by Marin Landis
“What about me? Has anyone left me any money?” Janesca asked hopefully.
“What is your name?”
“Janesca. That’s it. I’m an orphan.” She responded almost sadly.
“There’s nothing here for you.”
Melvekior thought of the three crowns he had left on him and how quickly he had lost most of what he brought from home. He couldn’t imagine he’d need any large sums apart from his lodgings. He also felt bad for Janesca who almost got herself permanently killed for a job that paid a pittance.
“I’ll return should I need any actual funds, thank you very much Hatavva.”
She nodded without looking up.
They returned to The Maiden in good spirits. Her that he hadn’t shown her the door, metaphorically and he that he suddenly was richer than he thought.
That ended abruptly when they opened the door to his suite.
Accus sat in a chair looking sheepish and two King’s guards stood either side of him and a black robed man stood at the area where the table was. It had been upended and pushed to the side.
“Who are you exactly? Get out of my room!” Melvekior spoke with more bravado than he felt. These were King’s guards. He could probably fight his way out, but that wouldn’t be wise, the King wouldn’t like it. He had a sinking feeling.
Janesca screamed and he turned quickly to see her being accosted by a third guard he hadn’t seen. He reached to draw his mace and felt a cold sensation assail him. He looked down to see an oddly skeletal hand take hold of his wrist. The man in black gripped him with the strength of death, whispered some words and then everything fell apart.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Three Kings
“Power is a false God. You’re the King, everyone loves you and you have whatever you want, but nothing is any different. I felt more alive when I was a marauding conqueror. What point peace? What use immortality?” - Calra Alpre
“Lord Martelle, I apologize wholeheartedly for the manner in which you were brought here. I hope it will not sour things between us. Please have some wine.”
King Calra Alpre XVII was a well practiced orator and his voice made Melvekior sit up and pay attention. Even through the haze of unconsciousness. It was a struggle but he opened his eyes and looked around, trying to get his bearings.
The room he was in was like a tavern’s common room but it was totally deserted. There were a couple of tables on the other side of the room but they were covered in dust. There was a lot of dust in the room actually, as though it hadn’t been ventilated for years. A tall freestanding mirror was conspicuous by its lack of dust. The frame golden and the mirror itself black as the night.
He was, uncomfortably, half-sitting, half-laying on a padded leather chair. He pulled himself up to a proper sitting position and then regarded the King who sat in a similar chair opposite him. Between them was a small round table on which there was a large wine bottle covered in more dust, but recently opened and three glasses filled halfway with a deep red liquid. He wasn’t about to drink that.
The King was dressed in royal robes, purple with gold filigree. Far too fancy but he supposed the King wasn’t able to choose his own clothing. He sat with one leg crossed over the other, leaning back watching Melvekior in turn. His green eyes twinkled with inappropriate amusement and he stroked his black beard as he contemplated. Melvekior’s instinct was to leap to the attack but this was the King.
Melvekior looked to his right where the black clad man sat. The one who had grabbed his wrist with his cold, bony hand. He almost jumped in shock when he noticed him. He knew there was another person there but realizing that it was this wizard or whatever he was, made him shy away instinctively.
Melvekior stood up abruptly, keeping his balance with some effort. He bowed low at the waist. “Your Majesty, I am your humble servant.” He turned to the man in black. “Who do I have the pleasure of addressing, sir?” He’d much rather punch this creepy bastard, but one doesn’t just assault strangers in front of one's monarch.
“That, Lord Martelle, is the Mage Lord of Thacritus, and he speaks only when he must.”
“I see,” he bowed once more, “I am happy to meet you, Sire.” He only knew of this man through rumor and conjecture. He was the head of state of Thacritus, a Magocracy, a country ruled by powerful magic wielding death worshipers. A very powerful and scary individual by all accounts. What in the name of Mithras was going on here? Where was Janesca and Accus? He was surprised he was able to keep his cool. His father had beaten manners into him and Aeldryn demanded proper etiquette in public, so he knew how to behave before royalty, as much as it went against his natural inclination. He sat politely, changed his mind about the wine, drank half of it in one mouthful and looked at the King expectantly.
“I suppose you might know why we’ve brought you here?” Calra asked coolly.
“Something to do with this amulet.” He fingered the amulet he wore beneath his tunic, revealing it. “The power it holds is beyond belief and I was trying to return it to you, you must understand that, Sire. Neither I, nor my father, would ever seek to keep that which belongs to the Crown. As loyal a subject as you…”
King Alpre waved his hand. “You do not need to remind me of your father’s loyalty, young Martelle. He and I were great allies and he was e’er a friend to the Crown. You are no different and it was not from me you have stolen, but Prince Sunar of Maresh-Kar. He is, or was, a friend of your father’s also, so I cannot fathom why or how you come into ownership of his medallion. Would you care to enlighten us?” There was an edge to Calra's words and Melvekior had no doubt that Sunar could have been invited to this meeting but for whatever reason was not. That gave him hope for a positive outcome.
“Your Majesty,” he began, “a few months ago my father had Prince Sunar as a guest for some or other reason and during the visit noted that he wore an amulet. Similar to the one I see you wear now and my father, as impetuous and passionate as he was, believed it to be the selfsame one you have on your person at this very moment. Thinking it a grand gesture, or maybe even a grand jest, he created a replica of the piece and swapped the Prince’s with the newly crafted jewelry, intending to bring it to you in short order. Before he could, he died, leaving it with me, innocent and ignorant of its origins or intended use.” Melvekior finished his soliloquy by looking at each member of his audience of two, trying to gauge a reaction.
From the Mage Lord he got nothing, King Alpre however nodded knowingly.
“I knew it would be something with nobility at its heart. Your father’s memory shall not be tarnished by accusation, Melvekior. I am satisfied that you are telling the truth.”
Melvekior breathed, not realizing until then that he had been holding his breath. He hadn’t told the truth, making it a sigh of relief more than anything.
“So, if you can return the amulet to me, unused, we can forget about this whole incident.” The King looked at him with no expression on his face.
There is always something, thought the young knight.
“My liege, that will not be possible.” The King frowned and Melvekior continued hurriedly. “I can return this,” he ran his thumb beneath the cord which held the amulet, “immediately, should you so desire, but it is not unused.”
This drew a dry chuckle from the robed Mage and Calra's frown deepened.
“Your comment earlier, about the power it holds being beyond belief…” he let it hang there unsaid and then said it. “You’ve seen what it can do then?”
“I have. My father, in another’s body.”
The Mage let forth a pensive “hmm,” and the King started. Neither had expected this.
“Where is he now, son?”
“Dead again, I regret to report, his host returned to her natural self. The woman I was with when, umm, I received your invitation to attend this gathering.” His small whimsy was ignored.
“Child, you must repeat this in finer detail, but do so with my prompting only.” The Mage Lord
spoke, his cracked voice making him appear older than already he did. An ancient, withered, stick, sitting forward looking almost fragile.
“I will, Lord.” Melvekior promised, inwardly loathing this repulsive old fossil.
“Your father’s animus inhabited that of another, but has now since passed yet again and his host body’s original animus has now returned.” He stated this. “Do I have it correct?”
“Yes, Lord. If by animus, you mean soul or spirit.”
“I do. This is most intriguing. Calra, I need to see this woman of whom he speaks.”
“She is in the mirror room, I will return shortly.” He stood, lifted his robes slightly to prevent dragging them on the dusty floor and stepped through the mirror. Melvekior was left with the Mage Lord of Thacritus.
Little was generally known of the mysterious ruler of that equally mysterious kingdom and less than that by Melvekior. They had no diplomatic relations with other kingdoms, so he was surprised to see him here and even more so to hear him issue commands to King Alpre that were promptly obeyed. What he did know made it unsettling to be in the same room with the man. He looked over and smiled briefly. The smile was not returned, but Melvekior didn’t notice. He was looking for signs of life. Most importantly, did the man breathe? Did his robes rise and fall with the all-important, tell-tale sign of life. He couldn’t see it.
He was about to make small talk when the King of Uth returned with Janesca in tow. She didn’t look distressed or worried, in fact she was chewing. He suddenly remembered that he was hungry and drank the remainder of his wine to stave off that hunger.
“Melvekior! I’m so pleased to see you. You’re missing an excellent dinner. Even Accus is…” She stopped in her tracks as she saw the Lord of Thacritus. She let out a little whimper.
“Fear not, my dear,” said King Alpre protectively and guided her to his chair.
Janesca looked at Calra and then again at the Mage Lord and gasped, “You’re brothers?”
“How in the hells?” exclaimed the King, he gawped at Janesca and then turned to the robed figure in the chair opposite who himself uttered a small utterance of surprise.
“It is wondrous to behold and almost predictable. She is an Akashic. We have never seen one and I’m surprised that your pet Necromancer didn’t spot it, Lord Martelle. Although his sect are mere fanatics without subtlety or ability, so my surprise is naive.” He chuckled dryly again. There was no humor present in his croaking and none other partook in the forced gaiety.
“What is an Akashic, Critus? Pray be brief as well as plain,” the King addressed him.
Brothers, thought Melvekior, that explained the casual air between the two.
“It is exceedingly rare, the ability only possessed by the twice dead. Any common or garden Necromancer may reanimate a corpse with the spirit of a recently dead being, but that can happen once only. After that spirit, or animus, has fled, the body will be useless. Similarly a Magus of great power could bring back to life, a person recently slain, if the body be whole, but should that person again die, no matter how well preserved the corpus, there can be no second resurrection.” He paused and looked around the room. “We know through our studies of the works of the Enki that should an animus or physical shell be brought back to a living state twice that being would exist between two worlds. Ours and the afterlife. Simultaneously. Though what form that would take we previously had no idea, but I have long since suspected it could be one of many forms and I now believe that this young woman is in possession of one of the forms, named by the Enki as that of the Akashic. We have known of one other only who had any such ability to see into the underworld and that proved unpredictable. It is interesting, though, that both have links to you, Martelle.” The Mage’s eyes bore into his.
Before Melvekior could stammer the questions that raced through his mind, King Alpre spoke up. “I suppose that’s what passes for brevity and simplicity in your mind, Critus, but what does this mean in reality? Is it important or valuable in any way?”
“You be the judge, Calra.” He turned to Janesca who still looked a little slack-jawed, presumably from fear of this strange looking man; his desiccated skin stretched tightly over his skull made him look extremely creepy. Her complete lack of diplomacy mixed with a common sort of vulgarity prevented her from hiding her feelings. “Girl, tell us how you knew of our kinship.” He tilted his head back a little and looked at her through narrowed eyelids.
“I, umm, it’s hard to explain, lord but I can sense a secret in every person, but it’s not their secret. It’s the secret of someone who died.”
“So in our case, what was the secret?”
Janesca looked petrified. “Lord, I’m not sure I should reveal this secret aloud, it seems very personal.”
“Do not be afraid, child, there is no harm,” he cajoled.
“Very well, sir,” she took a deep breath. “Your father has three sons, but the third, who is not present, is not his, but that of a guardsman your mother took as a lover. After delivering the children, for there were three born at the same time, your father slew the nursemaid and dashed one of the children’s brains out against the floor to torment your mother.” She fell into a toneless recitative sort of voice, not even sounding like her, her eyes rolled back in her head, whites rolling grotesquely. “Your mother’s last sight was of your father holding the limp form of your half-brother and the wicked knife with which he took her life.” She coughed and opened her eyes.
There was total silence. King Alpre was aghast and even Critus looked stricken.
“That cannot be!” shouted the King. “My father was a good man and our mother a chaste, saintly woman, who died in childbirth, giving life to my younger brother.” He stopped and looked down, ashen faced. “She died in childbirth,” he repeated softly, “giving her life for Sukie's.”
Critus stood, looking suddenly less of a frail, withered old man, and more a towering, crazed, undead wizard, his face twisted into a rictus of pain. “Leave us,” he spat viciously in a high pitched shriek.
Melvekior and Janesca didn’t need to be told twice and they both stood rapidly and left through the mirror.
“You shouldn’t have said all that,” said Melvekior once they were through the portal. The room they found themselves in was slightly familiar to Janesca but he had never seen it before.
A raised dais took up roughly a third of the room and was accessed by two wide steps. The only thing on the raised platform was the mirror from which they had emerged; an exact copy of the one on the dusty and deserted inn room they had been in. The area had also been fenced off with golden rails that seemed merely decorative.
On the section of the room that was slightly lower, a guardsman stood near a closed door and then further in a round dining table at which sat Accus and another robed man, this one garbed in light gray.
The seated men looked up from their discussion when Melvekior and Janesca entered and the one in gray leapt up guiltily. Accus waved jovially.
“This whole process is fascinating. I didn’t know the King possessed such magic.” He pushed a plate away from him, crumbs of bread the only remains of his meal.
Melvekior walked to the guard and saluted in the military fashion, fist to chest. The guard, responded instantly, as an equal might which was a little surprising to the young noble, but then this man had no reason to know who he was. Maybe he thought that Melvekior was a prisoner, but then again he’d have to be an important prisoner to have a royal audience.
“Would you have a servant bring me some food please?” The guard did looked shocked at this, but saluted again, this time with a click of his heels, showing deference and respect. Better, thought Melvekior. He was the commander of merely half a dozen men at arms and could raise maybe double that in militia from the serf population of his estate, but he was certainly this man’s superior.
“Right away, Lord.” It was probably his accent that revealed his nobility and brought about the proper levels of attention. Th
e guardsman opened the door and spoke to someone outside, “Bring more food and also bring some wine.”
Melvekior sat next to Accus and breathed out wearily, Janesca took the chair to his right, looking somber. “That damned amulet! The trouble it has wrought. We could be in trouble here.” He didn’t blame anyone, but had no idea how to get out of this quandary.
“Alpre not happy you took it then?” He had a sardonic grin on his face. “Not surprising really, with that sort of power you could rule a country.” Accus seemed pleased with his own wit, Melvekior was not.
“Worse! Janesca used up all the power in the item, I think, and somehow became something called an Akashic. Worse still she said some awful things to the King and he is furious.”
“I didn’t mean to, I didn’t want to,” wailed Janesca, in floods of tears all of a sudden. Even the guard looked over in concern, the only person unconcerned was Accus.
“A what? Impossible! This mere girl cannot be an Akashic,” his cockiness lost in the heat of revelation.
For the young woman, village bred and unused to hardship more strenuous than a pinched bottom and cleaning up vomit, this situation was becoming unbearable. Her wailing turned to sobs and she struggled for breath, her head on her forearms as she heaved and gasped.
None in the room were used to comforting others and Melvekior used all of his knightly skills to pat her back and utter meaningless there-there’s. It was an uncomfortable couple of minutes until the door opened and a woman bearing a tray of food rushed in. The food was in disarray on the wooden board and she almost dropped it on the table in her haste to elbow Melvekior out of the way and put her arm around Janesca’s shoulders. She stroked her hair and talked to her in a low voice that the embarrassed men tried not to overhear.
The woman was short and quite fat and Melvekior had work to do, but somehow he was loathe to move her on. Janesca was nodding and waving her hand. The little woman, squeezed her hand one final time, delivered icy looks to Melvekior and the guard and exited the room. The day was becoming more surreal at every step.
