The WorldMight

by Cyril L. C. Bussiere

  “How we have changed my friend.”

  Long gone were the days when they would wreak amok around the castle, climbing all they could, scaring their mothers, blessed be their Breaths, in their ever more dangerous games, fighting imaginary wars alongside or against each other. From reckless children to fearless teens to young men sneaking past guards at night to run to taverns for ale and the company of lasses, they had done it all together. The king sometimes longed for those lost, carefree days. All they had now was duty and the burden of leadership.

  “For the good of the people of Alymphia,” the king reminded himself.

  Gart sat quietly in his stone chair, stroking his beard while studying the finely carved map of Alymphia in the center of the Table of Breath. The Syn-dya province was a rough circle in the middle of Alymphia, with the other provinces radiating around it toward the borders of the kingdom.

  The five provinces had been etched in the aftermath of the Last War, a hundred and fifty summers ago. Hedgard’s ancestor, Brhegard GrandJoy, the first king of the New Reign, had befriended five small lords who had joined his cause against the Angry King in the early days of the Rising of the People. He had gotten to know them as trustworthy men who fought for the good of their people, as he himself did. Over the course of the war they had become his top advisors, his trusteds. And once the Angry King was slain and the war ended, together they drew the major lines that were to define the people-centric vision of a new Alymphia. In the process they divided the kingdom in a number of rules: five provinces divided in shires, composed of counties, themselves assortments of cities, townships and farmsteads. Together, Brhegard GrandJoy and his trusteds devised a new system whereby the people of Alymphia could communicate with their rulers and their king. Each rule regularly held audiences where representatives of the throne heard from the people and addressed their grievances and needs. These meetings resulted in two official documents. The first one, the Arm, was a list of directives which addressed simpler issues and was sent to the smaller rules, small lords, and farmsteads’ heads, for implementation. The second, known as the Word of that rule, addressed broader issues that required either the concerted actions of multiple rules, or could only be administered by a higher rule. The Word of a rule was sent up to the rule directly above it, which either addressed it or, if need be, combined it with other Words and passed it on to the next rule. This lengthy process allowed for both fast action at the local level and concerted action at the level of the kingdom. This structure culminated in seasonal meetings between the king and his trusteds, where each trusted, who was sworn to dedicate his life to the welfare of the people of Alymphia, presented the king with his province’s Word. Ultimately, at the apex of the rules, the king’s word was law.

  That evening this responsibility weighed on King Hedgard more than it ever had. He shifted in his seat again. The gold crown on his brow felt heavy. He would have done without it, but His Highness Baccus always insisted he wore it.

  “Only one that appears as a king will be treated as one. You cannot be your people’s equal and hope to rule them,” the old man had told him many a time.

  “Baccus, how his arrival changed everything,” the king reflected. “His and the Sisterhood’s.”

  The king still remembered vividly that fateful night on the slopes of the Great Barrier. The Sisterhood, little more than a ragtag of females, had singlehandedly killed more Alymphians than any army or disease had since the days of the Angry King. The horrific powers and fierceness they displayed that night still haunted him to this day.

  King Hedgard looked at the man sitting to his right. Horm Earlong, the trusted of Horrum, looked at him intensely. He had been the most reluctant to consider the king’s proposal during the last season’s passing meeting. Horm was by far the most conservative of the trusteds, and as such he had never liked Baccus.

  “A foreigner,” he would say, “will always be a foreigner.”

  That Baccus’s philosophy had shaped most of Alymphia’s major reforms since the late King Rhegard’s days had always deeply irritated Horm. And was it not because of Baccus that they were here, now, considering what would have been unthinkable only a few years prior?

  “Yes, it is,” thought the king as he impassively returned his stare. “It is. But this is the right path for Alymphia.”

  The events he had witnessed twenty years ago had changed his views of the world forever, and there was no undoing that.

  “We are so small, friend, smaller than you’ll ever know.”

  His face a blank mask, King Hedgard lifted his gaze from Horm to the old man seated beside him. Holmar Freebren of the Barlong province was the oldest of the trusteds. He had served during both Hedgard’s father and grandfather’s reign. Despite his old age, he remained clever, flexible and inventive in his finding solutions to the challenges he faced as warden of the eastern province. So quick and sharp was his mind that those who interacted with him on a regular basis found it difficult to treat him with the reverence his age would have commended; not out of disrespect, but rather because he radiated such a youthfulness that doing so felt more of an insult than anything else. At that moment Holmar seemed asleep, head resting lightly on his chest, hands clasps on his lap; but the king knew better. The old man was merely reviewing arguments he had carefully honed over the past season; checking one last time his logic for flaws, and chasing down potential unforeseen consequences that might result from one course of action or another. King Hedgard smiled to himself.

  “I’ll be curious to hear what you have to say, old man.”

  Directly facing the king was the imposing Lan Preevot, lord of the Horlan province. The bulky man sat upright in his chair and stared intently at the carved map beyond his stack of Words. Statuesque in his immobility, the only movements the king perceived from Lan were his eyes, darting back and forth over the map, and his jaw muscles, which tightened and relaxed in cadence under his serviceman beard. The king knew Lan was uncomfortable with the subject they were about to address. The trusted of Horlan came from a long line of weapon masters and commanders and as such deeply believed in tradition. The king knew it was in his nature to fear change. But, just like King Hedgard himself, Lan was a leader of men. He had been trained alongside Nikos Borrum at the Armed Academy of Syndjya. And where Nikos had specialized in one-on-one fighting and weapon making, Lan had turned toward military strategy and engineering. And as Nikos became the weapon master of Syndjya, Lan had risen to the post of commander of the armies of Alymphia.

  Alymphia had not seen war since the Rising of the People. And that was due as much to the political shrewdness of its kings, in striking deals and treaties with adjacent territories that benefited both Alymphia and its neighboring states, as to its impressive armed forces; both in raw numbers of soldiers and in the war machines Alymphia’s engineers had designed over the years.

  Lan was sure to have many arguments against what the king asked them to consider during the previous season’s passing meeting. But King Hedgard knew that in the end he would hear reason, for the good of Alymphia and its people.

  King Hedgard turned his attention to the last of his trusteds; a small man to the left of Gart Hevens. The trusted of the southern province of Rodan, Aljon GrandJoy, was a far removed cousin of the king and Alymphia’s treasurer. Slouched forward in his chair, Aljon was busy flipping through the stacks of paper resting on the table in front of him and seemed oblivious to the tension in the room. A simple, unassuming man, over the past twenty summers Aljon had been instrumental in resolving many touchy domestic and foreign situations. His natural understanding of social and economic matters was nothing short of breathtaking. Aljon would carefully consider harvest crops, food storage, taxes, seasonal migrations and countless other factors and from intricate situations design feasible solutions that addressed multiple parties’ needs. More than once his insights had saved the day and prevented dangerous escalation of conflicts. Aljon was going to be essential to the implementation of th
e resolutions they were going to pass. After all, wouldn’t what they were going to start tonight eventually change the very fabric of Alymphia’s social and economic order?

  King Hedgard exhaled softly, pushed himself out of his chair and started the Fall Passing Meeting with the traditional prayer.

  “We are but one Breath. As the world inhales and folds onto itself, we, too, reach within to find the roots of our strength. May Hethens instill us with wisdom, and guide us tonight. Praise Hethens.”

  “Praise Hethens,” the trusteds echoed him.

  “Baccus should be here,” the king thought again as he sat back down.

  The five trusteds were now looking at him; their features shifting shadows in the wavering light of the torches.

  “Friends, trusteds of Alymphia,” the king said, “since the Last War and the Rising of the People, Alymphia’s kings and trusteds have tirelessly strived to better the life of every Alymphian. In the past hundred and fifty summers dramatic changes occurred in our land.

  “We remember how under the Angry King’s rule Alymphians survived in a state of near-slavery; living and working on lands they did not own, taxed beyond reason to fuel destructive war efforts, exsanguinated by corrupt local tyrants who foully abused women, children and men alike, and left our people with barely enough to survive.”

  “In the aftermath of the Rising of the People, Alymphians were given the land that was theirs by birthright, and so it was written in the Book of Law. The lands from the lords that abused them were redistributed and where there wasn’t enough land, the people shared. The rules as we still know them to this day were defined, and representatives of the throne were sworn in, under penalty of death, to oversee continued peaceful and fair prosperity of their rule.

  “The right of the people to be heard was recognized, and channels of communications between the crown and the people were established, resulting in the Words you are to present to me tonight. The decrees regulating the voice of the people too, were written in the Book of Law.

  “So that no man is abused by another, the Bonsens Decrees were written and for the past hundred summers they have directed what one can and cannot do in relation to another.

  “My great-great-grandfather, King Haregard, introduced minimums for the price of labor and designed the Fair Trade System that defined a sliding-scale for the value of goods and services.

  “Later, under my grandfather, King Highgard, decrees from the crown set specific upper limits to the wealth one man or organization could own; with the goal to prevent any one single entity amassing unjustified amount of fortune. For we all know that with limited resources what one man hoards for himself is denied to another. And that too was written in the Book of Law.

  “My father, King Rhegard, had schools built adjacent to temples in every major town to provide the children of Alymphia with an opportunity to rise above their station. His Accountable Decrees strengthened the laws to further prevent abuse of power and provide a just and fair law for all.

  “We have worked tirelessly to rid Alymphia of corruption and provide its people with a fair chance to happiness.”

  The king paused for a second. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on the Table of Breath. He clasped his hands and rested his chin on them.

  “Alymphia has prospered,” he continued.” And Alymphia will continue to prosper.”

  Around the Table of Breath the trusteds nodded their approbation.

  “This brings us to what I asked you to consider on our last meeting.”

  King Hedgard let that hang for a couple of beats. He stood up and walked to the opening in the wall directly behind his chair. The sun had set and three stories below the outer courtyards were now shrouded in darkness. The voices of guards and stable boys walking about reached him through the night. Beyond the castle’s walls Syndjya spread out toward the horizon. Roofs and plazas glowed softly with the light of bonfires and torches and a cool breeze lazily moved clouds across the moon-lit sky. The king turned around and faced his trusteds.

  “A simple matter of equality,” he said. “I want our daughters and mothers, our wives, and sisters; I want the women of Alymphia to have the same opportunities and rights that, as males, we are given at birth.”

  Chapter Five

  Syndjya, Capital City of Alymphia.

  Year Hundred and Fifty of the New Age

  Fall Passing Festival, Two days prior.

  Baccus had risen early that morning and was sitting in prayer in the pre-dawn darkness of the inner sanctum. Wrapped in a simple white sheet, he sat alone in front of a ten-foot high statue of Hethens. Carved out of a block of pure white marble, the statue represented the deity sitting leg crossed, its right hand resting palm down on its right knee while its left arm was extended forward. Its left hand was held in the Sign of the Giving, index and middle fingers touching the thumb, third and middle finger folded again the palm. Hethens face was carved into an impassive tableau. Its lips were a flat thin line and his eyes were semi-opened and seemed oblivious to the world. Every other one of its features was underplayed: almost inexistent eyebrows, thin nose, soft, almost delicate angles of its cheeks, jaw, and forehead. The statue was draped in a scarlet cape that hid most of its body and highlighted the ghost-like qualities of its face, its near-absence, drawn inward almost to the point of translucence as if its mind was dragging its physicality in tow as it wandered within.

  Baccus had been sitting on the cold stone floor for more than an hour already. He had long since become accustomed to the chilliness that swamped his extremities and the hollow pain that crept in his legs after long periods of immobility. Head hanging lightly on his chest, hands resting on his lap, he sat quietly, reciting an ancient prayer over and over again.

  “Breath to light, undo me to Me,” he rumbled, eyes closed.

  The air was still and the few lit candles around the statue of Hethens were eerily unmoving and stretched rigid shadows from the columns in the archway around the central dais.

  “Breath to light…” he inhaled.

  A small steel basin filled with water rested on the floor between Baccus and the statue. Its surface was as still as the flames of the candles and glowed blue-gray in the dimness of the sanctum.

  “…undo me to Me,” he exhaled

  Baccus’s face was as blank as that of the statue he faced. His features were as motionless as those of a sleeping man. Only the faint sound of his prayer and the movement of his lips betrayed his waking state.

  “Breath to light…” he repeated, faster now.

  His inner eye suddenly shifted in the dark emptiness of his mind. It somehow angled up around the rigid wall of his eyelids and carried him beyond them, toward another space. Baccus’s prayer became a short whisper, no more than a barely audible breath quickly sucked in and out of his throat.

  “…undo me to Me,” he breathed

  His lips moved faster and faster, becoming a tremble as his mind rushed forward.

  “Breath to light, undo me to Me.”

  No more than a wish now, a soundless prayer. Soon it would be beyond thought as well. Feeling that he was getting close to the point of abandonment, Baccus lifted his left hand in the Sign of the Giving and slowly traced the shapes of Harlu-Him in front of him. As he did, the water in the basin shivered. A rippling mirrored the movement of his hand. Baccus’s mind suddenly reached beyond its own darkness, past thoughts and the place where thoughts form, past the line formed by the feeling of recognizance of the coming of thought. It abruptly filled with light, became light and expanded throughout his body. His mind and body one and the same now, the movement slowed down as he expanded beyond himself. The rush became a quietness of sorts. He opened his eyes to the world within the world. Familiar light-green flames floated in front of him. The surface of the water in the steel basin burnt with a green glow and the stone floor around him similarly wavered with an emerald radiance. Baccus slowly dropped his left hand back to his lap. He exhaled slowly, basking in the peace
fulness of the true world, the world of his youth, the world of his people. He sensed the many layers moving behind the sea of green flames. They were so close and yet impossibly far away. He did not dare apply himself to them as he once so easily did. Over the years, the length of time he could maintain himself in that open state had dramatically shrunk and he knew that reaching for them would most likely end him.

  A few seconds later, he felt an almost imperceptible tug at his center. He held steady, maintaining his mind’s eye on the flames in front of him. In his youth, while among his people, he could have manipulated to a great extent the other-worldly flames, changed them to his will and changed the world underneath with them. But that time was long gone. He was alone now and by himself could barely support the effort it took to be in their presence.

  The pull became stronger with every passing second, a void that slowly built inside of him. Baccus forced himself to focus on the steel basin before him. He reached out with every fiber in his being, willing himself into the water. He grasped at the green flames on its surface and yanked at them, lifting them toward the dark ceiling above. He sat resolutely immobile while inside him an increasingly dizzying vacuum built up. He held strong, forcing his concentration onto the Other World. The green flames started rising in clumps, one after the other, forming a beaded line as they moved up. And as they did, so did the water underneath, floating slowly upwards, fist-sized spheres strangely reflecting the candle’s flames on their ascent.

  The pull turned into a dark whirlwind, eating at his core, menacing to undo him. The water spheres rose steadily for a breath, then two, but on the third Baccus could not contain the growing pull mounting inside of him. He suddenly let go of his hold on the flames spreading before him. The Other World disappeared abruptly. The flames writhed out of existence all around the inner sanctum. The globes of water seemed to hang in the air for a beat and then came crashing down into the basin. They splashed water in a wide circle, soaking Baccus and snuffing out some of the candles around the statue of Hethens in short, smoky hisses. Baccus sighted heavily.