by F. C. Reed
She stepped into the room and took a place across from the old man, sitting on her heels.
Marchand offered her tea. “So, word is that you defeated the first tier student soldier, Thanial Dumiir,” he said. “Most would think that impressive.”
“Thanial? Who’s Thanial?” She sat up straight, searching her memories of all the people she had recently met. No one came to mind.
“Actually, I saw it,” he said. “The demonstration, I mean. I would refer to your execution of attack as well done, except that it was anything but well done. It was sloppy. Clumsy. Oafish. Lucky.” He shrugged and sipped his tea. “But it got the job done, I suppose.”
After hearing the icy chill in his words and feeling them bite into her, Amalia was sure then that this wrinkled old man could be none other than the Dr. Marchand Gadot she knew.
“Now,” Marchand continued, “what shall I call you?”
“My name works just fine,” she said. “Nothing fancy or special.”
“Artemisia? No. Not that. I need something that suits you. Something like—
“That’s not my name,” she said with defiance. “I meant, Amalia works just fine.”
“Oh, what do you know?” Marchand flapped a hand through the air at her. “You seem proud of the ease in clinging on to this humble tendency you’ve adopted. That, my child, is admirable, because on many occasions, the truth of who you are can be daunting.” He sipped at his tea. “And embarrassing and shameful if you cannot live up to it.”
Amalia continued to listen. She squeezed her cup of tea, ignoring the pain of heat that seeped into the tips of her fingers.
“If I didn’t know any better, I would believe you don’t quite trust me. That you never did. Just as if I have poisoned your tea, you think I have poisoned your mind over the last five years. Do you remember when you first met with me? You were about twelve, and you complained of seeing and hearing things that weren’t there,” he chuckled. “Ah, such is this generation. So much fear and corruption and rot and greedy bureaucratic windbags, you could be rich with one gold coin from each of them. Times were simpler in my day. Harder, but simpler,” Marchand said. “We didn’t believe everyone was out to get us.”
“Oh no,” Amalia groaned as the realization set in. “You’re not—
“Your battle instructor? Of course I am.” He smiled as Amalia groaned again. The yellow grin evaporated as he studied her for a moment.
Amalia ground one fist into the other and cast her gaze skyward. “Fate,” she said through gritted teeth. “You’re quite the bitch.”
“That’s it. I will call you serradon.”
Amalia raised her eyebrows. “Serradon? What does it mean?”
“It means ‘one worthy of fear,’ in my language,” he nodded. “And in another dialect, it loosely translates into ‘undergarments hewn from stone,’ but, meh. We will see which of those translations most apply.”
“Your language?” she asked, surprised. “Who or what are you?”
“Irrelevant,” Marchand countered. “You have no context for the answer I have to that question. None that would make sense, anyway.”
Amalia could do nothing more than frown at him. She was already annoyed that he was to be her instructor. But did he have to be just as infuriating as his Dr. Gadot alter ego? Apparently so.
“Oh stop pouting, little serradon. Look at what you are to become. A general. A master of war and fate and destiny. A battlefield commander. The lioness of the red. But as far as I’m concerned, you’re still a sniveling little child suckling at your mother’s fat, naked breast. Time to grow up, which means that now, you can no longer be a girl-child, it seems. Which also may well be a blessing in disguise since the girl-child is nothing more than an arrogant, willful, stubborn, self-indulgent, pampered brat that needs a good lesson in humility from time to time.” He looked down into his half empty teacup. “And, more often than not, has a mouth full of fat breast, which isn’t so bad given the right context.”
“Well, we can add perverted old pig to your ever growing list of traits and qualities,” Amalia said with a roll of her eyes.
“Aha. So you have loosened up,” Marchand smiled.
“Yes,” she said. “That was sarcasm.”
“You will listen and learn,” Marchand said in a serious tone, his playful smile vanishing. “I will teach you to fight, to kill, to lead, and to inspire. But remember that you are not a soldier. You were never meant to be one. Your existence is much more important. No one will pat your back when you do an outstanding job. No one will stop your conscience from tearing you in half when you make a terrible decision and people die because of it. The anger and hate and love and compassion, and anything else you feel in your heart had best be put aside. I tried my best to see to that, but you are emotionally stubborn. Willful. Difficult.”
“What are you talking about?” said Amalia.
He eyeballed Amalia where she sat. She had the shaken and confused look of someone who just took a difficult exam and is now unsure about whether or not she passed.
“Emotions are distractions. Love is especially dangerous,” he said, thrusting his teacup in her general direction. “Trust me when I say it will cause you to have a bloody stump where your head once was, quicker than anything I can imagine.” Marchand set his teacup on the table and pushed it away from himself with one finger.
“I will continue to transform you. I will mold you to become a great lioness of the red even though you have no idea what that is.” He puffed out a chestful of air. “Now get out. I’m tired.” He paused for a moment, looking away. “I’ve got an angry gas bubble threatening to work its way out. Lots of pain; lots of pressure.”
He seemed to fall away from the conversation with her and started one with himself. Dropping his head, he massaged his sides and stomach. “Those accursed galley cooks and their spicy mingo root soup. Gad, I should have passed it up. But I would fare no better with a pile of shredded meat clogging up my gut, I’m sure of that,” he said to himself in an angry whisper.
Amalia smiled. She had never seen Marchand like this before and decided then that she enjoyed watching him squirm in pain.
He glanced at her, visibly annoyed at the discovery he was still in company. “I thought I told you to go away. Come back in the morning.”
Chapter Nineteen
She awoke with a start. It was still early and her eyes proved difficult to keep open after a fitful night of tossing and turning. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stretched out. The ambient temperature in the room caused her to shiver, and she wondered how she would warm up in such a place as she stretched her cold, stiff muscles. Food and a hot bath was a good start, she soon decided.
Her first days in Therios Kaval still seemed surreal. The high-tech nature of the command hub at the Reach intermixed with the low-tech districts below it baffled her, and she soon found herself annoyed about the sharp economic contrast. As far as she was concerned, it should be one or the other, not some of them walking around with laser pistols and jet packs, and others still milking goats. Everyone had their purpose and she could not help but wonder how she tied it all together. Her destiny and her fate was linked to all of Therios Kaval, or so she was told.
Rising from her bed, she silently cursed the gown she slept in the night before. The cotton was comfortable enough, but the cold draft that shot up from beneath was one detail she did not appreciate. Grumbling, she made her way to the bathroom.
What I wouldn’t give for a pair of pajama bottoms.
She missed her collection of bright pajamas with their superhero characters plastered all over. She missed her laptop and her writing desk. She missed her mom and dad, and wondered how crazy they must be looking for her, if at all. That concern only persisted momentarily once she remembered that she had some time altering special effect on the universe, or whatever. She really didn’t believe it. At least she didn’t want to. With a heavy sigh, she realized that above all else she missed
home.
“Well, its not all bad,” she said aloud. “At least the toilets aren’t some hovering, blinking contraption of a puzzle to figure out. Or a hole in the ground.”
She stared at the porcelain-like toilet to be sure and closed the door behind her once she figured out how to work it. The shower, however, was only slightly strange, in that it sprayed a mist of water from all directions and a florescent light shone during the process, making her skin to glow blue. Weird, but about as relaxing and refreshing as a shower should be.
After having finished with her morning preparation, she exited, pulling on a comfortable plush robe. She ruffled a towel through her damp hair, and a figure in the corner of her room made her start with a sharp, squeaking cry.
“Geez you scared the snot out of me,” Amalia said, clutching her chest.
General Strann wore a sharp black and white ensemble. Her boots shined like they were coated with glass, newly polished without so much as a scratch or scuff. Her white shirt billowed at the shoulders and flared at her wrists. The long black braid was banded and draped around her neck in its signature position. She looked relaxed for the first time since Amalia’s arrival. It was also the first time she hadn’t seen her grandmother in her armor since arriving. Must be a special day.
General Strann greeted her with a warm smile. “Hello, Artemisia. How did you sleep?”
Amalia slumped over and threw herself on the bed. “Not you too,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“The Artemisia thing,” she sighed.
General Strann smiled again. “Well, that is the name we know you by. Everyone here knows about the Lioness of the Red, and refer to her as Artemisia. It’s not so much a name as it is a designation.”
Amalia sat up. “Okay but why that name?”
“Well, for a lot of reasons.”
Amalia pursed her lips.
“In Earth’s very ancient history, Artemisia is remembered as the queen of Halicarnassus, who fought with Xerxes against the Greeks. Apparently she was also a shrewd and intelligent naval commander. Artemisia was more recently known as a prolific female painter in another time and place. In ancient mythology derived from the Earth’s Greek culture again, Artemisia was also named in honor of Apollo’s sister, Artemis, goddess of the hunt,” General Strann said. “All three are significant.”
“It’s also an ugly, cilantro-looking fern or shrub or something. I can thank Mr. Vinton’s botany lectures for that piece of information.”
General Strann nodded. “So it is, my little scholar. But the name has meaning behind it. Purpose. You will be a warrior and a commander, much like the queen of Halicarnassus. The way those roles are used takes innovation and creativity, a lot like art, hence the artistic reference.”
“Corny,” Amalia muttered.
“In Verellen, which is the old language of this plane, arrana means to command or take control. Temil means innovative, inventive, clever. Things like that. And siaar,” she paused to collect her thoughts. “Siaar means to be separated from one’s self.”
“Hmm,” Amalia huffed. “Less corny. But I still don’t like the name.”
“Artemisia encompasses all the traits within you. And it has a ring to it. Does arrana temil siaar sound any better?”
Amalia grimaced. “Eh, not really.” She wondered if she should get dressed. “You speak Verellen?”
“I do,” replied General Strann.
“What does your name mean, then?” Amalia asked.
“My name? Oh, it’s just a name. It means nothing. And since we’re talking about it, expect others to call you Artemisia. No one will call you Amalia.”
Amalia frowned at that. It reminded her of her other, other designation. The one given to her by her master trainer. “Marchand calls me something different,” she started, then grimaced. “Ugh, where did you get that guy, anyway?”
General Strann shrugged. “He’s been around for a very long time. He’s also been working with you for a long time. Goes by the name of Dr. Gadot when he’s not around here. Then again, you already know that.”
“What I already know is that he’s a freaking weirdo,” Amalia said. “He told me he’s going to call me Serradon. He said it means ‘one to be feared.’ Lame again.”
General Strann burst out laughing.
“What?” Amalia asked. She crossed her arms, feeling embarrassed but for no discernible reason.
“That’s what he told you it meant?” General Strann swiped away at a tear.
“Yeah. Why?” Amalia frowned, feeling more and more like she was the butt of a cruel inside joke. “He said it means ‘one to be feared,’ or… what was it? Concrete underwear or something like that.”
General Strann bent at the waist, wiping another tear from the corner of her eye as she was wracked with fresh peals of laughter.
“Oh don’t mind me,” Amalia said, crossing her arms in front of her. “I’ll just wait until I’m done being humiliated.”
“I’m sorry, honey,” General Strann said through chortling snuffles. “I don’t mean to make light of this. Serradon means a person who is stubborn and bull-headed. Someone difficult to teach or control. Usually it’s used as an off-reference to an object that is easily manipulated, but doesn’t properly operate for some unforeseen reason. Like a jammed door. Concrete underwear might fit into the definition in a strange, uncomfortable way.”
“Sounds more like him than me,” Amalia grumbled through her pouting.
“He didn’t lie to you,” remarked General Strann. “If you turn out to be stubborn and bull-headed and closed to the possibilities, then you may very well be the one to be feared, but not in the way you might think.”
“Not in what way?”
“Stubborn,” replied General Strann.
“So stubbornness makes me dangerous? I don’t think I’m stubborn or dangerous,” Amalia said. “Still sounds more like him.”
“Just consider what the old man teaches you, no matter how eccentric. You’ll learn a lot from him.” General Strann stifled another burst of laughter.
“Clever old buzzard,” Amalia said. “I would prefer Artemisia over serradon, but I don’t think he’ll care.” She fiddled with her fingers. “Arrana temil siaar. What’s that last one mean? I get the whole warrior-poet thing, but separated from one’s self? What does that even mean?”
General Strann sighed. She looked through Amalia, focused on something unseen. “Sweetie, when we take on monumental things, sometimes there are other things left behind, and bridges and buildings are un-built. Trees are unplanted.”
Amalia raised an eyebrow. “Could you be more futt-the-wuck right now?”
“It’s a very complicated term. I wouldn’t be able to describe it to you in any way that would make sense. Not in this context, anyway.” General Strann smiled, but not in amusement. The smile portrayed her understanding of Amalia’s frustration.
“Of course,” Amalia said with an obviously sarcastic wistfulness. “More strange secrets. That’s the same thing Marchand said to me when I asked him about who or what he was.” She frowned and snorted, shaking her head at the absurdity. “So what else have you not told me?” She walked to the wall length closet, half curious at what she would find inside.
“That you’ve been here many times before.”
Amalia spun around, her eyes fixed in a look of utter shock. “I stand corrected. Apparently you can be more futt-the-wuck.”
“I brought you here just after your birth, and again at two years old. Other times, the mind has a tendency to get filtered when walking from plane to plane, but some of it you may remember.”
“I knew it,” Amalia said. “Actually, a lot of it I remember. All the familiar people who I’ve never met before. The unexplained memories and images. The feelings. That deja vu feeling.”
“Yes, that’s very possible. The dreams and memories are images of the distant past imprinted upon you during this time of transformation. A lot happens during th
e attunement to the sphere. I brought you here during that time because the aether that encompasses you is most pure just after birth. It’s at that point that your keystone is attuned to how you connect with the sphere. That’s what makes getting your keystone back so important. It would be impossible to attune you to the sphere now that you are older. That critical period has passed. Your keystone is on another plane, and to walk the sphere, you need your keystone.”
“So a complicated catch-22,” Amalia said. Her brow furrowed as she thought of how she might have lost it or dropped it. The chain was secure around her neck and she felt its presence right up until she didn’t.
“We’ll find a way. We must.” General Strann rose, nodding her head. “Why don’t you get dressed and I’ll show you to the galley. I’m sure you’re hungry by now.”
As if on cue, Amalia’s stomach churned and grumbled. “Sounds good,” she said. Then she remembered her task for the day, and her stomach wrenched itself into a knot. “But what about my training with Marchand? He wanted me to come by this morning.”
“Oh, yes. That’s right.” General Strann hesitated and put a hand to her chin in thought. “Well, the armsmaster is busy today. He will start your training later in the week. It will give us time to familiarize you more with your surroundings,” she said. “I’ll be just outside when you’re ready.”
Chapter Twenty
Amalia emerged from her room in a simple white long sleeve cotton shirt and a pair of snug fitting brown leather pants, tighter around the thighs and buttocks than she would have liked. She found a leather belt to keep them in place, but it was not that a belt was of any use. A pair of comfortable black high boots completed her outfit. Boy, do these people love their high boots. Her hair was held in place by a single metal band that curled in on itself, forming a neat loop and perfect for gathering her wild black curls into an untamed ponytail, if a little on the poofy side.
