by J. McSpadden
"What do you mean?" Camille asked, dropping her fork full of meat to pay closer attention.
"Well," Jacob said as he shoved a hefty amount of buttered bread between his lips. "Wouldn't you be afraid of a Praetorian’s retribution if you banished one of their own? And not just a Praetorian, but from the stories I've heard, one of the best."
He has a point, Camille thought with blooming intrigue. "What is this law exactly?" Camille asked between small bites of bread.
"The Aspera Munera," Brian stated in an official air.
Jacob reached into his pocket and slammed a crusted, grimy piece of paper down next to Camille's plate. "She lives with Peter, nuthead. She's not going to know what the rules are."
"Why not?" Brian asked blankly, staring at Camille as though she were a rare bug to be examined.
"Yes, why not?" Camille asked with slight hesitation.
"Peter was part of the rebellion," Jacob said matter-of-factly. "And he doesn't follow the teachings of our Holy King. Peter is a follower of the old ways."
Camille's jaw dropped wide open. "He what?"
"Yeah," Jacob continued, shoving a sturdy piece of meat into his mouth and slowly chewing. Camille inwardly squirmed with impatience, but she waited in silence for him to continue, not wanting to miss a single detail of what he said. "Peter isn't just a butcher Camille; he was Rogue, one of the head resistors in the rebellion against the Praetorian exile. Most Daeites were resistors to the High Kings law."
Camille felt her chest contract at Jacob's words. Peter was a follower of Ma'Nada. Every story he'd ever told had been from the sacred text of Daeism, but he'd never showed her the written word. He knew it all by heart, every story and every line. It was only now Camille understood why. Everything he'd taught her about his belief wasn't just a secret between them but a crime against the crown.
Brian seemed to be just as surprised as Camille but didn't look so taken aback by it that it affected his appetite. How did she not know this about Peter and yet Jacob did? Not that Peter would have told her, but in all her time with him, how did she not see it on him? It was true that he never spoke of the High King in great favor, but he'd never voiced a passionate dislike for the ruler of Aspera either.
"I've never heard him talk about these things," Camille said as she reached for her mug to take a small sip to wet the dryness of her throat.
"No, I can imagine not. Peter isn't one for sharing stories of his past, but my parents know. They told me when I met you to 'beware of the old man's heathen teachings,'" he said with a chuckle. "Don't worry Cam, I don't care what Peter believes in or who he prays to."
Brian's mouth fell open at Jacob's harsh tone. "You don't mean that."
"I do," Jacob said without flinching. "Peter isn't the only 'heathen' in Sierra Village. Just because the High King tells us to follow in step doesn't mean that we must. Peter fought against the High King’s rule of Aspera. There's no way he'd want to talk about the rules of Aspera, let alone follow the demands some absent king enforces on his kingdom." He then leaned toward Brian in open jest and elbowed him in the ribs. "Next thing you know she will start asking about the Lowenhaar prophecy," Jacob snickered openly. "It's all hogwash if you ask me."
Camille's gaze flew to Jacob's face, focusing on one single word. "Absent?"
The soft amber of Jacob's eyes hardened as he stared at Camille with a slight note of bewilderment. He nodded then with a small shrug of his shoulders as though accepting her complete ignorance without question. "Yeah. The High King hasn't been seen since the fall of the rebellion; it's been a little over eight years now. Once the heat of battle died down, he vanished, and King Regent Metus took over."
"Jacob," Brian said in a hushed whisper. "We aren't supposed to talk about the prophecy. Someone might hear us. You remember what happened to the last person to talk about it?"
"Oh, shove off, it's not like anyone believes in it anyway," Jacob replied on a scoffing note.
The idea of a prophecy meant little to her. It was as realistic as the stories Peter told her and Lunci before bedtime. But the realization of the High King's absence from the throne at that very moment was like a gold mine. Camille was no longer listening to the back and forth banter between Jacob and Brian as her mind struggled to retrieve any details in the depths of her memory that would solidify what they were telling her.
Instead of finding a correlation in memory, her mind felt ready to burst with Jacob's words. It was overwhelming to hear all of this in one day, but she needed to push through it—she wasn't sure when she might get another chance. "Tell me more about the Aspera Munera."
Jacob traced his finger along the worn sheet of paper that appeared to have been folded and unfolded over one-thousand times. The edges were frayed and brown and curled at the corners. Camille was a little nervous to breathe on its surface, for fear it would crumble into dust as both Jacob and Brian recited the paper's content by memory.
Most of the rules seemed straight forward and palpable. All Asperians must follow in the teachings of Katolism. It was the religion of the High King and therefore the religion of the people. The Moon Tax, devotion to the Holy King Faeder, and absolute fealty to the High King himself all appeared straight forward. However, as she continued through the daunting list of laws, her eyes widened as she skimmed over the word Praetorian.
VI. All Asperians must submit their lives to compete in the Praetorian Munera Trials if they are chosen to enlist. To abandon this order is punishable by death, including the end of one's own family.
a. All chosen Asperians must submit their lives to the Praetorian Guard and live out their remaining years as an enlisted soldier to the High King.
b. If one is not a high-ranking competitor in the tournament, one is required to submit one’s skills to the High King's Equestrian Guard. If one is deemed unworthy of the Equestrian Guard, one will be sentenced to trade work by order of the High King.
c. If one is deemed unworthy of trade work, one will be sentenced to life in a designated section of the High Court grounds by order of the High King.
"What's this one?" Camille said, pointing to the smeared ink of number six. "Is this still in effect?"
Jacob shrugged casually as he shoved a large hunk of bread into his mouth. He elbowed Brian to speak up.
"We aren't supposed to talk about it," Brian hissed back at Jacob, who rolled his eyes upward and forcefully swallowed the bread he'd been chewing.
After taking a quick gulp of ale, he turned back to Camille. "The quick answer is yes, but it hasn't been put into effect for a while. The last Praetorian Trial enforced happened..." he paused, nose scrunching in deep thought as he soundlessly counted through the years. "Eight years ago? It'll be eight years this Yule festival."
"Isn't that a long time? Why wasn't there another trial afterward?" Camille slid the tattered paper toward Jacob's greased hands after reading the document twice over.
"The High King went into hiding. There's no reason to build a guard in his absence," Jacob said with conviction.
Camille stared at him in shock, but he didn't appear to take notice. No reason to build a guard. The red eyes in the forest slipped across her thoughts again, and Camille shuddered in fear. Dark creatures roaming freely through their lands was an excellent reason to enlist an army, Camille thought.
The boys kept eating, unruffled, while her thoughts galloped into full speed. How was it possible that a single Praetorian could cause such an uproar? Was the High King so afraid of this single Praetorian that he removed himself from the spotlight of his own subjects? Perhaps the drifting away from a Praetorian Trial was the outcome of his fear.
With her appetite sufficiently ruined, Camille began to pack up her few belongings. She wondered what caused the Praetorian to commit such horrible crimes knowing the consequences of his actions. Had he known what the outcome would be for the others? Why would the High King just up and vanish after exiling the offender? None of it made sense to her; it didn't fit. There was mor
e to the story, and she wanted answers.
Camille pushed away her plate, having wrapped up the few remaining bits of bread and meat. She slid off her chair offering a clipped goodbye to Jacob and Brian as she waved to Betty Anne before heading back to the butchery.
The rain went from a light drizzle to a steady downpour as she snaked her way back toward the tiny cabin, a hand raised to protect her eyes. Each falling drop of water dimpled the puddles with significant force, creating a cadence of musical pings and plops against the tin roofs of the village. Her boots sloshed through the mud, squelching with every step. She picked up her speed, not wanting the rain to soak clear through to her skin before she reached Peter's home.
As she rounded the corner along the outskirts of the village, she focused on a single thought. Being a Rogue and fighting against the sovereign rule, Peter knew more than he let on. There were apparent connections to her past and the Praetorians; the timing was just too coincidental. She could feel the answers thrumming beneath the surface of her skin. After listening to the dark paths taken that ended in the Praetorian exile, she couldn't help but liken herself to them in several ways—and the more she ruminated on it, the more she was desperate for answers.
Chapter Six
In the Depth of Shadows
The townsfolk of Sierra Village had decorated the great hall grounds with green, yellow, and red apples alongside colorful gourds from the vegetable patch. A large turkey that Camille herself had shot rotated on a giant spit above the roaring fireplace at the end of the hall, and every table had several bowls filled with nuts and dried berries from the summer season.
The harvest that year had flourished in Sierra Village, making Fόmhair even more elaborate and decadent than previous years. Even with a Moon Tax under their belt, they still had plenty of food for the festivities.
The town center's great hall was looking its absolute best. Stubby candles sat on every table, with soft leaves of orange, red, and yellow strewn about. There was a large fireplace the width of Peter's home at the end of the sitting area, and a tiny table laden with copper mugs for red wine and mead. Though the hall was mainly used for town meetings, weddings, and funerals, for Fόmhair the space had been transformed into a rare sight of warmth and beauty.
After filling her mug with a sixth helping of sweet red wine, Camille walked along the outskirts of the growing group of villagers. She felt nothing more than a warming buzz in her body as she watched the evening unfold. Count Jenkins had pushed most of the tables and chairs to the outer part of the hall to provide room for dancing, and a small group of grubby-looking men Camille recognized as crop tenders formed a string quartet band near the fireplace. Before she knew it, she was dancing with Lunci in a circle of villagers to a lively tune.
The celebration was better than she could have imagined, effectively pushing Camille's troubles away with each sip of wine and dance move Lunci came up with.
"Come on Camille, no sitting!" Lunci cried the moment he saw her backing away from the festive frivolity to perch on a nearby stool, her feet aching, stomach full of cinnamon apple pie and wine.
"You dance, I'll watch and try to learn," Camille said with a huge smile. Lunci fake-pouted but gave up quickly when a small blond girl caught his attention.
"Have you heard from the Rogues?" A rough voice whispered just in front of Camille. "The inner-city gates have been breached."
Glancing up, she noticed that Peter and Marcus were huddled together at a table a foot away, facing the other direction and unaware of her proximity. She was tempted to duck away, hating the idea of eavesdropping, but with Betty Anne's voice still lingering in Camille's mind, she couldn't help but remain where she sat. She hoped she appeared inconspicuous to anyone who glanced her direction.
"Breached? Where?" Peter asked, calm and collected.
"In the mountain regions of Echo Town. The border wall was breached by a pack of twenty."
"The Rogue Resistance has gone silent; I've received no updates," Peter murmured. "Albeit a message of warning from the Doctor, but nothing so much as that."
"Where is he? Vesyon said twelve moons, did he not?" Marcus fidgeted in a way Camille had never seen him do before, his boots tapping out a rapid beat that wasn't in time to the music.
"Do not question him, Marcus. If he isn't here, it's for a good reason. He's asked us to wait, and that's what we'll do until further instruction is given. Until then, we will double our security on the wall. It won't be long now."
Marcus leaned forward. "They're closing in on us, and there's no doubt we'll have to reinforce our regiment yet again by the end of the week. I'm not the only one who's sighted one of the beasts. It's just like before; they won't rest until they have what they want. We can't continue like this."
"Do we have enough soldiers for the rounds tonight?" Peter asked, ruffling his hair nonchalantly when a pair of giggling dancers spun within earshot.
"Barely," Marcus scoffed. "We also just got word from our contact at Alpha Quarter."
Peter's hand froze. "Inside the High Court?"
Marcus chose that moment to drink his wine in slow gulps—a power move and one Camille could tell irked Peter based on the hunched arching of his shoulders. "Don't sound so surprised. I have many eyes and ears in this Kingdom; my reach has no limits."
Peter tilted his head, wordlessly inviting him to continue.
"LeMarc will be sending out invites for a new guard to join the High Court at the beginning of the next moon cycle," Marcus stated.
"Impossible," Peter gasped. "He's been absent for eight years, not to mention the exile. The Praetorian Munera is dead."
Marcus shook his head vehemently. "He is going to form a new regiment for Aspera. This isn't a Praetorian Munera, Peter; it's the dawn of a new era. It's starting again, and this time we will need to be ready."
"Yes—but this time the High Court knows about the Chimera. Neither High King nor King Regent has done anything to halt progress. Despite the High King's absence, the crown isn't forming this new regiment to help us."
"Wake up, old man! He isn't in hiding—the High King's been planning. If he's building an army, then we need to find a way to protect ourselves. We need to finish what the Rogue Resistance started," Marcus said, draining the remaining liquid in his glass in three swift gulps.
"Last time, our main weapon against the High King was compromised in Charlie Town," Peter snapped. "It's difficult to finish something without any tools. He took our last line of defense that night. The war in the East wasn't an accident. The High King had a hand in that too. He isn't just fighting for his own lands anymore; he is pushing to gain more."
"It won't be like it was then. We won't allow the High Court to take what is ours."
Peter shook his head in seeming disbelief, gripping Marcus's shoulder with an old hand. "It's not that easy. If the High King is building an army, we'll be on our own when the border kingdoms fight back."
Marcus sighed audibly, before grabbing a hunk of buttered bread from the plate before him and gnawing off a huge bite. He chewed methodically, his jaw muscles bunching with fierce effort along the sharp angle of his cheekbone. Turning to Peter, Marcus leaned in, his voice barely audible above the tumbling lilt of music coming from the head of the hall. "The time is coming for us to find allies, regroup our rebellion and fight back. We know war is coming, and we must stand our ground no matter which side attacks first. We must."
"With who to back us up? The Rogues are all we have right now. There's no one else to help us this time. We don't have enough time to assemble a stronger defense."
"There isn't really much choice, now is there?" Marcus insisted. "We can't fall like before; I won't become a pawn of the High Court. The King Regent doesn't fight for us—he fights for glory, for a place in the holy hall at the feet of his one true king: Faeder. There's no reason to stay hidden in the shadows anymore. We have our own army and the mother Ma'Nada will protect us."
"I wouldn't speak so loudly of y
our views tonight, Marcus. We aren't with like-minded people even at Fόmhair. The followers of his holy lord are in every corner of Aspera. Sierra hasn't been known to fight against the crown no matter how high the taxes increase. There are loyalists here Marcus, and we must tread carefully. Things are changing, yes, and we need to prepare, but it would be advisable to keep any opinions on the matter of reform to yourself until Vesyon tells us otherwise. Do you want to be exiled and sent to Olin with the rest of the deserters, heathens, and criminals?"
Marcus silently shook his head.
"Good. So, for now, we must remain silent and on our guard."
"You can't deny you feel the same as I do," Marcus said with grave intention.
"No," Peter huffed in slight defeat. "I can't."
The music picked up once more, carrying Peter's next words away with the melody. Camille was suddenly itching to vacate the hall and craved a serene sanctuary away from the claustrophobic space to dissect all that she'd just heard. She twisted out of her chair and marched toward the exit, aching to feel a cool breeze against her cheeks.
Just as she crossed the threshold, a loud and shrill scream echoed from her left, alongside the thick bramble and rose bushes. Camille blinked and spun, pushing past a few horrified villagers to locate the source of such commotion.
A young person's body was splayed upon the muddied ground, his chest and face drenched in ruby-hued blood. Camille bent down beside the source of the cries—a blond girl, and the one Lunci had been dancing with not fifteen minutes before.
Camille reeled and nearly fell backward as she identified the bloodied boy as her beloved Lunci, his form unmoving and lips an ashen blue. "Oh, dear mother Ma’Nada—"
"We were dancing in the garden because the rain felt so good—it was so fast...I only saw it for a second—dark fur, a beast of some kind with red eyes—" the blond girl blubbered, snot bubbles forming under each nostril as she coughed and wailed.
