He thought about what to do with Cite. The ancient parchment that Transvartius had given him was not clear on what to do. It just said that a man would arrive one day, but had no further instructions. Rogen was not sure if he should give the kid money and send him on his way, take him under wing and train him, or go somewhere with him. Rogen knew he would figure it out, at least enough to move in the direction he needed to go. But that may take some time, and time was something he did not have a lot of. He knew he would help the boy as much as he could until he figured out what to do, and he would start by tutoring him on the ways of the world, people, and weapons. Cite obviously held a position of respect and power in his village, something rare for someone so young, but he was amazingly naïve about the ways of the people. That would get him taken advantage of, or worse, in the real world. Looking back, he was proud to see the lad marching along without complaint though it was obvious that the journey was taking its toll on the boy.
Cite felt each jagged intake of hot desert air. His wound had become a regular dull throb, keeping pace with his heartbeat, footsteps, and breathing. Grit had found its way into every sweaty crevasse of his body, including rubbing on his raw injury. His shirt made it feel like he had sand paper on the outside his chest, to accompany the stabbing pain on the inside. He squinted into the setting sun over the mountains to the west, and rubbed his nose, knocking sand from it. The only sound was the breathing of his friends and the crunch of their feet on the sand.
Or were they his captors? He was no longer sure. They didn’t treat him like a slave, but he also didn’t think they would let him wander off on his own. Not that he wanted to, he knew going off alone would be suicide. He had no idea what Rogen had meant about getting him to a safe place. Safe for whom, and from what? Was he in any less danger from an infamous slaver then he was from hordes of mindless insects? He felt closer to these people that he had only met a couple days ago, as a slave, than he did with anyone in his own village. Even his parents. Cite felt the need to talk this out, and quickened his pace to catch up to Rogen. He saw the other three drop back a little way to give them as much privacy as they could in the middle of the desert.
“I am used to being alone,” Cite began, startling Rogen out of his own reverie, “even when among others. I grew up with the ability of dreaming as a part of me and my life. My parents raised me as normally as my talents would allow them to. They treated me as they did my brothers and sisters. I got into trouble when I did wrong, I received rewards when my parents felt I deserved it, and they celebrated my day of birthing like any other person. There was the occasional difference, but I didn’t realize it until I was older and looked back on my childhood. The people of the village treated me differently. I was not revered, or feared, or anything like that, I was just kept apart, socially. I still had scraps with the other boys like any growing child, but the adults were a little bit quicker to break it up and check to make sure I was all right. I later realized they were worried I would dream something horrible about their sons if they were not careful with me. And they believed my dreams would come true.” He laughed as he said this and muttered, “And they may have been right.”
Rogen slowed a bit so they could walk side by side without taxing the lad. The older man saw the confusion on the boy’s face and wanted him to talk more about this. Perhaps he could gain some insight into this young man.
“Go on, lad,” was all the Rokairn said.
With a nod, Cite continued. “I was never very intimate with girls either. Parents didn’t want their daughters being a part of the gift I have, though they would tell me that any girl would be blessed to settle down with me. It was quite the double standard. I did have a close friend or two, but found that most times when I came to them they would only ask if I had dreamt anything about them, ignoring my problem. They would come to me as any friend would at various times, but whenever they asked my opinion they listened a little closer and looked a little deeper into my words, as if expecting more from my wisdom than they would from anyone else. It taught me to be careful in handing out advice.” Cite scoffed. “I always assumed I would grow old in that village and become some sort of elder, or wise man who made musical instruments and handed out patronly advice around the fire.
“Now, I have these other ‘gifts’ also. I know the science of it. Usually the first abilities developed around puberty. Others may surface later, but once you reached a certain age it is less likely. I thought I had passed that age once I reached my twenties. I understand that the stress of the situation was the likely cause of the timing of these latent abilities emerging. I have studied the history of my village as well. It was founded by a mind mage, and since then had been a refuge for people of such abilities. My hometown is known for breeding people with these endowments, usually just one or two per generation. Documents say that in the past two or three people in a given generation had them, but those usually only minor abilities compared to mine. I can’t recall any person in the living generations with three or four abilities. The more gifts one person had, the less powerful any one ability would be.
“I can now say I have demonstrated five distinct abilities. Dreaming, telepathy, telekinesis, shield projection, and the psychic knives. Precognitive dreaming is something I have done since my early teens, possibly earlier but people discount a child’s dreams. I have often wondered if I could refine that ability and focus it so I could dream while awake, or about a specific event, person, or thing. I just have never practiced enough to be sure. Now I have also demonstrated telekinesis; it was clunky and brutish, not refined or able to do delicate tasks… yet. However, I feel with work, I might be able to do it at will and with a much finer touch. The psychic daggers are an interesting blend of telekinesis and telepathy, and they scare me. I am not afraid to admit it. I am directly attacking the brain functions from what I can tell, severing the mind from the body, and creating physical wounds. I didn’t kill, not on purpose at first, but definitely with purpose when facing the giant bugs. The most interesting ability to me, though, was the telepathy. It was also the most morally gray area. It was a direct intrusion and violation of someone’s most private thing, their thoughts. Blacking out while doing these things is the most terrifying part though. Without control, I could be a monster.”
Rogen nodded, waiting for the boy to go on. Cite fell into silence, contemplating the daggers. Lost in his thoughts, Cite didn’t realize Rogen had spoken until the Rokairn repeated his thoughts a second time.
“Cite, did you hear me?” Rogen asked. “Stop whining. No one likes a whiner. Buck up, stop worrying about the past, and deal with the present. I cannot solve what has happened to you before now; I can only help you with our current situation, and perhaps prepare you for what is to come. What weapons have you been trained in or used?” Rogen asked again, with a bit more force. Cite shook his head and wondered why Rogen would ask that question at this moment, right after he had been thinking of the daggers, and if he had projected his thoughts to Rogen.
“Why do you ask? No, it is not important, never mind.” Cite paused. “Is that why you gave me the daggers, because you saw me with them?”
Rogen slowed a bit, watching Cite’s face.
“Cite, I can see your confusion, and yes, I saw you produce two daggers, one in each hand. I gave you two daggers to use in case you could not produce your spirit daggers again. You appeared clumsy with the ones you made. I am curious what experience you had with them.”
Rogen waited while Cite sorted got his thoughts in order, walking along in silence.
“I’ve had very little training with any weapon, and nothing formal,” Cite said. “Really, just what any boy gets in his childhood; playing with sticks or his first knife given to him by his father, stabbing at shadows, or throwing it at targets. Is not a solution I consider; it has never been one I needed to consider.”
“Are you willing to learn?” Rogen asked. Cite stared at the horizon and considered that as they walked.
&nb
sp; “Yeah, I guess. I should at least have some training and skill with them. I have this ability, I don’t know if I’ll be able to do it at will, or only under duress, or even be able to do it again at all. But I should learn. It may be needed in my journey back home.” Rogen looked at him, surprised. The Rokairn had not even considered that the lad would have other plans then what Rogen had in mind. It was a relief to Rogen that Cite did. As Rogen considered it, he was not sure if it was the best course for the boy to return to his village.
“So you will return your village then?” asked Rogen, by way of exploring this idea and to feel out what was in this boy’s head.
“Yeah, I don’t see why not. I’ve no other place to go, unless it is to complete the mission the Elders gave me and go to the Northwood Community.” Cite paused and looked at Rogen with a piercing gaze. “You don’t think that’s a good plan, do you? I feel doubt coming from you, like heat from a rock.” It was Rogen’s turn to pause, and he looked to the horizon to gain a moment to think.
“I think you should consider it carefully before you do,” Rogen advised. “Have you thought that it is quite odd that my city was attacked so soon after you arrived? I have never had such a thing happen to my lands before. I have had people send armies, spies, and things of that nature before; but never have I had a plague of insects descend upon my home, let alone a dozen plagues attack from underground, the sky, and any other way they could find. The middle of the desert is not a place most insects would seek food, especially not in those numbers. I fear something bigger than a coincidence is at work here.”
“So you have said, repeatedly,” Cite nodded as he thought about what the stout man had just said. They walked on in silence for a while before either of them spoke again.
“Then I’ll learn.” Cite said, as the sun disappeared behind the mountains to the west. “I’ll learn to use these daggers you gave me, as well as the staff. I’ll also think about it before I return to my village and possibly put everyone I know in danger. If your people could not defend against them, what chance would mine have?” Cite shook his head and snorted a harsh laugh. “It’s hard to imagine that I could be the cause of that. Why would I be important? Isn’t it more likely that you and your organization have garnered the enmity of someone powerful?”
“Yes. Yes, it is. In the scheme of things, I would be more important than you. The Empire would have a higher profile than you, and I will be looking into that. But I am not so arrogant that I will discount the possibility that you are more important than I am to someone. Perhaps someone knows something others do not.” Rogen paused as he considered something. Cite could feel him thinking, “What do you know of Transvartius?”
“The Transvartius? The Traveler? The Hidden Diplomat? That Transvartius?” Cite asked. Rogen nodded. “I know tales. Some say it is a title given to the highest priest of the Walking God, so it’s passed from man to man. Others say he is a man that has walked the world for centuries, kept alive by fae blood or magics. It’s said he travels in the guise of a storyteller mostly, wandering from land to land, sometimes helping, and sometimes watching history happen. Some say he has more power than most kings and others say he pulls the strings of most of the kings alive today.” Cite looked over at Rogen. “You asked me for a reason. What do you know about him?”
“I know Transvartius gave me a manuscript that he wrote. I believe it is about you, me, and the events currently going on in the world.” Rogen looked at Cite and began to recite:
“A fallen star approaches but never falls,
It shall bring things in threes,
Changes that no man would wish,
And Hell shall bring the world to its knees
Stone and metal forges the key,
The key opens demons’ doors when bade,
A weapon forged to break Kingdoms,
Seek the man who cuts with no blade
Kingdoms and cities shall fall,
Crushed long ago new Hope fled,
Blood red city in the sand,
Honor crumbles, noble deeds dead
Rape, plunder, loot, and hate,
Limited ways to open the gate,
Shine upon the faces of doubt,
Saving evil and breaking the devout
Time Towers over the entire World,
Repel the stars and shatter all Bands,
Find the others and seek the way of wrong,
For Time is dead, and Death devours the lands
Five magics to bind the Circle,
Seven sins to break the Hold,
Countless people to carry the Hope,
One to do as the Gods have never told.”
They walked on for a while, neither of them saying anything. In his head, Cite was going over the words Rogen had just recited. Flashes of his dreams came to him, but he couldn’t find any connection with the poem. The Rokairn wondered what the boy was thinking.
“The moon will be full in a few days,” Rogen looked up at the waxing moon as he spoke. “There should be enough light for us to travel well into the night. Just be careful, as the desert can hide many pitfalls in the light, in the dark they are doubly dangerous. But while we walk I may as well begin teaching you some of what you will need to know about weapons and using them.”
Rogen launched into a history of weapons, how they are made, why certain blades curved when others were straight, the function of a polearm or staff over a sword or shorter blade. He spoke of this for a couple of hours and answered questions from Cite. Taktak demonstrated basic staff attacks and defense, as the others watched. When they came upon another oasis, they stopped for a rest.
“We will stop here,” Rogen said. “I will show you some techniques of how to use those daggers now. Do not expect the ones you create to be the same though. I am guessing they will have a different weight and pull as well as feel much different when cutting into someone. Sybia and Calleus, you set up camp and make a fire. Prepare dinner. Taktak, you will show the boy more about the staff and practice with him after I finish with knife training.”
“Be careful of his wounds,” Sybia warned, “they can tear open again.”
“I know, mother hen,” said Rogen, “I will be gentle with the boy. After a bit of training we will rest. I would say we should go on, but I do not think we can reach the next oasis before we tire, or the sun rises.”
And so it went for the next few days. They rested in the heat of the day and traveled by the waxing moon. Each time they stopped to rest, they practiced with the staff and blades until Cite’s arms ached and he couldn’t go on. Sybia tended to Cite’s chest wound, which was not deep but was serious enough to need checking. The time walking was spent discussing weapons in the beginning, but soon turned to Cite asking questions of the others; learning about the healing arts from Sybia, trade from Calleus, Taktak’s people, and about Rogen’s past. Cite knew that Rogen, as one of the Stone Folk, lived much longer than humans did. He asked about history, comparing what he had been taught to the knowledge of a man who was alive when it happened, and on rare occasion even participated in it.
Rogen also delved a bit into Cite’s knowledge. The boy was studied on the ways of magics. He knew about trade to the east, whereas most of Rogen’s trade went to the west; the cities of the east did not condone slavery the way the west did. Rogen asked about Cite’s abilities, feeling out how as much as the boy was willing to tell. It did not take long before he knew the boy was open and willing to share most of what he knew. So the journey went.
Chapter 4: Two Headed Coins
“If life isn’t a game, then I’m not playing!”
Nomed
5854 – Thon – Jordar – Lasin
He was almost always hidden from mortal eyes, but not this time. Many eyes sought him. He had many enemies and he reveled in that, delighting in the challenge. He thrived on the contest, and rose to face any obstacle. It made him feel alive. He cherished anyone he drove to rage, despair, or best of all, over the edge of sanity. Nomed loved w
hat he did, which was why he was the best at manipulating and controlling people, his puppets.
The room filled with music from the string quartet playing a dancing tune, and was light and airy under the domed ceiling, which housed a dozen crystal chandeliers. Scented oils in the censers made the room smell like spring, even though autumn approached. Servants dressed in black and white carried silver trays laden with wines, brandies, and food from all corners of the continent covered in savory sauces. The crowd moved with graceful swirls, a riot of color and jewels, to the music.
Always a flair for the dramatic, Nomed swirled his short cape, and spun away from a maiden which he had lured to the dance floor at the grandest ball of the season in the Kingdom of Humbrey. All thirteen noble houses were in attendance, as well as every small-time hopeful in the kingdom. All eyes watched his graceful actions – some with envy, others with desire; the movements he did without thinking were more than any other could do. The men watched with jealousy, and the women watched with lust in their eyes. The charming man, who danced with the movements that could not quite be explained, was dressed simply compared to most of the men in the room. His cape was a basic black; his breeches, tucked into polished black knee boots, were a dark brown with gold buttons. A brown doublet over a cream-colored blouse, which was untied, showed more of his chest than appropriate in a cultured gathering. Dancing without care, his pearly smile glinted in the thousand candles that lit the hall, his dark hair was almost indigo and his eyes the deep blue of a stormy ocean. He smiled at men or woman, bowed to all, and startled, charmed, or confused everyone he touched.
Nomed knew what he did to people, and it made his grin grow, though he was careful that it did not become a wolfish one. He loved what he did, and no one could do it better. He moved from woman to woman, and stopped to kiss the hand of an effeminate nobleman. The man’s face blushed under his powder as he fanned himself to keep from fainting. The aristocrat noticed a plain-sheathed dagger peeking from under the dashing man’s cloak as he spun away to dance with another woman. Men openly wore daggers, swords, and other showpieces, often covered with gems and jewels, but the lack of decoration on Nomed’s weapon made it appear sinister and dangerous.
Harbinger: The Downfall - Book One Page 5
