The Immortal Crown

by Kieth Merrill

  “The gods were troubled by the noise created by mankind so they held a council and agreed humanity should be destroyed by drowning in a great flood that the gods would send—”

  “No, no, go ahead. Past the rain and the flood to where the animals are all gone and Tishpiin plants the garden and is blessed by the gods.” Kublan fluttered his fingers impatiently.

  Loremaster Quohorn turned the page, found the new place in the text, and began again. “The gods were pleased by Tishpiin’s sacrifice. Ea persuaded Enlil to bless Tishpiin and his wife, and the gods granted them immortality in a beautiful garden beyond the rivers.

  “Many years later, a man named Melgeshrabin arrived at the garden and asked Tishpiin to grant him immortality. Tishpiin agreed to the request, but only if Melgeshrabin could remain awake for seven days and seven nights. As soon as Tishpiin finished speaking, Melgeshrabin fell asleep. Tishpiin instructed his wife to bake a loaf of bread for every day he slept so Melgeshrabin could not deny his failure.

  “Tishpiin prepared to send Melgeshrabin away, but in secret, his wife revealed to Melgeshrabin the location of a magical plant that grew at the bottom of the ocean. It was the plant of endless life and would make him young again and bring him power over death—immortality.

  “Melgeshrabin followed her directions and tied heavy stones to his feet so he could walk on the bottom of the sea. He found the plant of endless life and brought it from up the depths. He began the journey home to Uruk. Before eating the plant himself, however, Melgeshrabin stopped to bathe and fell asleep. It was then that the plant of endless life was stolen and eaten by a serpent. When Melgeshrabin woke, the serpent had shed its skin and was reborn!”

  “Reborn . . . reborn . . . reborn . . .” The echo of the promise lingered in the silence before it was swallowed by the shadows of the vaulted arch.

  “You must bring me the plant of endless life,” the king commanded.

  The assembly of magi flitted their eyes to each other lest they alone be skeptical and find themselves abandoned. Their fears were ill-founded. Rigid posture, pursed lips, and raised eyebrows showed little change of heart. The soothsayer fiddled with the talisman around his neck.

  The Wizard of Maynard swallowed hard and wet his lips. He stepped down from his stool and bowed to the king. “With humility for my ignorance, your greatness, but there are some who say this plant is only a myth.”

  The king squinted and rubbed the back of his neck but did not speak. His silence was taken as a willingness to listen, and others found the courage to speak. The comments that followed were insightful. Each was crafted to lead the king to his own conclusions. None dared a declaration of their doubts.

  The wizard spoke again. “There are many tellings of the great deluge, m’lord.”

  “Is it not written in the oldest versions of the story that the serpent became the guardian of the sea and no one but Tishpiin was ever able to obtain the plant of endless life?” Sorcerer Vorrold offered.

  The king looked to the loremaster, who averted his eyes but then bobbed his head in slow affirmation.

  “Even the mighty Melgeshrabin lived out his life in Uruk and abandoned hope of regenerated youth and immortality,” the Dwarf added.

  “He wished to overcome death, but he could not even conquer sleep,” Bawork said softly, but his words fell like heavy stones.

  The king sagged back into the pillows. If any present continued to breathe it could not be heard. At last the king looked at Than-lun. “You, transformer of the elements, shall help me do what Melgeshrabin could not. You will prepare an elixir that will make me tireless, hold my eyes open, and keep me awake for seven days.”

  Every head turned toward the alchemist as if they were connected, and the man grimaced.

  “And when this dreadful ordeal of sleeplessness is over, you will bring the plant from the bottom of the sea for me to eat.”

  The alchemist took a few steps forward. “I can prepare a potion of insomnia, m’lord king, and do so immediately, but finding the plant . . .” He looked to his brothers for help. The wizard came to his rescue.

  “For you, your greatness, we are willing to search the isles of Otherland and go beyond the Mountains at the End of Time, but the sea that runs to the edge of the world is vast, m’lord, and the bottom is endless.”

  “Are you nothing but charlatans? If it was no more than a search for a thimble in a silly child’s game, I would have no need of you. You must summon the spirits who travel the earth and know all things and conjure demons with the power to destroy the guardian serpent.”

  “By your leave, great king.” The loremaster stepped forward. He steadied his trembling frame with a hand on the iron claw. “I am the least among you. In the shadow of your wisdom, my insights are but shucks in the wind.” His tone returned to that of the storyteller. “Melgeshrabin returned to Uruk, and as he drew nigh, he saw the splendor of the massive walls, fine buildings, and graceful gardens. The sight of them inspired him to praise the enduring works of mortal men. You, omnipotent and mighty king, have created enduring works. You have left your mark forever on the world. The magnificent castle of Kingsgate will stand as a monument to your greatness until the end of time. Perhaps the true meaning of the epic of Melgeshrabin is that immortality is not regenerated youth or endless life, but the lasting works of civilization that forever change the world.”

  A hum of wonder escaped the magi like a swarm of bees in a field of clover.

  Kublan huddled in his cushions and stared into the swirl of wine in his goblet. The oppressive pall of silence made the chamber feel small. At last, the king turned to the high pontiff, who stood with his head bowed and his fingers steepled under his nose. His brows were scrunched, as if he strained to hear the whispering of the gods.

  “What is the truth, holy man? Is it my destiny to build this castle and die or rule forever as the gods intend?”

  The high pontiff looked to the vaulted ceiling as if his words were written in the air. In truth, they were well rehearsed and written in his head. “As the voice of the heavens and as your humble holy servant, I tell you truly that the sons of Anu can grant immortality to a man of earth. You are vicegerent of the gods upon the earth, and thus if you declare these things true, so shall it be, for you can do no wrong.”

  “And the stars, faithful Raven?” the king asked. “What do the stars speak?”

  “Aligned in favor of your greatness, and the moon also. In the very hour the vision of your destiny distills upon our minds, the moon turns to the color of blood.”

  The king stood slowly. By the time he got to his feet, the mystics of the order were off their stools and bowing.

  “Go and do this thing the gods ordain,” he said, then descended the steps from the throne and stood among them on the floor of the chamber. “Surely your wisdom and the powers of your incantations taken together can bring this about. It will be the magnum opus of your lives. Songs will be sung of you and your mighty works as long as the earth shall be.” He raised his eyebrows, his face beaming the answer to his own question. “Will I not be here in endless time to insure that the songs of praise to you shall never fade? The immortality of your king must be your life’s work.”

  With a modest and unusual nod to show respect, the king left them. As he was about to exit the chamber, he turned back. “This must be done before the council of First Landing. Who of my enemies can withstand a kingdom united by the will of an immortal sovereign?”

  The fierce eyes of the peacock glared down upon those charged to bring the mad king the secret of immortality, its beak poised to pluck their heads from their bodies should they fail.

  CHAPTER 22

  Meesha was in the great hall when the rider wearing kings­rider’s armor arrived with the unwelcome news that the hunting expedition of Prince Kadesh-Cor would reach Stókenhold Fortress by nightfall, the day after next. He’d been sent in adva
nce, as was the custom.

  Meesha was startled by the news.

  Though born of different mothers and many years apart, Kadesh-Cor was Meesha’s half brother. He was the son of Tolak’s first wife, Arina, daughter of Remos-Kahn of House Romagónian. She had been taken by the black death in the plagues of annum 1059. Tolak rarely spoke of her.

  Meesha was three years old when Tolak was exiled from Blackthorn and the dominions of the north were given to Kadesh-Cor by their grandfather, the king. She had only seen Kadesh-Cor once in the many years since then and hardly remembered him from her life at Blackthorn as a little girl. She remembered being afraid of his badly behaved boys, and those childhood fears had turned to disdain once she was old enough to understand what happened to her father.

  She had been too young to remember any of it. Valnor had been the one who told her that it was Kadesh-Cor who betrayed their father and brought about his exile. Tolak never spoke of his son’s betrayal or the conflict with his own father, but to this day, Meesha felt a flush of anger at the mention of his name or the names of his awful sons.

  Little as she knew of the schism that had divided her family, she understood the reunion would be fraught with apprehension and distrust. What dire events resulted in a father exiling his only son? Could such disloyalty ever be forgiven by either a father or a son?

  Meesha knew the kings­rider had not come as a courtesy to announce the arrival. Rather it was a warning for Tolak and his household to prepare to host his son, not as family, but as the esteemed Baron Magnus of Blackthorn and prince of the North together with his princeling sons, Sargon and Chor.

  Princeling sons! Must I truly stand before that prig again?

  She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. It had been thirteen years since the last time she’d been face-to-face with Sargon, but surely he had not forgotten what happened. He was not a person who would ever forget or forgive such humiliation.

  The moment the kings­rider departed, Meesha retreated to her room, closing and locking the door. She stood at the broken mirror and stared at the dark stain of her face, angry with herself for obsessing over a blemish she could otherwise easily ignore. But now the day was almost upon her. That loathsome boy was coming. Boy? No longer. He was now a grown man.

  The light from the window fell away as a cloud moved across the sun. In shadow, the crimson stain of her face turned purple, almost black. A flutter of moon moths erupted in Meesha’s stomach.

  Her memory of Sargon as the bully child of Blackthorn, pointing at her wine-red face with mocking chants, should have faded by now, but his meanness toward her lived in a dark corner where shame was not easily forgotten.

  She was certain Sargon had only seen her once after she’d left Blackthorn as a child. She was fourteen, and he had come with his father to Stókenhold Fortress. The memory was as crisp as yesterday.

  It was the first time Kadesh-Cor had seen his father since Tolak had been exiled ten years before. A palpable tension filled the halls of Stókenhold Fortress. The antagonism separating her father and his oldest son was far greater than the seventy leagues between Blackthorn and Stókenhold Fortress.

  Meesha’s governess had been all aflutter about the visit of Kadesh-Cor and his “handsome young sons.” She reminded Meesha that the younger boy was about her age. The woman enjoyed a well-earned reputation as a matchmaker.

  “The king may mandate such a marriage,” the governess had encouraged with hopeful eyes.

  The thought of seeing Sargon was dreadful enough. The thought of marrying him made her sick to her stomach. She took solace in her confidence that no princeling could ever want a girl with such a face.

  Meesha saw the teenaged sons of Kadesh-Cor before the boys saw her. She planned it that way. In spite of her resolve, she needed that advantage to bolster her courage.

  Remember the impression that came in the light, she reminded herself. Trust your feelings.

  She watched from her hiding spot on the balcony above the great hall as her father greeted his son and grandsons. It was strange to have a nephew only a year older.

  Half nephew, she thought to distance herself.

  Sargon was fifteen. It was shocking to see him as a young man. The puffy face in Meesha’s memory was that of an ugly little boy. He was not as tall as his brother but handsome in a soft and coddled sort of way.

  Nothing like Valnor, Meesha thought proudly. Then her stomach fluttered, and she fought the misgivings that flew into her head. Will he say something rude about my face? The discomforting thought challenged her resolve.

  She tugged up on the bodice of her dress and flushed with the recognition at how much she had changed in the past year. She wanted to fill her lungs, hold her breath, and calm her nerves, but it was impossible. Her breathing was constricted by the corset cinched tight and laced up on either side. If her governess’s goal had been to give her figure a swelling of softness at the neckline, she was more than successful. Meesha tugged at the bodice again.

  “Your father wishes to make peace with his son,” Meesha’s mother had said when she appealed to her and Valnor to be civil and well-mannered. Meesha would do anything for her father—including wearing a dress.

  Meesha watched as Sargon crossed the hall with his father and took his place at the large table directly below the balcony on which she stood. She had heard him described as “affected by the arrogance of Blackthorn.” Affected or infected? She had giggled out loud at the thought. She hadn’t understood what was meant by it until now. Watching Sargon fuss with the ruffles of his blouse as he was escorted to his padded chair made it very clear.

  “Meesha?” Her mother had come to escort her to the great hall to meet the guests. On their way down, her mother reminded her that her nephew should be addressed as “Princeling Sargon.”

  Half nephew, Meesha reminded herself again, grateful it put distance between them. Grateful their blood was not the same.

  Kadesh-Cor nodded to Meesha. “You remember Sargon, my son and princeling of House Kublan?” He emphasized the bloodline and punished Tolak with a disdainful glance. “You were children together at Blackthorn.”

  Meesha caught her half brother’s eyes flitting to the blemished side of her face. She struggled to hold an expression of ambivalence.

  Kadesh-Cor turned to his son. “Do you remember Meesha?”

  “How could I forget Auntie Meesha,” Sargon oozed with a condescending smirk.

  Meesha dipped slightly in a curtsey and held out her hand, taking care to keep the dark side of her face turned away. The rules of etiquette for greeting kith and kin of common blood mandated a kiss upon the hand and then upon each cheek.

  The courtesy of the kiss had been tainted, however, when the rebel Orsis-Kublan kissed the conquered queen of Omnnús-Kahn. As warriors of his rebel army shouted, hooted, and looked on, he had kissed her on the hand, on her arm, and then on her lips before dragging her husband from the Peacock Throne and cutting off his head. Whether fact or folklore, the thought of it sickened Meesha, but she held her resolve.

  Sargon took Meesha’s hand. She turned her face to him and smiled. His gaze turned to stone. He could not rip his eyes from the blemish on her face. By his expression, one might have thought he was looking at an evil spirit painted there in a crust of dried blood.

  She could feel his hand trembling in hers. What social grace or chosen word was proper? What etiquette could possibly allow him to escape? There was none. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. His face betrayed his thoughts more loudly than his voice ever could, and Meesha could almost hear them.

  How could I be expected to touch that face? How can I touch my lips to that crimson skin? How can I not be infected? His face twisted into an odd expression, and still she divined his thoughts. If I fail to follow etiquette, what will my father think of me? What will these others think of me? What will this pitiful girl think
of me?

  Meesha smiled as Princeling Sargon’s marvelous manners were swallowed in his gauche, self-conscious stupor. “It’s a birthmark, m’lord half nephew,” she said. “It is nothing but the pigment of my skin. It is not the mark of evil as the ignorant believe. You think me a witchchild, dear lovely Sargon?” Her tone was mocking.

  A tremor of humiliation cause the boy’s face to twitch. He closed his mouth and looked to his father for rescue. There was none.

  Meesha brought him back. “Would you like to touch it, m’lord?” Without waiting for an answer, she lifted his hand to her face and placed his palm against her cheek. “It’s nothing you can catch,” she said, “not like the black death or the plague.” Without releasing his trembling hand, she kissed him on both his cheeks. “But, then, I can’t be sure.”

  The boy of fancy manners became a stupid oaf. He stumbled backward, rubbing his face as if the blemish was contagious and had set his skin on fire. He tripped on a bench and fell hard on his buttocks. There was a hearty bellow of laughter from almost everyone.

  Meesha covered her mouth with her fingers to hide her broad grin. Her eyes flitted to her father. Tolak was smiling at the boy’s comeuppance but was too much of a gentleman to laugh out loud with the others.

  Kadesh-Cor flushed and clenched his jaw. His eyes heaved javelins at those who laughed. Not for the boy’s sake, Meesha could see, but from his own mortification.

  She glanced at the blushing Princeling Sargon, who fumbled to regain his feet before falling again. It was now his face that glowed bright crimson—both sides—and his neck and ears.