The Rise of OLMAC

by Kevin Gordon

child like you, but one who is coming to an acceptance of her self and of her role to play in the destiny of her people. Look to Valcha, old and seemingly past her prime, but still vital of mind, defying even your strength. And look to Arciss, one who doubted himself, who lived only in shadow, fearful of your every glance and word, who now has sounded a clarion call to his people, who has bidden them rise from their slumber to invest in themselves, and live! They have much to offer you, if you would only accept.^

  Polintin had finished his statements to those gathered, and waited for Graid to rise, to lead the final procession in front of Martel’s casket. Full body interments occurred about once a century—simply because of the space required. The more privileged were sent into the void on a trajectory into the sun, while most remains were simply eliminated. Graid stood slowly, his head held high, almost an expression of dominion over those beneath him. Still deep in thought, he descended from the throne and stood over Martel’s casket. He put both hands on the casket, resting his weight on them, bending over to gaze into Martel’s kind face. He had known that face since he was a child—the kind eyes now closed forever, that mind always faithful to the Kal-Durrell and most of all to him, as the Kal-Alçon. So often he tried to shake Martel’s faith, sometimes in cruel ways. But always he persisted in his beliefs, his truths. And never did he speak against his Kal-Alçon—not in spoken thought or deep in his mind. Here was a man who loved his wife in a way few these roas do. He cherished her above all others—even above his own Kal-Alçon. He knew how deeply Martel’s feelings ran for her, and never did he question them or mock them, for he knew, deep within himself, he wished he had those feelings for another.

  Who was that? flashed through Graid’s mind for a moment. He looked up, and Polintin still stood with the other Alçons, devoid of whatever inhabited him before, devoid of the only consciousness to openly question his worth, doubt his power. Graid turned back to Martel’s lifeless body, and opened the lid of the casket, as was part of the ceremony. He gently stroked his hair, and in an audible, spoken voice, said—

  “I will miss you my friend. I loved you.”

  Those that heard Graid’s voice echoed his sentiment, as they wished they could share with others the wealth of good Martel had done during his life. For Graid, it was the highest form of respect he could give. He glanced again up at Polintin, and descended to the floor of the derasar. The sea of Rell faces lowered as he walked by, their eyes closed, their thoughts on one word—Kal-Alçon. For the first time he wanted nothing to do with them, was eager to be out of their physical and mental sight. As he opened the doors onto a world he did not know, millions of faces and minds were focused on him. He could feel their needs; hope for the future, understanding of the Novan threat, affirmations of their faith in the Kal-Durrell and him. He knew they wanted to nest words from him, even strain to hear spoken words. But Graid rushed to a waiting shuttle, almost breaking into tears at the sadness he left in his wake.

  As he rose into the air, Arciss exited the derasar. Great cheers went up, men and women crying, holding a few children high so they could get a glimpse of Arciss. He stood with them; not on a platform, not raised above them, but on the same level as those who adored him. As the shuttle pulled away, Graid saw Arciss raise a hand, silencing the tens of thousands before him. He cast slowly, and strongly.

  ^Friends, I am overjoyed to find such rebirth among the Rell people. I know Martel, one of our greatest warriors and the first Steward, would be proud. I will not diminish his memory by casting overlong but I will cast this: I never have, and never will, set myself above you. I was merely a catalyst for this change, and I hope you all go forward, with the faith of the Kal-Durrell and the Kal-Alçon in your hearts, and awaken hope and faith throughout this troubled world. Farewell!^

  Graid rushed back to Piros, troubled by his experience in the derasar. The memory of Martel hung in his mind, looming almost as a mythic figure. For so long he thought the memory of his friend had been buried, only to find it had only gained in strength and resolution. He wandered along the grounds of the capital, lingering over the immense ancient trees that lined the common paths. Shadows consumed his small figure, the moonlight spilling down silver light upon his tortured face. The grounds were misty, and he felt as if he was in a dream, one from which he could never wake. His mind reeled in a fog, making him unable to focus on one thought, or purge his mind of so much confusion.

  He stood at the top of a valley, in the middle of a path that led down to his residence. It lay in a thicket of large bushes, out of which shot thin branches filled with cotton-like flowers. Trees arced overhead, and the night was being ushered in by the call of small birds emerging from their underground sanctuary. Many times had Martel visited him here as he was growing up, and every time Martel made a point of lounging in the grass as the roa turned to night. As Graid walked the path down to his home, he saw the many favorite spots of Martel.

  It seemed like every patch of grass that was secluded, that had the low branches of a tree hanging overhead, was a good spot for him.

  Graid turned onto the main road, and saw his home up ahead, just past five massive arches. He remembered asking Martel about them, when he was young.

  "Why these arches? What’s the point?"

  "Well Graid, we believe that there are two parts of oneself. The part that interacts with the world, that negotiates deals, fights battles, does work, runs and plays. Then there is the other part, that protects one’s family, builds a foundation, raises children, and nurtures a relationship with a woman or man. Home is sacred to us—the word carries with it a uniquely Rell meaning. These arches help the outside self transform into the inside self. These arches are gateways to what is really important. Every home on Rell, whether it be modest or extravagant, has some form of these arches."

  "Why so many, and so large, for my home?"

  "Because you, above all else, have the greatest duties for your outside self. You carry with you great responsibility. As such, when you return home, you must undergo the most radical transformation. Do you notice how the arches get smaller, the closer you come to the entrance?"

  "Yes".

  "Well it is to focus your self, a reminder that though you may be the Kal-Alçon, second only to the Kal-Durrell, when you enter this home, you are a man. These arches absolve you of your fate, your destiny, when you pass through them. Think on them carefully, Graid, and always remember to pass through them on your way home."

  Graid stood before the first of the arches, wide and tall, made of rough stone, its base surrounded in tall grass. He went around it, and the other arches, skirting the main path.

  You were wrong, Martel. There is no avoiding my destiny, my fate. He came to his door, and felt the strength leave him. He sat on the low steps in front, and slouched back, closing his eyes. He could feel Uonil, Arciss and Valcha approaching. Is there no solitude for me, on either world? Uonil came and stood beside him, as Arciss and Valcha looked on.

  “Graid, your mind seems troubled.”

  “Leave me, Uonil. Though I enjoy our pleasant banter, now is not the time.”

  It had been a while since she had visited this place. She remembered Graid always disliked it, always said it was like a home for an old man who was no longer relevant. She sat down next to him on moss-covered steps, cold and slick as the night approached.

  “Now is precisely the time, Graid! When will you trust us? When will you put faith in someone other than yourself?”

  “Not now, Uonil!” cried Graid, feeling the emotion collapsing his very psyche. “Not now!” Who am I? What am I? Why do I feel this way? Anger coursed through his mind.

  “You cannot push me aside anymore,” lectured Uonil, feeling she was winning the battle, “not with threats of death, or temptation of sex. I am the Mentra of this world, and you will answer me!”

  Graid turned, as a cornered beast, a desperation in his eyes and fatigue in his motions. He appeared as one who before would hesitate at striking a d
eath blow, who now, cornered, was ready to use that option. Valcha laid a hand on Uonil’s arm.

  “Come Mentra,” she said softly. “This is not for you.”

  Something about her words calmed Uonil, and she nodded to her oldest advisor. She stood, and cast one last look at Graid, who seemed more vulnerable yet more dangerous than ever. They both walked away, walking under the great arches, leaving Arciss with Graid. He sat down next to him, a kindness in his eyes like an old soul who knows of the cruelty of the world.

  “What happened to you in there?”

  Graid straightened, feeling his strength, and his viciousness, return to him.

  “Nothing, my friend, nothing. I think a better question would be what happened between you and Uonil in Averil?” Graid crossed his arms and leaned back against the door, a smug smile sitting on his lips. “You two are very close now.”

  “Why do you speak to me like this?”

  “What do you mean, Arciss?” said Graid with bitterness in his voice. “You see fit to question me about my innermost thoughts, why not expose yours for us to see? You were alone with Uonil, in that cave in Averil. She was very vulnerable. And you felt the thrill of conquest with Solti. Playing with women now? What would your old Cray say? But