by J C Maynard
In the distance, Kyan could hear a cacophony of squealing southern instruments, rattling jewelry, and shouting. His alley opened up into a large square in the rundown slums of Aunestauna in which a throng of gypsies waved their hands and scarves as they danced. A group of similar-looking gypsyfolk cursed at them as they moved in their elaborate gowns of beads, gems, and colors. The gypsies were all immigrants from the deserts of the Southlands and various groups hated each other for reasons unknown.
Amidst the yelling between them, a southern man took hold of another gypsy girl’s black and red head scarf, ripped it off as she screamed, and threw it over a torch he held in his bracelet-covered hand. Four gypsy girls grabbed the man and kicked out his knees. Pinning his arms behind his back, they dug their long nails into his neck gashing it open so that blood stained the cobblestone street. As he collapsed from the pain, his torch rolled behind him into a tailor shop; the curtains caught on fire and the floor began to burn. The noise in the square doubled as every man and woman started cursing and fighting each other. After pouring oil in the other shops, men lit it and the surrounding shops on fire.
Five gypsy women took hold one of the younger men who started the gigantic fire and threw him in the flames. Screaming, thrashing, and burning, the man barely fought his way out, rolling around on the ground to try and extinguish his flaming clothes. The hypnotizing string and percussion instruments still rang their tune throughout the square, the tempo quickening with every crash and yell. A shirtless, tattooed man sat right beside fires and blew into a curved shaft that emitted an eerie harmonic tune of the desert. An old woman adorned with beads and carved tokens screamed out in chant as she was kicked on the ground; and others drunkenly laughed and danced to the strange music of disarray.
Kyan watched the unnerving scene closely. He smiled at the beauty of dysfunction. A gigantic column of black smoke began to stretch for the sky, filling the air with a haze that blocked out the hot sun. The enormous third district clock tower struck eight, ringing out in loud bashes of bells that clashed with the coughs of citizens and the clatter of the city Guard's horses.
Six gleaming gold bracelets fell off of a man while he was brawling with another. Kyan quickly swooped down and grabbed them before walking away from the incoming Guard. Looking back at the pillar of darkness reaching for the sun, another flash of déjà vu overtook him, and he almost thought he had seen that same cloud of smoke before.
The slums had given him nothing but poverty and hunger and disdain for humanity. The dark-haired thief trudged against the flow of yellow teeth and drunken eyes that hoped to catch a glimpse of the fire and chaos.
◆◆◆
~Morning, August 22nd
Calleneck Bernoil awoke after hearing his name hollered up to his room, followed by a “Come downstairs now!” It was the irritated but protective voice of Aunika, his older sister. Calleneck rose out of bed and folded up the sheet, looking outside at the clouded morning sky of Seirnkov. Even in summer, the days in the capital of Cerebria never grew hot, just warm. He opened his window to the noise of jabbering city-goers. Narrow streets snaked through the city in a maze of ivy-covered wood houses. All the streets eventually reached the center of the city: Queen Xandria’s fortress.
Dalah, his sweet younger sister opened the door. “Cal, Aunika wants you downstairs now; some new view out your window?” She gave a friendly chuckle.
“Just taking in some fresh air, Dalah.” Calleneck sighed with a hint of sadness. “Tell her I’ll be down in two minutes.” He dressed and walked down the steep staircase to the kitchen.
“Your father is out selling shoes to his clients today.” informed Mrs. Bernoil. Her face often rested in a stubborn gaze, a reflection of her personality, but however cold their mother looked on the outside, she always had loving intentions.
“That’s alright; we’ll see him in three days.” said Calleneck.
“Cal, grab some eggs before we leave.” said his younger sister. Dalah, sixteen years old, was born three years after Calleneck was, while Aunika was three years older than Calleneck. Aunika’s consistent condescending attitude towards him had strained their relationship. Isolation from the family had been her preferred mode of handling tough situations until she recently had returned.
“Grab them on the go;” said Aunika “we need to get going. Uncle Gregt and Aunt Shelln are waiting for us.”
The three Bernoil children wound their way through the streets of Seirnkov. Large wagons and horses pulled goods through the wet avenues. However, the Bernoils were not going to visit their aunt and uncle. Mr. and Mrs. Bernoil never suspected any lie about the whereabouts of the three and never would have believed that their own children were dangerous.
When the children reached the Ivy Serpent, a low-class inn, they entered in two minute intervals to avoid drawing suspicion. Calleneck entered first.
In the first floor rested a lobby in which men were smoking pipes and drinking mead, a woman with long, silvery-blonde hair and a piercing gaze watched Calleneck pass from under her black cloak. A heavy man with one eye glared at him through a mirror on the wall and grunted while he flipped a knife in his deformed hand. The Ivy Serpent reeked of musty air and smoke. Locating the short innkeeper, Calleneck stated the code, “Excuse me sir, would you happen to know if there is any place I can find a spotted horse with wooden teeth? No trouble if you can’t.”
The hunched-over innkeeper smiled, noting the coded message, and guided him down a back staircase to a room with three locks on the door. The man’s spotted hands shook as he handled the rusty keychain. Looking over his shoulder down the hallway to be sure no one was there, the innkeeper opened the door and Calleneck slid inside of the room. He heard the locks shut and the man limp away on the wooden floor. The room was covered in mirrors and the only light that illuminated it was a small crimson flame that Calleneck formed in his hand. Taking his bag off of his shoulders, he changed into long black robes. Calleneck took his crimson flame and pressed it against each mirror, trying to listen closely in the dark; the correct mirror changed day to day. The third mirror he tried hummed, and the edges turned a pale green. The glass moved around like a liquid suspended in the air. Calleneck looked back once more at the locked door, knowing that Dalah would soon come through, before he stepped through the mirror.
Two guards in long black cloaks and hoods stood in front of him and bowed. “Greetings Mr. Bernoil.” they said.
Calleneck bowed back, and the tall sentries to the Network allowed him to pass. Calleneck walked forward into the miles of subterranean tunnels and cities in which the Evertauri and their sorcerers dwelled.
The Cerebrian Girl
Chapter Two
~Afternoon, August 23rd
Angry voices echoed in the senate chamber as Eston watched in silence. Recurring senate meetings held by King Tronum every two weeks brought matters of concern to the attention of the primary leaders in the government. His Majesty, along with Queen Eradine, his eight senators, and various officials — generals, scholars, and ambassadors — sat in a large round chamber. From the height of the Palace, Eston looked through the countless windows and gazed out upon the wealthiest parts of the city — the first and second districts — and then to the poorest slums — the fourth. Far in the distance were forests of willows and fields of berries. The Council decided the fate of Ferramoor here, beneath a towering domed roof with a giant stained-glass skylight at the top.
“That’s exactly what Xandria expects us to do!” Senator An’Drui shouted from her seat in the chamber. Her dark skin made her fierce eyes pop as they hit the sunlight. “I agree with the queen. The best action to counter these attacks is to insure the security of the Inlet. We must continue our efforts to build Fort Pluloret.”
Prophet Ombern laughed, “You are foolish to assume that Xandria, in all her intelligence, would try to attack the capital. She desires to push our forces back slowly through Endlebarr until she can hit the major centers of our power.”
<
br /> “Please Prophet,” said Tronum, “I know Xandria’s ways very well. It is in everybody’s best interest to never assume what course she will take; she rules Cerebria in highly unpredictable ways. Alone, she accomplishes what this Council does with greater speed and influence. If we do not approach these matters with clear minds, she will destroy this kingdom. Our generals have advised us to continue momentum on our northern campaign in Endlebarr, but Xandria is reorganizing her battalions to counter. She knows that we will not be able to press forward fast enough to support all of our troops in the southeast quarter of the forest. Once winter hits, the southern pass will be impassable with an army of our size. It is likely that we will soon lose territory in the great forest; this war is lost if we take chances.”
All the while, Eston could not help thinking about a swirling crimson light. Eston shook his head, and an idea popped into his mind about an alliance with Parusemare. “Father, if I may —” The raised hand of Tronum immediately ended his attempt to offer input. Eston sat in silence for the remainder of the meeting, embarrassed by his inability to address the members of the government.
Eston approached King Tronum after the senate meeting.
“Eston, the reason I allow you to attend the senate meetings is strictly for you to observe and gain experience, not to govern.”
“Of course father.” Eston, deciding that no argument could be won against his father, walked to the eastern wing, where massive gates blocked the upper tiers of the palace.
Eston sat on the massive arch overlooking the lower levels of the royal hill with his arms crossed. I’m in line to the throne of this kingdom and I have done nothing to help it. Eston hadn’t left the palace in years because of his studies with Whittingale and his father’s perpetual disapproval of Eston’s desire to make a change in his kingdom. It never seemed much of a restriction given the immense size of the castle and the abundant resources which poured into its gates every day. A great sadness rushed over Eston as he looked back at his home, and out toward his kingdom. If, one day, this will be mine, I must be a part of it. But from somewhere in his memory, he felt that he already knew the city, from the mansions to the slums. How could I? He asked himself. I have seen it all before, but not as myself . . . it’s like I’ve been through the city and ran over its roofs in a dream. Still, I must see it.
Using a messenger, Eston summoned his friend and the Palace Overseer — Sir Benja Tiggins. Not a half hour later, Eston met him on the archway above the gate to the Palace. Atop the Palace wall, the whole city glistened below in the daylight, bustling like a hive of bees, rolling and washing over the oceanside hills.
Benja Tiggins, standing beside Eston, had thick black hair that, if not brushed aside, would hang below his nose. He was not much older than the prince — in his early twenties — and the two were close. Benja had made his way very high in the government quickly due to his father’s position as general and his mother’s famous architectural works in the Palace. One might say that he had more control over certain things in the Palace than King Tronum himself; Benja Tiggins had keys to all the vaults and authority over all the servants and guards. Yet, with all his power, Benja’s pale face stared somberly out into the city as if something very deep within his heart troubled him.
Eston informed his friend that he wanted to travel beyond the gates of the palace, telling him how much he hated the mundane routine of sleeping, eating, studying, and sword fighting, how embarrassed he was by his inability to affect policy or communicate with upper members of the government. “I just want to actually change something for once. I’m supposed to represent my people, but I don’t even know them.”
Joking, Benja Tiggins replied quietly, “Your father would be quite happy with you missing.” Eston chuckled, but thought twice about Benja’s words; they contained a drop of truth. Benja Tiggins continued, “It would be very difficult to exit this palace without anyone noticing you.”
“That’s exactly why I would need your help. As Overseer of the Palace, I’m confident that you’re able to make arrangements to cover my absence.”
Benja put his hands in his pockets. “But Eston . . . that would be misusing my powers as Overseer.”
“It would just be this one time,” said Eston.
Benja shook his head. “You know that’s not true.”
“Benja, I’m not going to destroy Ferramoor by going into the city. I just want to — . . . I want to know what it’s like. It wouldn’t be dangerous. Most commoners don’t know what I look like . . . please?”
“Eston, I really don’t think that you should.” Benja saw Estons longing gaze toward the city. Benja sighed and turned toward the prince. “Alright, this one time . . . but know that I will not be taking the blame if you decide to act stupid down there and get yourself caught or hurt.”
“Thank you.”
In the second district of Aunestauna, Eston glided along with the crowds of thousands of people moved like ants on a forest floor. The streets here were filled with unimaginable amounts of color and sounds. People of every shade of skin color scurried along, talking in dozens of warm, rhythmic languages; the women’s gowns of scarlet, turquoise, and gold waved as they walked. The city lived and breathed. Deep, hearty laughter sounded from within every tavern, bank, and shop. Merchants on each side of the street shouted prices and offers to Eston not knowing who he was. “Half off on any nails and knives today!” “Only fifteen argentums for a winter coat!”
In the middle of the second district lay the Ferramish Bazaar that stretched over dozens of blocks. Barrels of maize, zucchini, and potatoes lined the walkways. The soft smell of bread meandered underneath the canopies of red and yellow. Even berries and melons from the southern reaches of the kingdom reached the markets of the capital. The endless crop fields of Ferramoor insured that plenty of food was able to support the huge population. Cooks sizzled seasoned meat over fires for the wealthy to purchase. Children ran around, knocking over the occasional bucket or basket, causing both laughter and shouting from the swarm of people entering and exiting the markets. Rows of beads and jewels hung from the edges of the tents, ready to be sold to the thousands of passer bys. Eston momentarily had an urge to snatch one, but he backed away, not knowing what possessed him to think to steal . . . he had never stolen.
A young handsome man eyed him and approached him quickly, causing Eston to turn away in case he had been recognized. The man grabbed Eston’s shoulder and turned him around. “Buy some flowers sir!” the man yelled above the noise of the square “Only a quarter argentum for ‘em.” Relieved, Eston laughed and purchased a large dahlia with the few coins he brought to look more like a normal city goer.
The disguised prince left the bazaar and walked through many more avenues which were shaded by stories of flamboyant awnings before ducking into The Little Raven, a street-level tavern with a welcoming atmosphere. Deciding to take the risk of unintentionally revealing his identity, he ordered a small glass of wine. Because of the prince’s limited experience with normal citizens, his interaction with the bartender was too awkward to be comfortable for Eston, but she didn’t seem to notice. As he waited for his drink, he couldn’t help but hope that whatever plan Sir Benja Tiggins had dreamed up was a sufficient distraction for his disappearance.
Luckily enough, the only papers posted on these walls and in the avenues were issues from the city Guard. No average citizen had ever seen the prince. The only royal figures that could be seen in paintings were King Tronum and Queen Eradine. Although it was just late afternoon, reddish light flooded in the square windows because of the scarlet banners that often stretched between the roofs of the first and second district. The color was not used for city or kingdom pride, but for unity under his father’s throne.
Eston studied The Little Raven and its calm air, as compared to the bustle of the markets. Both men and women sat in chairs over tables either sitting in solitude or quietly discussing individual matters. A young woman with glistening dirty blonde
hair sat intently reading parchment at a table in the corner. Light hair was very unusual in Ferramoor, which only intrigued the Prince more. Her strangely foreign blonde hair fell in front of her face in such a way that made Eston want to lift her chin to see who she was; she appeared to be the same age as himself. Her skin reflected soft sunlight, and her face reminded Eston of sunlight hitting an oak tree. But amidst the light, he could tell that there was something dark and unnerving hidden deep in her eyes. He turned away to avoid being thought rude.
Just as the bartender returned with a wine glass for the prince, the girl rolled up her parchment, placed it in a small handbag and approached the counter. Eston looked down at his glass and couldn’t help but eavesdrop on the girl’s conversation. The bartender asked if she could help her.
“Yes, I’ll have another glass please. Thank you ma’am.” There was something a bit strange about the way she spoke. It was as if she was trying to subtly make her voice sound warm, like most of the speech in Ferramoor; yet, there was a hint of a colder dialect with which she was more comfortable. This tone was barely noticeable by Eston, but it intrigued him.
He angled his wine glass in such a way that he could catch a glimpse of the girl’s face through the reflection. As soon as he did, he immediately turned the glass back; he felt like he knew the face of this girl.
The bartender came back with her drink. “Thank you ma’am.”
As the girl was brought her glass, he glanced sideways again. Where have I seen her before? . . . I can’t talk to her . . . then again, no one knew it was me in the streets. The people have never seen me . . .
