The Korellian Odyssey: Requiem

by Vance Bachelder

  As he stood and began to stretch muscles he hadn't used in weeks, Korel remembered a door near to his own chamber where the priest had entered on several occasions. Exactly how he knew this he could not say, but he felt the other's presence further down in the bowels of the earth, beyond the door he saw in his mind. Hurnix continued to sleep peacefully.

  Korel crept from his chamber and saw the tall, sharply arched door on the right side of the passage. A second door on the left opened into a massive library with row upon row of stacks piled high, reaching toward the vaulted stone ceiling. Despite the urgency that compelled him to follow the door to the right, a greater urgency seemed to guide Korel through the door to the left, then toward a massive shelf on the right, and directly to a tome recently touched and, as compared to the other books in the library, recently bound: Of the Fall of Valyrea and the Madness of Thoren.

  He slipped the book into his purse, and as he did so a pang of pleading despair rose within his mind, prodding him to hurry back to the corridor and through the door he had seen in his mind's eye. He crept to the door and found it slightly ajar. The heavy but delicately scrolled door swung wide to his touch, without sound. Beyond he beheld a high-ceilinged passage, hewn from the rock, with torches lighting the way at regular intervals. The left wall was smooth, curving slowly to the right until in the distance the passage ran on out of sight. The right wall was lined with narrow stone shelves, each supporting the figure of a man in the magnificent robes and crowns of the High Priest, but all formed of gray stone as if made by a master sculptor. These figures were laid head to foot and continued the full length of the passage, running on to round the corner in the distance. Some of the figures appeared very old, with fragments of nose or raiment having broken and fallen to the floor as a thick coating of dust draped everything.

  Korel cautiously made his way down the corridor for what seemed the better part of half an hour when he heard a murmuring voice beyond the curve ahead. After mustering all the stealth he possessed, Korel silently approached the curving threshold from whence the murmurs rose. The voice of the High Priest resonated quietly but powerfully, ". . . yet life continues thus, as long and enduring as the earth itself . . ."

  Another voice, older, more powerful, more resonant, but ever softer, replied, "But the heart itself beats ever more slowly, with dust exulting over all its cares, dust becoming the sinew and sign of the soul, as solid and unwavering but just as cold . . ."

  Pleading mixed with a harrowing fear laced through the words of the second voice. But as if to counter, the first voice was ever more emotionless, pitiless, and cold. Korel pressed forward and beheld the High Priest standing above the shelf where lay the last of the figures of the High Priests of old, vacant shelves continuing on into the gloom of the corridor beyond the edge of sight where all became lost in shadow. The figure lay on the stone shelf, feet, arms, torso, and raiment all made of living rock. But as Korel looked more carefully, he saw the lips and face slowly moving as it spoke to the High Priest standing over. Flakes of dust and chalk collected in the recesses of the eyes and nose as small pieces of flesh-stone fell from the face as it spoke. A faint and sickly-sweet smell of decay touched the air as the pleading eyes of the supine form slowly rolled to suddenly focus sharply on Korel. Although the eyes were silent, they radiated an almost telepathic plea: Help me!

  The High Priest spun to see Korel standing directly behind him. Surprise and anger briefly touched the High Priest's features only to disappear just as suddenly, replaced by a mask of cold serenity. Instantly a horizontal column of ice-blue flame sprang from the priest's eyes and traveled toward Korel as impressions of choral voices touched his mind with the familiar irresistible whisper of sleep . . . only to suddenly vanish away as a figure flew past him and leaped upon the High Priest. In the resulting dust cloud of chaos, cries of fear and anger mixed with snarling bites culminated in a guttural yell of triumph as Hurnix tore at the High Priest's face. The old familiar burning blazed in Korel's gut as he ran back along the corridor the way he had come. Hurnix continued a relentless attack of pure fury as Korel fled, emerging from the corridor and running up the steps leading to the main floor of the monastery. As Korel flew through the entryway and pushed the impossibly large doors aside to emerge upon the outside, Hurnix somehow emerged with him. A low, throaty cry of pain and bitterness rose from within the monastery as the deep portions of the ancient corridor collapsed, issuing sounds of repetitive grinding cracks as if the bones of the Earth were breaking asunder. The monastery's upper levels stood proud and erect but also forlorn as old and tired dust slowly issued from its mouth­like entrance, its bowels obliterated in the crush.

  Korel watched for a time as the last dusty exhalation of the monastery drifted down the side of the mountain, touching the scree with a dusting of brownish rouge, like the color of a fallen despot or the tainted mercy of euthanasia. Finally he turned toward the mountain face, leaving the wind to its final preparations as small dust particles drifted down like the remnants of some kind of cremation lingering in the air.

  The path continued, faint, broken and rough, as though Korel's was the first foot to tread upon it in an age, traveling up along dust-strewn, broken ways scattered with shale. The climb was gradual as in the near distance a ridge marking the backbone of the mountain arched its spine skyward, the final assault before the descent upon the other side. Korel made his way along the meandering path, winding through rock slides, around boulders, across defiles, past areas of scarring and scorched rock that bore the only reminders of a forgotten, violent past. Eventually a large tree, gray-white, leafless, and dead, appeared at the edge of a clearing where flat earth and smooth stone underfoot held sway against the clutter of scattered rock fragments.

  A table grew in the center of the clearing upon a small mound, a piece of the living rock, dead gray in color, with four thick, square, squat legs and a top, flat and even as to nearly reflect the dull ambient light. A column of stone rose at the head of the table, thick and rectangular, fourteen feet tall, spattered with the blood and dust of men lost in the weathers of history; a stern, mute, and sometimes arbitrary witness, a judge of those who passed before its alter. A peace reigned over the site suggesting a sacredness, but whether a sacredness of virtue or of callousness born of a repetitious witness to horrific brutality, Korel could not say.

  Korel sat down on the far edge of the clearing under the dead tree and prepared for nightfall. His index finger had begun to ooze again. Hurnix came up beside him and sat, bending on his haunches like a loyal hound. Evening fell quietly over the clearing as bright stars rode up over the horizon. The peace deepened as sleep gently stole over Korel.

  Chapter 5

  H e walked the halls of the palace with ever-growing confidence. His gift had grown strong and he could bend many a great man to his will, and indeed had done so many times under Syrilla's strict instruction. Despite his military successes and slow but steady rise in standing before the royal court, an emptiness grew within him. Subtle injustices, and some not so subtle, became common among the nobility as if the very air were rank with the ambience of hurt pride and humid with the sorrow of dishonor. But now and again, the shouts of lusts fulfilled or the grins of quiet satisfaction, weaved from the disgrace of victims caught in webs of deceit, emanated from the throats and lips of those who traveled the byways and halls of the palace.

  But she still graced the courtly halls and at times bid him good fortune, merry morning, gentle eve, and a hundred other common niceties abundant among the truly civil but rarely bestowed by the gentry; Korel found them sweet. They would talk often of daily occurrences, of the mundane, yet he looked forward to these encounters with great anticipation. He knew nothing more could come of their relationship, as he was a commoner and she of royal blood. As time passed, both knew that the casual word, the occasional brush of elbows, the myriad common interactions that took place daily among the courtesans became the correspondence of friendship, and more. She became a
sweetness to him that permeated his heart and head and lent all the world a warmness he had never known before. Her name was Arinnea.

  Arinnea's father, Soren, was of a noble family and counseled in the highest circles, giving legal advice but also helping to make legal the will of the king. King Toresten seemed to have no real interest in the law or the legality of his actions, using the sword to author and establish rule. But this did not mean that all those under his rule had no love for the law, and Soren had worked to create a small foundation upon which the rule of law could be built.

  Upon his ascension to the throne, the first law decreed by the king was to banish the Necor, those with the curse of holding malleable portions of mortality, as well as all relics or reminders of their kind. The penalty for keeping Necor relics depended upon their kind: the keeping of rings punished with digital amputation, books with enucleations, and the harboring of Necor fugitives with death.

  Soon after the first law, others followed, including a type of prima nocta, a right highly prized by many of the nobility. These abuses expanded with the growth of the power of the nobles, resulting in some lands being seized and occasionally whole families slaughtered and feasted upon at banquet to atone for perceived or pretended slights of honor. Soren had been trying for some time to have these laws stricken, or at the very least modified, so as to give the commoners recourse but had little to show for his stout efforts.

  Such was the mood of the court when Soren began a discourse before the king, persuasive yet gentle and seductive so as to avoid the appearance of insurrection or any nuance of treason; for although the king held a mild countenance and gave a passable performance at beneficence, his wrath was well known and had grown to the stature of legend.

  "In short, I stand before you in the hope that I may shed a small light upon the minds of the people. Should they at the least be given the ear of a judiciary chosen by your wisdom, it would, I believe, plant the seed of a greater love of your chosen judgment in their regard and be better revered and they better accepting of your reason. This should deepen your persuasion within their hearts and give a more willing—"

  "I have heard this weak droning before, Lord Soren. But you and I both know the corruption that is the Necor and the ills brought upon all by those who sympathize with them. There are even silent beds of treachery that grow within my own walls. Korel, stand before me."

  Korel came forward to stand before the throne of Toresten. Turning to Soren, the king spoke, "Here is a man with what I perceive to be a small bud of that curse of the Necor growing within him. Do you not see it? Denounce him here and now before my face and prove your worth to this court."

  Korel shuddered in utter disbelief. He had never been accused of harboring the Necor, much less of having their curse. Surely this was a lie, a political ploy, but for what? Should he be convicted, he knew he would almost certainly be summarily executed, here and now before all.

  Soren shifted his weight and licked his bone-dry lips. He appeared physically ill and his face was ashen. He began tentatively, "Surely you do not mean to suggest this young man has discredited this throne or in some way impugned his service before your will. He has never—"

  "Perhaps he is serviceable or perhaps he is not. The point is that I desire him denounced. Therefore . . . denounce him now," Toresten said mildly.

  Soren began again, "Surely your word is the pinnacle of wisdom in these matters, but in keeping my own counsel—"

  Then, as Soren spoke, the king seemed to melt, his face sliding down his skull and dripping from his chin, his scalp splitting in two to reveal a blackened, charred head with crude, rudimentary eyes glowing with lava that trickled down from deep inset sockets. His whole body became suddenly fluid, only to swell in an instant, exploding in all directions, giving way to a huge torso with massive limbs, all of blackened rock and tar, steam rising slowly from every aspect, small rivulets of lava flowing from his sides, a thing strong and horribly powerful.

  Soren sat dumbfounded, speechless at last before the thing that had appeared before him. He watched without moving, rooted to the spot, as a huge maw dropped open from the charcoal face. And almost as the tongue of a chameleon, the whole head of the beast sprang forward with lightning speed,, the neck extending, the maw expanding to an impossible breadth. In one fluid motion, Soren was swept up and consumed as a few brief but horrible sounds of crunching bone and burning flesh filled the court.

  In moments the beast melted into a man-sized lump of liquid tar that cooled in seconds to reveal the good King Toresten, seemingly no worse for wear. Except for the fading aroma of burning flesh and the conspicuous absence of Lord Soren, nothing within the court seemed out of the ordinary.

  The numbness that had taken hold of Korel's brain slowly gave way to a cold fury. This was a fury fueled not so much by the brutality of the act he had just witnessed but by the twinkle of suppressed mirth he saw gleaming in the king's eye. What of this could he tell Arinnea?

  "My good Korel," intoned the king, "I do hope you realize I was having a bit of sport with you and my good friend the late Lord Soren. Perhaps one day you and I may have the chance to play again, and perhaps you may entertain better than our former council did. Please give my regards to his daughter Arinnea. You are dismissed, Korel."

  Korel moved through the corridors aimlessly, pondering the implications of what had happened. "Why does Toresten play with me so? Where has he cause to denounce me? Lord Soren seemingly spoke but what he knew of truth, and why should such honesty be repaid as his was? Were there other implications meant in . . ." And so his stricken mind wandered. But as the moments passed, his pace quickened, and he found himself before the quarters of Lord Soren and his daughter. Many quarters were lent to courtesans during seasons of war or negotiation, but since Toresten's ascent, this practice now seemed more a royal whim than practical necessity.

  Korel softly knocked, and when the chamber lady came to the door she blushed politely, fully aware of the proprieties of mingling the common and noble born, especially with regard to subtleties of gender. She murmured, "Milady is alone and the Lord is not here."

  Korel announced in urgent tones, "I come bearing news of her ladyship's father. It is of extreme importance."

  A voice called from deeper within, "Let him in."

  He entered the apartments to see standing before him Arinnea, more beautiful than he had ever seen her. She was radiant before his eyes and her aspect seemed infinite, her hand multiplying the reflected rays of the morning sun coming through a side window, the light seeming to shine from herfingertips to manifest the power of creation as though all that she touched would come alive and rejoice at the caress; a lock of hair hung next to her eye, revealing a gaze that could know the potential of all things and that would cause an undying yearning in all that fell under it to be and become the vision of possibility spied within, a form so simple yet elegant in its ease of movement that all things first envied and then rejoiced in its aspect. All of this flooded into his mind, and in its wake Korel reflected momentarily about the absurdity of this revelation, how his vision of her had been so altered from one moment to the next. "I don't even know her," he mused. Yet his new awareness of Arinnea could not be denied, and Korel knew he loved her.

  His new love mixed strangely with the profound sorrow he felt for Soren, both amplifying and tempering its bitterness. The feeling gripped him as he forced himself to say the terrible thing that must be said. "Lady Arinnea, I bring news of a terrible tragedy. Your father, Lord Soren, is dead."

  Arinnea swayed on her feet and all the light in her being seemed to wink out, as if all of creation suddenly wept and then ceased to be. She cried for several minutes as silent tears fell from her downturned face. Korel explained the circumstances of her father's death as a mounting look of horror bent her features, yet she showed no surprise when at last he fell silent.

  "An ill fate has arisen against my family. For many months I have been courted by a few powerful nobles, many of
whom have strong ties to Toresten. I have not sought these attentions; they are a curious thing in that my suitors are above my station in almost every respect, and what object they seek to obtain through my betrothal I know not. Certainly love for me seems ever further from their minds. My father respected my desire to be free of betrothal as a lever for gaining station alone, for we have long believed in things greater than power. I have needed my father's protection in this matter because, although it is little known, my mother was not of noble birth. She passed away many years ago and my father and I have lived alone since. But now, with my father's passing, I will have little protection from a betrothal not of my choice." Silent tears began once again in a slow descent down her cheeks. Korel reached out and took her hand. The simple sensation of her hand in his was sublime, despite her sorrow, and he began a slow and tender study of it.

  "Tell me of this ring on your hand. It is of very curious workmanship."

  "My mother, as I said, was not of noble birth but did keep this heirloom, which has passed down the generations. I was told it is of great value," replied Arinnea. "She gave it to me before her passing."

  "This ring appears to be Quenivorian," Korel mused in a pensive voice. The ring was braided, with two large sapphires inlayed upon it.

  "I have never heard such. All I know is that it helps keep the memory of my mother alive. It's the only real thing of value I possess," Arinnea whispered softly.

  In the silence that stretched between them, the sorrow for Arinnea that had loitered on the edges of his awareness suddenly expanded, welling up painfully to fill the entire confines of Korel's chest. His was a sorrow born of his own isolation from family as well as his newly developing feelings for Arinnea, and the sweet bitterness swirling inside his mind threatened to overwhelm him. Small, hot tears came to his own eyes and he fought to contain them. Yet he drew Arinnea to him, and through the drops clinging to his face he kissed her gently. She did not seem surprised, as if being kissed under devastating emotional conditions was a part of her, well within her constitution to govern.