“Just so.”
“Art and science. Magic and religion.”
“Exactly.”
“Then the two keepers — light and darkness.”
“You are a fast study, my friend,” Arquebus replied. “You said true when you boasted on learning lines quickly.”
Then Harris paused, regarding the world, which spread before him.
“Nine houses,” he mused.
“Nine, precisely.”
“But you have said ten names.”
“Yes. You can disregard the last one — Zacker.”
“Which is he?”
“Not displayed. Gone. Destroyed.”
“And yet the verse isn’t altered. Peculiar primer for a quick study.”
“Grimakadarian of Zin holds the key to both light and darkness. It has been decreed.”
“And this . . . this Primordial Rectum . . .”
“Primordius Centrum. It is the portal and the pillar to all that is — the transfer of energy for all worlds — inland and outland.”
“And yet the tenth house has been destroyed? Did it fall into a black hole — the Primordius . . . Centrum?”
Arquebus raised his hands again. The map shimmered, transforming into something entirely different.
Chapter Twelve
Promise and Prophecy
1
A bright flash temporarily blinded Harris. He thought one of the suns went nova, but when the room settled, he could see the lands, which he had toured previously, were alive with activity. A diorama showed Farn at war — armies and hovercraft filling the terrain and sky — explosions over the towers and the flets and the smokestacks and the palaces. Whirligigs zoomed across a heaven dashed in flame and smoke.
Harris sat in a convenient chair, which he hadn’t remembered being there before. He had been standing for a while and, considering the stress, sitting seemed like a good idea. However, once seated, the chair bucked, and then hovered over the table. Harris tried to wiggle free, but he didn’t want to fall out, so he grasped the armrests and imbibed the chaos. Confusion. He couldn’t separate the action, except the nine houses were embroiled in a conflict promising to destroy their world.
“War,” Arquebus intoned, his voice lost in the rocketing rumble. “A great war in the time before Electors ruled supreme — before the Sceptas and Seneschals drew succor from the outlands. A conflict arising from power’s gluttony — a desire for one to rule all. Arising from Zin.”
Harris shut his eyes, not wishing to see Zin again, even the brief glimpse he had taken — a glimpse cloaking his mind in tar. However, as the chair spun about battlefields and besieged towns, he opened his eyes and saw Zin’s darkness settling over the land.
“Grimakadarian pressed his dark key into the outlands,” Arquebus said. “He intended to rule all worlds — to trump all houses, enslaving their children and gathering the inland peoples into the abyss. However, a challenge arose from the House of Zacker, who kept the key of light. Light shone across the realm, preventing Zin from easy victory. Light roused the houses to arms. But not every Elector supported light’s cause.
“The spirit of the Primordius Centrum is the well-spring of all things, the source of balance and dominion. With this call to Light, the realm was neither balanced nor dominated. A civil war ensued. Much was lost. Nothing gained. The Primordius Centrum broke precedence. It arose from slumber to restore order, but at a price. Peace was imposed, but never won.
“The lords of Farn became true Electors, each with an equal say to maintain the balance. But there were ten houses — no deciding vote for standoffs. Therefore, the House of Zacker was eliminated. The Nine Houses held power in tandem, Zacker paying for its intervention, for confounding dominion. The restoration of power frustrated Zin, but it held no dominion as it had wished. Fate rebuked the remaining houses — rebuked them with a promise and a prophecy. Binding was the declaration of the Primordius Centrum, becoming the law of the land — the law of imposed balance and stayed dominion.”
The chair descended, replanting beside the table. It released Harris, who jumped to his feet. The diorama had faded — the war lesson retired. However, within the lingering mist arose an ashen figure, emerging from the Book of Farn. Only the figure’s upper half was revealed — down to its waist, like a tree rooted within the tome. The figure was old, wizened and bearded, draped in a shimmering shawl — its eyes, weary — its countenance, sad. One hand pointed to the book — the other to the ceiling.
“Hear my words,” it muttered, its voice frosty upon the land. “Hear my declaration, ye sons of Farn. I give thee this promise as a watchword for redemption. I wrap it in a prophecy, which shall steer thy courses until great Solus and Dodecadatamus converge and burn the moons of Yeholo.”
So intoned the Primordius Centrum concerning the promise and the prophecy:
To each Elector three branches made
Deigned as sons and daughters born,
Renowned Sceptas and Seneschals
But as towers apart shall grow,
Never fruitful within their bounds,
So to the outlands they must go,
To gather succor into dough —
The life force must they always hoe.
But each may draw a double mate,
And thus may sow and populate,
A harvest to serve and ease their shade —
A scattered horde as duty paid,
Smiling kin for the alliance trade,
But as mules these Thirdlings be,
Until there comes the mending free.
Then a fourth shall bloom in Farn
Uniting houses — the outlands darn
‘til suns and moons reflect no more
And Zin and Zacker close the door.
2
Like the morning mist, the ancient spirit dissipated, a radiant blue glow sparkling over the Book of Farn in its wake. Harris thought this was a helluva way to teach history. It was like shooting at the class to give them the taste of flying bullets, and then have a frosty old talking head sum up with appropriate mystery. If every schoolroom had these visual aids, more students would get an A+.
The experience overwhelmed Harris. He raised his right hand adjusting his headdress, cock-eyed from the magic chair. Then he checked his Columbincus assuring the thing remained tightly clasped.
“Are you firmly in hand?” Arquebus asked.
“I guess so,” Harris replied. “I mean, that was one helluva show — smoke and fire and the spooky proclamation — quite a lot to digest.”
“Did you digest it?”
Harris thought. He couldn’t recall the declaration for his life, except it placed limitations on the number of children the Electors could produce, and then blabbed on about those children — the Sceptas and Seneschals. The rest escaped him.
“I got the gist . . . .”
“You need more than the gist, my friend. It is the reason we are here.”
Harris placed both hands on the table, looking squarely at his mentor.
“Enlighten me; and speak in simple terms — more along the lines of Shakespeare than Moses, if you please.”
Arquebus grinned.
“Plain and simple. The Electors are immortal and need not produce progeny. However, they are fleshly and will make hay. In this, they are limited to a few times per year and make a great fuss about it — a festival.”
“They have sex and we celebrate?”
“Precisely. However, they can have no issue beyond three children per house.”
“The Sceptas . . .”
“And Seneschals. This second generation is neither immortal nor attracted to one another, either within or between their houses.”
“Then how . . .”
“The outlands. They feed on life forces in the outlands. You have seen them as I have — in our nocturnal longings. When the Sceptas come, rarely does the sleeper awake. We, however, are the fortunate ones — we consorts. We have been drawn. Each Scepta and Seneschal
can draw two consorts each. And thereby be fruitful and multiply.”
“Children? Your children?”
“Our children — the Thirdlings. However, the rebuke is deep, and the promise deeper. While our spawn may marry between the houses and are useful in strategic alliances, they are mules — sterile.”
“Then how does Farn . . . propagate?”
“The Thirdlings mature quickly. From birth to age three, they are adults, and at four they can be put out to farm between the houses. They can command legions of Yunockers or police the markets or be foreman in the manufactories. The Electors’ blood is widespread across Great Farn.”
Harris pondered this. Like Adam begetting his sons, how could this account for the rest of the population — the Trones for example. He raised his finger to ask, but Arquebus anticipated him.
“They are the inlanders,” he replied. “They are Cetrone and Yunockers and Zecronisians and Gurts and other dwellers who have found their place under the Elector’s rule. They are beyond the scope of prophecy — beyond the hope of promise.”
“If the ruling house . . .”
“Our house.”
“Whatever. If the . . . the houses are impotent except through our intervention and our offspring are sterile, what promise is that? Or is it punishment for the war — a bad joke with an ironic punch line?”
“That is not the promise,” Arquebus said. “You were not attentive. Not all unions between Thirdlings will be barren. One will spark and blossom and the issue of that union will bring unity to the houses, restoring peace and tranquility to all worlds.”
“Like a savior?”
“No. Like a promise — a covenant, if you wish to drift toward the biblical.”
Harris preferred the prosaic to the Mosaic. It might resurrect Pontifrax and a round of Hail Marys in Chinese. It smelled of fish. The system seemed self-perpetuating, the Electors enforcing their cabals. However, Harris craved more knowledge on the inlanders. They appeared oppressed — an unsuspecting crop of souls preyed upon by a bunch of bucks and bitches in the middle of the night — dreams and hypnotism.
“The Trones,” he began.
“I shall not speak of the Cetrone.”
“Yes, the Cetrone.”
Arquebus raised both arms and a flash shot above him. Harris postponed his inquiry in light of what came next. Behind Arquebus, flat to the wall, was a map — a real map — not a Disney World dark ride. As this map clarified, Harris observed a red flashing light at its center. Arquebus produced a long pointer — an old-fashioned teaching prop. He struck the red spot.
“We are here.”
Harris moved quietly around the table, joining Arquebus and gazing at the chart — a Mall map without legends to the footgear or the names of the pizzerias in the food court.
“Is this Montjoy?”
“Montjoy City. Montjoy extends farther east across the desert to the mountains.”
Arquebus shifted the pointer westward.
“You mean to the west.”
“The east. The west is here.”
He shifted the pointer eastward.
“Are we upside down and backward?”
“No. We are in Farn. Things differ here.”
He moved the pointer up.
“Don’t tell me . . . south.”
“Correct.”
“And we are standing in the center at the big red dot.”
“Precisely.”
“If we moved, would the dot move with us?”
“Precisely.”
“Like GPS?”
“No. Like the red dot which tracks my Columbincus. Yours is not fully initiated and is not trackable yet.”
Harris noticed other dots of different colors and brightness. He assumed these were the Columbincus’ (or was it the Columbinkae) of other consorts and personages of importance. Fascinating.
“Then that’s Mortis House,” Harris mumbled.
Arquebus swept his pointer about the house and the environs.
“Mortis House, the Electoral Gardens and Pavilions and here . . . the Temple of Greary Gree. The precinct is called Ayelli.”
“Ayelli,” Harris repeated. He had heard the term before, from Yustichisqua’s lips. “Quite the tourist town.”
“Without the tourists.” Arquebus’ pointer went westward (old time East). “The Zecronisian settlement is here. We call it Wudayleegu by the Bottleblue Sea or the Amaykwohi.”
“If you say so,” Harris chuckled. “Am I expected to . . .”
“Expected.” The pointer went northward (down). “The Market of the Gurts is called Yuyutlu, and the Garrison of the Yunockers — here to the South — Yuganawu.”
“And the Trones?”
Arquebus frowned, but slapped the pointer to the east near the desert.
“Kalugu, only we refer to it never. It is just the eastern ward.”
“Kalugu,” Harris said, sharply. “That’s an easy word. And the desert?”
“Yinaga, the Forling wasteland.”
“Forling, it is,” Harris said. “Is there to be a quiz?”
“A quiz?”
“An examination?”
“No examination. But you are expected to know core knowledge as a matter of survival. The book is always here for your reference — once your Columbincus is fully activated.”
Harris touched the brooch. It flickered. It felt activated.
“When does that happen?”
“Tomorrow. You will be invested tomorrow. I and your other brothers-in-law consorts will greet you in the morning and escort you to meet the family.”
“But I’ve already met the family.”
“You have seen our lord, true; and have had a casual brush with Tappiolus. Those meetings do not count.”
This mystified Harris. Was everything before the investiture a legal fiction?
“What if the family finds me unacceptable?”
“There is scant chance for that. Our lord already calls you ‘Boots,’ an endearment signaling your acceptance.”
“But I had a predecessor, who was acceptable, but then managed to lose favor.”
“You listen too much to Trone gossip.”
“This is a history lesson, isn’t it, Sir John . . . I mean, Arquebus? Shouldn’t I know about my predecessor to prevent me from making the same mistakes?”
“I cannot answer that question.”
“Will I find it in the book?”
Arquebus dropped the pointer and pushed his face into Harris’.
“That would be a mistake, friend.”
“Should I ask Scepta Charminus about him?”
“I advise it not.”
Harris suddenly felt this conversation’s heat rising into his throat. He puckered his lips and clenched his fists.
“How do you expect me to learn all this crap and ignore the history most important to me? I see traces of him in every corner and crevice — spoken on the wind even. I need to know. I must know about Belmundus.” Arquebus’ eyebrows raised far above their natural limits. Then he laughed. “I’m not joking,” Harris snapped. “I must know. Who was Belmundus?”
“You, my friend,” Arquebus replied. “You are Belmundus.”
“Me?”
“A name chosen by the Primordius Centrum and applied during your slumbers. You and none other are Lord Belmundus Montjoy, co-consort of Farn.”
Arquebus bowed. Harris, trembling, turned and rushed across the threshold to his waiting Trone.
Chapter Thirteen
The Shoe on the Other Foot
1
“Belmundus,” Harris muttered as he crossed the threshold, scarcely noticing Yustichisqua’s humble heap.
“Oginali,” Little Bird said
Harris looked down at this man, younger than he, but nearly as tall, squatting in submission like a slave from Uncle Tom’s Cabin.
“Am I Belmundus?” he asked, half question, half declaration.
“Yes, oginali. Of course, you are. You are Lord Belmundu
s.”
Harris closed his eyes, and then shook his head. He felt betrayed by this servant, who was tasked to guide him through the essentials. Why didn’t he tell him the mysterious word on the pillars and tiles was the heraldry of the new consort?
Belmundus (The Farn Trilogy Book 1) Page 13
