Parabolis

by Eddie Han

  “It’s been a long time, dear child,” he said, bowing.

  His voice was a raspy whisper. It suited his weathered face, generously marked by battle scars. A prominent scar ran down his right eye, leaving it with a colorless iris. Even as he greeted his guest with warm words, his expression was stoic, firm.

  “Champion Alaric Linhelm,” said the cleric. “I’m pleased to see that the years have been kind to you.”

  “And you. You’ve grown into your own, haven’t you? A proper sister of the Benesanti now.”

  “The Maker has been gracious to me on this side of life.”

  “Shall I call you Prioress Evenford, then?”

  “Selah is fine.”

  “The name suits you, Selah.”

  In Balean fashion, they spoke humorlessly, without inflection, like mathematicians or librarians.

  “You sound local,” said Alaric, taking note of the cleric’s Meredian accent, or rather, the lack of a Balean one.

  “I should hope so. It’s been quite some time since I’ve taken to life in the Republic.”

  The templar paused, suspicious of every passerby within earshot, before finally snatching her books and satchel.

  “Come. This is no place to dawdle.” He hurried out of the station where his coach was waiting for them. Four more templar guarded it. They wore polished helms, breastplates, gauntlets and greaves. Their armor shimmered in the morning sun as they stood vigil with their tower shields and their signature broadswords that measured shoulder high from tip to pommel.

  After loading her belongings and settling into the car, Alaric seemed more at ease.

  “Forgive me for rushing you, child,” he added, “but there are eyes lurking in the shadows. And this city has many shadows.”

  The carriage started toward the temple.

  “That dangerous, is it?”

  “Carnaval City is no Lumarion.”

  Gazing out the window, Selah softly muttered, “Brilliant.”

  “You have nothing to worry about. I’ll keep my good eye on you.”

  A small patch of fog formed on the window from Selah’s breath. She poked two eyes into it and completed a smiling face with a swipe. Then she turned to Alaric. “Just the same, I’d feel safer with a sword of my own.”

  “You still know your way around steel?”

  “Of course.”

  “All this time in service of the cloth has not softened you?”

  “Is this a challenge?”

  Alaric huffed.

  “It’s not easy to forget when I’ve learned from the best,” Selah added.

  Alaric folded his arms across his chest and sighed. “Aye. The best I most certainly was, before my body began to betray me.”

  “Making excuses? That is unlike you, Alaric.”

  “Be mindful of the robes you wear, child. A sword has no place in the hands of a cleric.”

  Selah glanced out the window just in time to catch a group of mischievous children fleeing a candy store. Tracking them with her eyes until they disappeared beyond view, she said, “If I were born a man, I could’ve been a templar.”

  “Aye. A fine one at that.”

  Then she looked at Alaric.

  “And had you been born a lass, what kind of cleric would you have been? I wonder.”

  Again, Alaric huffed.

  “I would’ve been far too pretty to be a cleric.”

  Selah smiled. But the smile faded as quickly as it had appeared. She looked over at this old man and her thoughts drifted into a distant past when she knew Alaric only as her mother’s friend. A past when her smiles were more frequent.

  The carriage pulled into the West Gate of the temple grounds. At its center was one of four temples in the entire world, ornately decorated with reliefs carved into its whitewashed façade, and skyscraping spires guarded by gargoyles perching on every corner. Flanking it on either side was the College of Sisters for the clerics and the barracks of the Vail Templar.

  Serving as monuments of the Benesanti’s vast global influence, each temple had been erected in four select cities in each of the four corners of Parabolis. This one, in Carnaval City, represented the whole of Groveland.

  “There are rumors,” said Selah, unmoved by the architectural marvel.

  “What kind of rumors?”

  “I’ve heard that Duke Thalian is preparing for an invasion. Is this true?”

  “I don’t know,” Alaric replied. “But pray that it is not.”

  CH 09

  HOME

  The city teemed with traders, sidewalk musicians, street performers. A prophet stood on his soapbox. And in the shadows lurked the swindlers and strangers. Progress had changed the backdrop; the buildings were newer, taller, shinier. Most of the street vendors had given way to rows of storefronts. But the feel of Carnaval City endured. Dale hailed a cabriolet and took it to the waterfront, hoping to find his bearings in more familiar surroundings. As he rode into the old neighborhood, Dale saw that it too had transformed under the hand of progress. There was now a large cannery where there once was an outdoor market. Beyond the wharf was the monument of modern progress known as the Spegen. It was a contraction of “Steam Powered Electric Generator,” or the “S.P.E. Gen,” a smaller counterpart to the massive thermal power plant in Pharundelle. Its steady hum, and not the crashing waves of the bay, had become the new ubiquitous sound of the waterfront.

  The familiar smell of freshly baked baguettes drew Dale into the old bakery. It was smaller than he remembered. A little rusty bell rang as he entered. There was a young woman wiping down the counter, her fingernails painted dark purple. She had a delicate frame and a porcelain-sculpted face. Her ears were poking out of her dark brown hair that fell short of her shoulders and naturally curled up just below the jaw line.

  “Mo?”

  “Excuse me?” she asked, startled.

  Her voice was soft as a song. Her eyes lit up. Though nineteen years old, Mosaic Shawl still had the face of a child with full triangle lips. Her large doe eyes were kind and curious.

  “Dale? Dale! Papa, it’s Dale!” she yelled as she ran around the counter.

  Before he knew it, there was an onslaught of hugs and kisses. And questions. Finally, Uncle Turkish burst out. “Okay, hey, let’s give the boy some room.” With that he led Dale to their table in the corner and placed a plate of fresh bread in front of him. “It’s damn good to see you, boy.”

  “You too, Uncle.”

  “How was the trip?”

  “Nice.”

  “Long, I imagine.”

  “Long, but nice.”

  “How about some port to wet your beak?”

  “You got anything lighter?”

  “Sure, we’ve got some white wine and I think I’ve got some bottled ale in the back.”

  “Actually, could I get some chocolate milk?”

  “Heh! Did you hear that, love?”

  Turkish poured himself a glass of port while Cora Tess prepared a cold glass of creamy chocolate milk for Dale.

  “Just the way you like it,” she said, setting it down in front of him.

  She watched with satisfaction as Dale cleared half its contents.

  “Gosh, I missed this,” he said. A cocoa mustache coated his upper lip. “This really is an art, Auntie. That golden ratio of powdered chocolate, sugar, and milk. I don’t know how you do it.”

  She touched her ear and laughed.

  Mosaic smiled in the back. “Never knew you were a connoisseur of a five-year-old’s drink,” she said.

  “Never mind her,” said Cora Tess.

  “You just let me know when you want a proper drink,” said Turkish, lifting his glass of port. “I’ve got an excellent bottle of brandy at home I’ve been meaning to open.”

  Cora Tess then clasped her hands together, an epiphanic expression on her face. “I’ll whip up a fig cake just for you.”

  “No, don’t trouble yourself, Auntie,” Dale tried.

  “Nonsense. There’s alwa
ys a lull in the afternoon. Might as well make myself useful.”

  Cora Tess grew up in an era of wars and famines. She was familiar with both and what they did to the value of food. For her, love was feeding someone a good meal. Whenever Darius and Dale would visit as kids, she’d give them a big hug and with great enthusiasm say, “Auntie will make you boys something really good!”

  Having finished wiping down the tables and packaging orders placed for pickup, Mosaic quickly changed out of her apron. She stopped by the table, apologizing that she had to get to rehearsals for an upcoming performance at the Halo’s Concert Hall. Apparently, she had taken up the piano a few years back as a part of her studies and turned out to be quite a talented musician.

  “I wish I could stay and catch up.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Dale. “We’ll have plenty of time for that. Get going.”

  “Will you be home for dinner?” asked Cora Tess.

  “I don’t think so.” Mosaic gave her a peck on the cheek.

  Seeing her interact with her parents only made their age difference more pronounced. They’d had Mosaic late; Dale’s uncle and aunt were old enough to be her grandparents.

  “Well, don’t be too late.”

  “Don’t wait up. Love you.”

  She slipped into her coat and gave Dale another hug.

  “It’s good to have you back,” she said.

  Then she walked out, shoelaces untied. She hopped on her rusty old bicycle and waved through the window before peddling off.

  “There she goes again,” said Turkish, shaking his head. “Always on the go, that one.”

  “I hardly recognized her. Can’t believe it.”

  “Can’t say much about her fashion sensibilities, but she’s blossomed into quite a beautiful young lady.”

  “Bet there’s some boys sniffing around here, huh?”

  “Keeps me up at night,” Turkish replied. They all laughed.

  “Don’t worry about it, Uncle. Just give me a list and I’ll take care of them.”

  “No! There is no list. That’s the problem. She’s too busy for boys. Every morning, she’s in here with us, and every afternoon, if she’s not buried in her books, she’s off to the Concert Hall. She has no interest in boys at all. Is that normal?”

  “Really? That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know. It just doesn’t seem right. Most boys and girls her age are given to some chasing. Not Mosaic. Not that one.”

  “Can’t rush a lass into love,” said Cora Tess from behind the counter.

  “Love? I’m not talking about love. I’m talking about marriage. Grandchildren.”

  “There you go again.”

  “I just want to know when,” Turkish directed over his shoulder. He turned back to a smiling Dale and gave him a wink. Then he poured himself another glass. “Speaking of love, anyone in your life?”

  “No, nobody.”

  “Well, I’m sure you’ll have no trouble finding a nice girl to settle down with in town.”

  Dale shrugged.

  “What about Darius?”

  “He settles down with someone new every time he’s on leave.”

  Turkish gave an approving smirk. Then they both burst into laughter.

  “By the way, he sends his regards,” Dale added.

  “Oh? He visited you?”

  “In Pharundelle just before I got out. He tried to talk me out of it. He wanted me to join him at the Ancile.”

  “So why didn’t you?”

  “I don’t know,” he replied, swirling the chocolate milk around in his glass. “I was just done.”

  There was a pause.

  “Well, probably for the best. You pay your respects to your parents yet?”

  “I came straight here.”

  “Right, well, you make sure you do that.”

  “I will.”

  “When was the last time you saw your father?”

  “When I graduated.”

  Turkish shook his head. Then he disappeared behind the counter and returned with an envelope.

  “Here,” he said, removing some documents and sliding them across the table. “I had these prepared as soon as I received your wire.”

  They were the deed to his father’s house along with a key and an application for a business license.

  “Now, I’ve registered you with the Department of Commerce, but you’ll have to go in yourself to change the title of ownership on the breaker when you apply.”

  “Thanks for taking care of that,” said Dale.

  “If it were anyone else, I’d tell him that it’s not a good time for business. But you’re your father’s son. Your father knew how to thrive wherever he was with whatever he had. I’m sure you’ll do the same.” Turkish took a shallow sip of his port. Then he stared off into the distance. “You know, I never told you this, but I didn’t like him very much when your mother first introduced me.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Same reason you don’t like the idea of boys sniffing around here. I wasn’t about to let my baby sister get swept up by just anybody. And especially not some poor kid from Albia.”

  “What’s wrong with Albians?”

  “They had a reputation back then for being passionate. And by passionate, I mean short tempered and impulsive. You know anything about that?” Turkish asked with a smirk.

  “Little bit.”

  “I still remember the first time I met him. I was a few years older than you are now, and he and your mother were, what? Seven years younger? They were just kids, the two of them. We had him over for dinner and I remember he was terribly nervous. You couldn’t tell by the look on his face, but he kept rubbing his palms against his trousers. He didn’t say much. Didn’t eat much, either. I asked him what he did. He looked me straight in the eyes and told me he shined shoes at the Central Station. That’s what he was doing at the time, he and your grandfather. Shining shoes. It paid for his schooling and school is where he met your mother. You know that. Anyway, I laughed at him when he told me what he did—a shoe shiner. I asked him how he expected to support your mother. I asked him if that’s the kind of life he thought my sister deserved. And I still remember the look on his face. He looked at me like he was about to jump the table. He said, ‘Your sister deserves to be happy. And I will do whatever it takes to make her happy.’ He wasn’t rubbing his trousers anymore. The following week, he dropped his classes and took up a second job as a hired hand at the shipping yard. Every morning, before shining shoes, your father broke his back working at the docks. He worked those two jobs for over three years. For peanuts. But he saved every bit of it and put it into that house—your house. Then he asked your mother to marry him. Your father understood the meaning of love. I didn’t laugh at him much after that.”

  “When did he start the breaker?”

  “When Darius was born. Your grandfather passed away around the same time and left him some money. He put all of it down on some abandoned docks and turned that thing into the ship-breaking yard. Who’s ever heard of a ship-breaking yard? But that’s what he did. Found himself a niche and started his own business. Your father was a clever man. And a damn hard worker.”

  “Aye, he was a good man,” chimed Cora Tess, coming out from the kitchen.

  Turkish tossed back the remaining port in his glass.

  “A man of his word too,” he said. “He made your mother very happy. Gave her everything she deserved and more.”

  “I wish I knew her,” said Dale.

  “Your mother?” Turkish snorted. “Oh, there wasn’t a creature alive that didn’t love her. She was a beauty. She didn’t think about herself much. And saw the best in people. She could see way back then what your father could be when he was shining shoes at the station. It’s almost like he lived up to what she saw in him.”

  Turkish sighed and poured himself another glass of port. Dale sat staring at the keys in his hand.

  “Go on, now. You’ve made a long journ
ey. Go home and get settled in. After you visit your mother and father, come by the house for supper. We’ll have a feast ready. And maybe even open that bottle of brandy.”

  “What about the cake?” Dale asked.

  “We’ll have it for dessert,” said Cora Tess. “Now off with you.”

  Dale thanked them and wandered back into the streets, heading to his father’s house. The house he’d grown up in. He was relieved to see it unmolested by modernity. Just as he remembered it, the house sat nestled in a row of old shops and eateries along the boardwalk. As he approached the house, he paused to take in that familiar smell, the fishy, salted air of the bay.

  The doorknob was loose. Inside, there was a musty odor of an abandoned home. Dale walked toward the kitchen and saw a thin layer of dust on the dining table. The wall clock was still ticking. He ran his fingers along the old cast iron furnace. Cold. Then he noticed the faded black and white photographs lined along the fireplace mantle. They were the same photos of Darius and Dale as young children. At the end were two recent graduation photos from the Academy. And then there were the two pulled in front of his mother. Dale studied each closely as he had just about every day growing up. The mother he had never known, frozen. In one she looked serious. In the other, in which she stood in his father’s embrace, his mother smiled almost in laughter. His father looked especially strange. He was smiling. Beaming. Suddenly, Dale realized he couldn’t remember the sound of his father’s laughter. He realized his father had never known a day of joy since his mother’s death—since Dale’s birth. A lump formed in his throat. He cleared his throat and went over to the kitchen cabinet where his father used to store his liquor. There was a half-emptied bottle of bourbon.

  Thanks, Pops.

  Dale sat at the dining table, lit a smoke and sipped from the bottle.

  After he’d finished settling in, he hiked up to the cemetery by the abandoned lighthouse overlooking the bay. His father was buried beside his mother. The grave was marked with a simple stone block that read: Mikhail Sunday, proud father, loving husband, faithful servant.

  Ever since he received news about his father’s passing, Dale thought about this moment. He played through in his mind the things he would say: the apologies, the gratitude, the things he should’ve said to his living father. Standing there over his grave, Dale could not bring himself to say anything. He took a quick scan of the empty cemetery. Then he muttered under his breath, “I hope you see her now, Dad.”