom, I not only blend in, I thrive ... for it’s my home. This isn’t Ipsas.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” She glanced at the woman to the right, taller than most, her maple brown hair coated in frost. “The Void already suffers from a subtle chill; you don’t do it any favors, Moroza.”

  The woman formed an O with her lips, then exhaled a cloud of frost into the air. A cluster of symbols quickly dashed in front of Gala, spinning in circles and destroying the frost before making contact with her.

  “Good to see you again, Gala,” Moroza said.

  “As nostalgic as this is—the wardens of Ipsas together again—I must make this visit short.” Gala’s eyes shifted to the right as a ghastly scream erupted from the field. She could never tell what was real or not in this kingdom. “A meeting needs to be orchestrated between each of our royal heads.”

  Still Warden Moroza and Cyn Warden Pinako went silent—not even a knee-jerk reaction to what she had proposed. At first she thought they were trying to comprehend the idea, but over time she realized they were waiting for an explanation. Surely, this must have sounded like an insane proposal.

  Finally, Moroza said, “So you want the Dev King, Cyn King, and Still Queen to hold a meeting?”

  “Yes, and Power Queen Gantski, but she already knows of this plan—as does Dev Prince Storshae.”

  “That’s all well and good,” Pinako said. “But that means nothing coming from them. They’re used to coexisting with foreign powers. The Still Kingdom has spent centuries behind a wall at the center of a barren, ice-capped sea. And my kingdom’s capital sits as far away as possible from the closest teleplatform. Neither royal head will entertain breaking their most celebrated qualities—their seclusion and independence.”

  “In other words, isolation,” Gala said.

  “Isolation is such a strong word,” Pinako muttered, his voice grating on Gala’s ears.

  “Their best method of pitching this idea would be in person,” Gala replied. “Stronger bonds between allies can be conveyed when face-to-face; not through the distant means of recordings or broadcasts. And with how pressing times have become, we don’t want to risk any Devish who are part of True Light to hack our broadcasts like Bewahr Fonos did years ago when Archaic King Itta was ousted as a traitor to the Light Realm.”

  “Nobody can do that,” Moroza said. “Fonos was a Bewahr. That’s the only reason why he was capable of such weaving abilities.”

  Gala bit her bottom lip, frustration swelling within her as she fought the urge to walk away. After over a year and a half with Dev Prince Storshae, Toono, Toth Brench, and others, she had forgotten the severity of the Dark Realm’s segmentation—especially when it came to Ipsas. The Diatia and wardens had never been on good terms, for their native kingdoms were too different. Nobody worked toward a common goal.

  “Listen,” Gala said after a calming breath. “Reaching Kindoliya and Batilearsh is already difficult itself, but accessing them is near impossible for a foreigner. That’s why I need each of you to confront your royal heads about this.”

  “You have Garlo on your side,” Moroza stated. “He is Stillian and was once the general. Why not send him?”

  “Because he’s a man, and you know as well as anyone how little Stillian elites care for males, especially someone who has been banished from reentering the capital. You are our only realistic option.”

  The three wardens fell silent, as the distant howls of the Linsani carried through the sky. “As for you, Pinako, you should understand why it must be you who goes to Batilearsh. Nobody else can survive passing through the mounds.” Gala adjusted the collar of her cloak so that it was snug to her neck. “Your disdain for any kingdom that isn’t your own is noted. However, I know we all despise the Light Realm kingdoms such as Intel, Passion, Spirit, and Adren more than any other.”

  Pinako spat at the ground. “We don’t even speak such names into existence around here.”

  “Alas, they do exist.” Gala paused, then whispered, “But they don’t have to for much longer.”

  * * *

  Bryson and Olivia sat on a table inside Dunami Palace’s most important room: the war corridor. They watched Intel King Vitio and General Lars through the gigantic wired module of Kuki Sphaira that hung at the room’s center. A meeting was being held for the higher ranked officers, as they were informed of new defensive positioning near the teleplatforms and which units were set for deployment to allied kingdoms.

  With the congregation carrying out like any other, boredom had set in for Bryson. No initiative, no aggression. A lack of leads was to blame for this. Without them, there was no motive. They had already acted on one given to them by Ophala months ago, but since that success, nothing worthwhile
had surfaced—at least not to Bryson’s knowledge. Vitio constantly received letters from Ophala, but he never revealed the information contained within.

  It felt like a waiting game while Flen and Joy worked on constructing teleplatforms to match those built in Phelos. Bryson could only daydream about what kind of meaningful adventures Himitsu, Fane, and Horos were on in the Archaic Kingdom.

  For the past hour, he had wrestled with the decision to walk out of the meeting. They were becoming increasingly pointless by the day. Even Toshik had stopped making appearances, electing instead to train with his mysterious new mentor. He refused to talk much of it, but it was impossible to ignore when Toshik would return from sparring sessions freshly wounded every day.

  But if Bryson was to leave these meetings, he’d be a hypocrite. He had harassed Vitio for more than a year about getting involved, and now that he was, he wanted out. Perhaps he simply wanted to do his own thing.

  “My daughter, Lilu—” the name ripped Bryson from his thoughts— “sent me a message through Radon weeks ago,” Vitio said. “In it was an ingenious suggestion. With our fear that there might already be enemies in our kingdoms, tucked away in obscure locations where our reach isn’t as strong—Lingens Rainforest, the Volcanic Quadrant, Goro Mountains, and others—we must find a way to protect ourselves from false citizens.

  “She proposed an identification system. Every day, beginning at dawn, soldiers throughout the kingdom will go door to door between homes in every city, town, or village. They will ask for proof that a citizen is Intelian. If they are, they will receive sealed documentation with their name, identification number, birthdate, gender, height, weight, and a few other important details. They must carry these with them at all times. Anyone who isn’t Intelian must also carry an identification card, but with their energy made clear on it. Depending on the type of energy, we will see how they are handled.”

  “And what about people who refuse to show their ability, milord?” a corporal asked.

  “They don’t receive identification, which doesn’t mean much,” the king explained. “Sure, it would raise suspicion, but it’s not like we can dispose of them or expel them from their homes. There wouldn’t be enough evidence to take such action.”

  “They could be an unable,” Bryson said. “We aren’t punishing citizens because they don’t know how to use their energy. You don’t simply assume someone is lying because of this.”

  Vitio smiled and nodded his head. “Bryson is correct. We do not operate like our enemies.”

  “Then what’s the point of the identification system, milord?” asked another officer.

  Vitio leaned back against a table and scratched his beard. “It still has a purpose. Certain areas of interest in the kingdom will be heavily manned by soldiers. The tier of significance determines who from the public can access it.

  “There will be four tiers,” he explained, approaching a chalkboard. As he began to write, he said, “A Tier Four location is your common, every-day place. There is no security outside of the norm. Anybody, including those without identification, can access it. Tier Three has slightly more security. A citizen must have identification of some sort to pass through. This can be Intelians, Adrenians, Spiritians, or Passionians.”

  By this point, Bryson had stood up and walked around the room’s center module. Now he was behind the officers, arms folded, listening to Vitio with a sick realization.

  “Tier Two areas can only be accessed by Intelians. And as for Tier One, anyone who is not employed by the royal family cannot enter unless given personal permission by myself.” He paused and scanned their faces. “And let me make this clear: this doesn’t mean my daughter. Princess Shelly doesn’t have authority to allow anyone into a Tier One location.”

  Bryson shook his head in disbelief. “You’re segregating people.”

  “Classifying them to help protect our kingdom,” Vitio said, a hint of shock in his voice.

  “Like how we keep the wealthy near a city’s heart and keep the poor at an arm’s length?”

  Vitio’s mouth nearly turned into a frown. “It’s nothing like that.”

  “This won’t unite your kingdom, Vitio. All it does is create more division—and stronger division at that.”

  “You’re too much of an idealist,” General Lars said, stepping forward and growing aggressive to defend his king. “You don’t fix everything through harmonious means—unless you want to be trampled.”

  “I’m a realist,” Bryson said, thinking of Rhyparia and Agnos. “I know what this kind of ‘classification’ does to people. I’m friends with those who have grown up poor and as orphans. I have even experienced it the past year. People see that my mother is a Dark Realm citizen, and they look at me in disgust as if they’re looking at a mutant. That’s my classification—just like yours is that of a coward!”

  Lars stomped forward, as if this was the time or place for a physical confrontation.

  “LARS!” the king bellowed, loud enough to cause the center module to rattle.

  The general stopped in his tracks, halfway through the throng of his inferiors. “You speak so confidently in a scenario such as this, but run at the sight of real danger,” Vitio ranted. “You made that clear when I sent you into the Archaic Kingdom the night of the uprising only for you to run back with your tail tucked between your legs while your soldiers were slaughtered!”

  The rage in Lars’s face morphed into embarrassment. The king held back no punches as he scolded the general in front of his officers.

  “I advise you to return to your post this instant because the young man has a point. You’ve displayed no bravery since becoming general. Bryson and the rest of the Jestivan continuously face disaster head-on, and not only that, but they seek it.” Vitio paused, his face flushed red. “And I’d be damned if I sat here and watched you foolishly confront him and die because of it. That’d be an embarrassment to not only yourself, but me for appointing you in the position I did. And believe me, he would kill you.”

  At that, Lars whirled toward the king. “Why am I still here if that’s what you think?”

  Many officers stiffened at their general’s bold rebuttal.

  “Because I think that about anyone if they were to pick a fight with a Jestivan—outside of Agnos,” Vitio said. “You’d lose to any of them, but that’s not an attack on you as much as it is my respects paid to them.”

  After a stunned pause, Lars stormed toward the door. “Lars, you think twice about what you’re doing right now,” Vitio warned. “You walk out of here and it will be considered desertion.”

  The general paused once again, his eyes glued to the door. The corridor fell silent while the man mulled over the two possibilities before him. Eventually, he returned to the front of the room.

  Vitio’s attention returned to Bryson. “As for your dispute, what’s done is done. My allies, elders, and I have discussed this in great detail, and we truly believe this is the most logical action to take. Ninety-nine percent of the lands will be accessible by all. Only specific buildings will be labeled as tiers one through three. I’m sorry, Bryson. There is no turning back on this.”

  And on that note, Bryson did what Lars could not. He stormed out of the corridor, repulsed by the very notion that civilians would be treated differently just because they couldn’t use their energy. All of a sudden, the title of “unable” seemed harsh and dated.

  17

  A Chilling Acquaintance

  Bryson spent the next week in Dunami’s streets, observing as royal workers went door to door, not only to the homes in the capital’s outskirts and suburbs, but to the taverns of the inner city. It didn’t matter if someone was a citizen of the Intel Kingdom, a visitor, or a tourist from another kingdom, every residential building was perused. It made Bryson sick to see the confusion clouding the faces of most—or worse, the heartbreak of those who couldn’t prove their energy and thus didn’t receive identification at all. It pleased Bryson to know that nobody lost
their homes because of this, but knowing that this would cause people to feel like social outcasts saddened him. This new socioenergenic classification system would fail.

  Today he was thankful that Olivia had tagged along with him. Bryson had grown tired of trying to ignore the stares of passersby. At least with his sister there, the scrutiny was shared. Unlike the first couple years as Jestivan, most of the attention the two of them now received was either that of pity or disgust. Many factors contributed to this, none of which were fair: the reveal that they were offspring of a Dark Realm royal firstborn; their connections with people deemed traitorous, such as Rhyparia, Ophala, Poicus, and Senex; their connection with an actual traitor in Yama; and their very public announcement that they’d be inheriting the last name of “Still.”

  Despite all of this, Bryson didn’t want the citizens to be treated unfairly by the royals. Perhaps it was silly of him to care for the public when they couldn’t care less about him. Had Lars been right? Was Bryson too much of an idealist?

  Seated on a stoop across the street from an inn, Bryson leaned back with a look of resentment. As he watched a group of ten soldiers enter the building, Bryson asked, “And what are we to be identified as?”

  Seated on the stoop’s stone rail, Olivia said, “That’s a fair question.”

  He shook his head. “Seriously, you can’t even prove your energy. The one time you did show signs of an ability, it was water! How are they to classify that? And we’re both half Stillian!”

  As he shouted the final word in frustration, a passing man curled his upper lip and picked up his pace. Bryson stood up and yelled down the sidewalk, “Deal with it!”

  “I don’t know how you and Shelly can coexist without exploding from bumping heads,” Olivia said. “Ill-tempered and stubborn.”

  Taking a seat again, he replied, “She isn’t that bad. Lilu was the ill-tempered one, which was why we were never on the same wavelength. Our lack of a temperament created a lack of cohesion.”