The WorldMight

by Cyril L. C. Bussiere

  “Two Abbots? Maybe one of them is the Father of fathers,” the prince thought.

  The carekeeper was walking along the tables and serving generous steamy portions of soup to the monks. The table to their right had a few empty seats and they sat at its end, as far away from the monks as possible. The whole place was eerily quiet given the number of people present. Not that the silence itself bothered the prince, but it had a quality that ground at the prince’s perception. At first only the carekeeper’s steps resounded in the largely empty space. But soon it was accompanied by loud slurps and the hollow sounds of spoons on plates. The carekeeper reached them and poured soup in the wooden bowl in front of them.

  “Carekeeper, who are the monks on the platform? Is one of them the Father of fathers?” the prince asked.

  “Shush! Now is time for eating,” the carekeeper snapped at him.

  Then he moved on to serving monks down the table.

  Throughout the short meal no one spoke. The monks were fully absorbed in their eating. It was as if there was nothing else to the world for them. Spoon in one hand and grey stone in the other, none of them looked in another’s direction. Once done with his duties, Silvius left the room, not to return. Later, the two monks in the black robes rose. For a moment they just stood there, facing the assembled monks, their faces hidden in the shadows of their black hood, and the prince had the unsettling sensation that they were studying him. Then they suddenly walked off, each heading for the wall on his side of the table and disappearing through an opening. Shortly after, the slurping and the broken song of cutlery died off and another three knocks resonated in the great room. The monks rose as one again, and they shuffled away through various doors along the walls of the dining room. Once more the prince and the boy were left on their own. They waited for a while and then they stood up as well and headed back toward the kitchen. The prince thought that Silvius would be there, but he was not. Unsure of what to do next, they waited in the serving room, the prince pacing around the stools while the boy sat on one of them quietly, his fingers hard at work on the edges of his stone. The monastery was eerily silent and only the distant, muffled cries of the wind could be heard and made it seem like they were in an abandoned ruin. After pacing about the wooden stools for a while, the prince started getting restless. He needed to talk to the Father of fathers. The carekeeper had implied that he was here. He would know the word, the prince had been assured. He had been looking for him for so long and now he had to wait, without being given a reason why.

  “What would keep him?” the prince wondered. “I only need but a minute of his time. Surely any of those monks would know but they don’t seem to talk.”

  “Who else doesn’t talk much and knows more than he says?” a voice whispered to him.

  The prince eyed the boy. He sat on one of the wooden stool, his feet several inches from the ground, his face ever a blank canvas under its childish features. He had yet to remove his head cloth and his garments were so dirty that they had turned from blue to brownish green. His fingers were on his stone pursuing a seemingly endless pilgrimage of their own. Again the voice came. No more than a soft whisper. Barely audible behind the wall of his thoughts, it offered connections the prince had not made yet:

  “The stone, like the monks’, dark like a shard from the divider in the dining room.”

  “Yes,” the prince thought. “It is just like it.”

  He stepped toward the boy.

  “Hey,” he said, harsher than he meant to, “have you been here before?”

  The child looked up from the black rock and, as was his habit, stared silently at the prince.

  “That rock of yours, it’s very much like that divider in the dining room, isn’t it?” he continued. “Very much like the stones the monks were handling earlier on.”

  The boy did not say a thing and just looked down at the rock between his fingers. The prince knelt in front of him and put a hand on one his narrow shoulders.

  “Was one of the two monks in black the Father of fathers?” the prince asked. “Please, I need to know.”

  The boy stayed silent and slowly looked at the rugged dirty hand that rested lightly by his face. The prince was so focused on him that he failed to notice the faint warmth that radiated from the stone at his neck as soon as he touched him. The boy looked back at him, his blue eyes shining empty in the oddly still light of the candelabras.

  “Please,” the prince asked.

  His voice wavered slightly and his hand tightened on the boy’s shoulder. The stone emitted a soft wave that spread through the prince’s chest. It was so light and evanescent that the prince did not notice it. It coursed along his arm, into his hand and then vanished. Suddenly the face of his love materialized between him and the boy. It was ethereal and opaque, the soft lines of her face barely more than green vapor, but it was her without a doubt. A jolt of emotions coursed through the prince and his head spun under the overwhelming onslaught. But as suddenly as it had appeared, her face shimmered and disappeared and the prince was left staring wide-eyed at the boy. He barely had time to register the boy’s blue eyes before they flashed a somber green, jet-black with tinges of emerald. There was intelligence in that tenebrous green light, understanding and sympathy in its shadowy accents but also something deranged peaking at the prince from behind those void-colored irises. And then the boy’s eyes wavered again and the emotions that had barely surfaced were gone, replaced by the ever still, ever flat blue mirror of his gaze. Before the prince had a chance to fully comprehend what had happened, in a jerky movement that shook his hand off the boy’s shoulder, the child pointed his ebony stone toward the dining room and his face rippled madly as if tiny insects crawled under his pale skin. His mouth opened terrifyingly wide and a voice, too loud for his small frame, erupted violently from it, a voice full of hunger and want and with more than its fair share of madness crackling at its edges. It pierced the prince through and through and bounced violently on the stone walls of the room. Its vibrations folded onto their own repetitions and built upon themselves as they poured without restraint from the boy like water from a broken dam. Was he calling for someone? Was he supplicating? Was he denouncing someone? The prince could not tell as he reeled backward. All he was sure of was that the boy pointed the way as he kept repeating a single word:

  “FATHER.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Syndjya, Capital City of Alymphia.

  Year Hundred and Fifty of the New Age

  Fall Passing Festival, Two days prior.

  Fall Passing Festival was in two days’ time and despite the already advanced hour the streets of Syndjya were effervescent with activities and colorful sights. Higher CaupHaut, the neighborhood directly north of the castle and Syndjya’s artisan quarter, was draped in a multitude of colorful banners. Light brown, dark green and deep yellow ribbons hung from balconies, windowsills, and door frames. Large drapes harboring the Sword-over-Shield of the GrandJoy house were spread between buildings and the vibrant blazons of Alymphia’s provinces drooped from street corners in the lazy autumn breeze. Stalls had been set up along the streets and were swarmed by passersby in search of unusual foods and beverages, or trinkets from the four corners of Alymphia. Torches, sprinkled with home-made concoctions, burnt colorful between each stand and their earthy smells blended with that of honey-cakes, grilled goat, Holan’s spicy ale and a host of more exotic aromas to yield what was to most Alymphians a staple of season’s passing festivals.

  Aria was making her way through the busy streets of CaupHaut and was heading west toward Holfhong, the merchant quarter. From there she would reach the Street of Prayers which led directly to Hay-Tny Square where Cassien was hopefully waiting for her. As she weaved her way through the crowds, warm in her coat despite the rising coolness of night, Aria spied the Barlong sea and land blazon hanging from makeshift fabric roofs and the gray peak and eagle of the Rodanian blazon flapping from tall poles at street corners. Down a narrow street where rough wood
carvings were displayed on low tables, Aria came across soldiers from Horrum who strolled merrily draped in a large sheet on which the province’s mountain, sky and sword blazon was sewn. The group of men swung pitchers of ale around as they blared loudly a marching song she had never heard before.

  “We’ll twice be glad, we will,” they sang more or less in unison.

  For thrice the lass be good

  And once for Glory and twice for shame

  And once for the honor of giving her honor

  And praise the land the seed’s to grow

  For low or haut will flow the hero.”

  The song made little sense to her, but she enjoyed the spirit with which the group performed, arm in arm and swaying in rhythm. She flattened herself against a stall to avoid getting splashed by ale and they passed without paying attention to her. All smiles, eyes bright, and red in the face they went on singing down the street. Three blocks later, when Aria turned on the Street of Jewelers and entered Holfhong, she could still hear them clearly. Although she walked briskly in the festive streets, she very much enjoyed the merry atmosphere. The buildings of the merchant quarter were her favorites in all of Syndjya and their transformation for the season’s passing festivals always delighted her. The merchant quarter was without a doubt the richest neighborhood of Syndjya. There, the buildings were made of finely polished stones and, more often than not, the facades were finely carved with depictions of the trade of the establishment housed within. For the festivals, the shops were ornamented with flowers and spilled into the streets where they displayed their best merchandise for all to see. Aria usually enjoyed browsing the stalls leisurely but right now was not the time; Cassien was waiting for her. She quickened her pace as she passed a couple of city guards and added to herself:

  “I hope he is.”

  Sometimes the weapon barn got an unexpected large order and Cassien was forced to stay at the forge late into the night. Although sometimes she was the one who, for one reason or another, could not make it. On those occasions she would end up lying in bed, filled with anguish and longing; the thought of him waiting for her, sad and upset, making the rounds in her head.

  She eventually found herself walking down the busy Street of Prayers. It was one of the widest and cleanest streets of Syndjya. And while most streets in Alymphia where made of packed dirt or pebble-encrusted earth, there, smooth bricks of white, pink and gray stones covered the ground. Miniature temples dedicated to specific teachings of Hethens lined the street. Years ago Queen Silifia had fallen gravely sick and Aria, despairing that the doctors could not help her, had visited one such temple, the Temple of Heath, with Master Baccus. She sat with him facing the Wall of Truth where the Words of Health were engraved and she fervently recited the holy words:

  Hethens stood atop the world

  And cast his sights onto all Life.

  He saw the spread lost to the breath

  By Cythra’s twistings and treacheries.

  He breathed three times for shadows be moved.

  He breathed three times for light fill all.

  He breathed three times for the Doings to shift.

  His blessed silence spread down to all

  And all was well and light and bright.

  After each repetition, anguish tight in her throat, she had added:

  “Praise Hethens’s Breath onto Mother.”

  A week later her mother got better and since then she did not have any reason, praise be to Hethens, to return to the Temple of Health.

  She passed the small temples without paying attention to them. But, as she hastily made her way through the crowded street, she could not help but notice that the prayer stations, bigger-than-life statues of Hethens, high on large marble pedestals, were covered with heaps of flowers and fine fabrics that made them look like colorful scarecrows.

  She emerged onto the densely-packed Hay-Tny Square and fought her way to the well at the center of the plaza where Cassien usually waited for her. At the well, an old couple was sitting silently watching the crowd flow by and a pair of drunkards was laughing loudly while they pretend-shoved each other down the well shaft, but Cassien was nowhere to be seen. A cold contraction of disappointment materialized in Aria’s stomach and was soon followed by an uncomfortably warm wave of anxiety. She raised herself on the ball of her feet and warily looked around. Three groups were performing at different corners of the busy plaza and each had a sizable audience around it. She decided that it was likely that Cassien would be watching one of them. After all, he might have been waiting for quite some time. She gingerly scaled the well wall. A group of Horruman dancers was performing a traditional dance in front of Jonan’s bakery. By the old glass shop, a man sitting on a makeshift stage was playing a strange string instrument, similar to Hob’s cittern but with a much larger body and a long, needle-thin neck. And in the north-eastern corner of the plaza, three people were gesticulating about a circle of spectators to the rhythm of foreign tribal drums.

  “The musician. If Cassien is here, that’s where he’ll be,” Aria thought.

  She jumped down from her promontory and made a bee-line to the audience surrounding the musician. Cassien stood at the periphery of the group, hands together behind his back holding his brown woolen shirt. He wore his usual garb of rough-spun linen shirt and horse-leather pants. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw him. A wide grin stretched over her face as she carefully snuck up on him. Once she was right behind him, she could smell the familiar mix of wood fire and incense she had come to associate with him. The melody from the musician was hitting unfamiliar tones, holding single notes in long vibratos before falling into fast, flowing sentences. For an instant she felt as giddy as only a child can be. Pure joy drummed like a waterfall in her chest and seemed to expand beyond her own self and into her surroundings. She briefly thought of scaring him but then she could not hold back any longer. She let out a laugh and hugged him fiercely, squeezing him as hard as she could. Cassien jumped in surprise and let out a scream which instantly turned into laughter. His arms shot up to hold on to her hands.

  “Hi there,” he said, “thought you’d never make it!”

  Aria buried her face in the back of his neck and squeezed him a bit harder.

  “Sorry, the celebrations at the castle went on and on.”

  “No worries. There’s some interesting stuff happening down here too.”

  He paused for a beat.

  “Actually, I just barely noticed you weren’t here yet.”

  “Ca-ssien!” Aria exclaimed, feigning outrage.

  She released him and playfully tapped him on the head. He turned around to face her, a smile almost too big for his slender face stretching his features.

  “So, ready for a sweet roll? I’m kinda starving,” he asked.

  “I had my fill at the castle but I’m always happy to see Jonan.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Cassien grabbed her hand and led her through the crowd to the other side of the plaza. They maneuvered around the large circle of spectators enjoying Horrum’s traditional dances and walked into Jonan’s bakery. Inside, the air was warm and heavy with sweet and oily smells. Aria could tell Cassien was hungry; he stared eagerly at the cakes, breads and other baked goods on display. The intense expression on his face also told her that he was having a hard time deciding what to get. As they waited in line and Cassien surveyed the shelves around them, Aria became exceedingly aware that he had not let go of her hand. Not that he normally would have. Ever since they had become friends more than twelve years ago, it had been their habit to hold hands wherever they went, be it at the temple, the park or simply walking by the river. It was not something either of them ever questioned, they just did. But tonight something was different. In the warmth of the bakery, surrounded by familiar and comforting smells, hidden in part by her large hooded coat, Aria closed her eyes and her world shifted. The smallest contractions and relaxations of Cassien’s hand became as omnipresent as the sunlight in a c
loudless sky. The shifting of his fingers between hers, soft skin sliding against soft skin, the rugged feel of his calluses against the palm of her hand, the coolness and dampness of his fingertips against her knuckles, the tenderness with which he held her and the undeniable strength under that tenderness, all of it seemed to crystallize in an instant of profound awareness. For a moment their joined hands became the center of her world and everything around them seemed to simply flow from a point in space originating between their palms. Cassien calling her brought her back to a broader reality. She opened her eyes to see him in front of her with a knowing smile lighting his face.

  “You still here?” he asked her.

  “Oh, yes. What was it? Did you choose what you want?” she asked, trying her best to suppress the blush that she felt rising over her face.

  He gave her hand a squeeze and his smile widened.

  “Yes, but not what I asked.”

  “Oh. Good.” she fumbled. “What did you choose?”

  “I was asking if you’d like to go see the preparations at the Great Temple. I spent the afternoon with Brother Arhlyl and the guys decorating it. I think you’ll like it. And afterward there’s supposed to be a really good quartet from Horrum at the Doings Plaza. I saw them setting up on my way here. We could go see what that’s about.”

  “I’d like that,” Aria said.

  The line moved on and they found themselves across the counter from Jonan. Jonan, his round, bald head cleanly shaven and ornamented by a pair of dirty, round glasses, greeted them.

  “Hi there Cassien, Ary,” he said. “You enjoying the festivities? Things started early this time around.”

  He wore white pants and sleeveless white shirt, and per tradition was covered in flour from head to toe.