by Jay Smith
"The artwork stood out to me my first tour through the capital. Exquisite work. I'm sure my Ezrin will showcase some pieces soon."
"We should discuss your plans to settle down, my lord. A man's status is as much about where he resides as the chains around his woman's neck."
There was something behind her smile and words I didn't pick up in the moment, so I took her invitation free of any other meaning. "Of course. I look forward to it."
Seated next to me was a Transference named Roderick. Roderick was a Rubenesque young woman in her early twenties named Joelle but claimed to be an eighty-seven-year-old Time Pioneer trapped inside the young woman's mind due to a mishap of magic and a freak temporal accident. He explained this was the reason he dressed in the traditional male uniform of the courtier and adapted male appearance and mannerisms.
At the midway point of the table, I noticed the tall pewter chalice beside Alan's salad plate. The anachronistic post-it notes on the plate caught my attention as well. But before I could read the inscription on the chalice or the pen scribbles on the notes, I was pushed along, past my empty place to the next group of exotic and diverse courtiers.
The rest of the meet-n-greet went much the same way. Lord This and Lady That were all pleased to make my acquaintance and be seen with me. Ambassadors from the Aelf Kingdoms and the Underminers greeted me in their own inimitable ways.
I noticed a discrete photographer at a distance with a telephoto lens. He made sure to capture each meeting. The one thing the courtiers had in common was a distinct, curious weirdness about them that made them both endearing and sinister. A single look from any of them contained sincere warmth, but also a half-hidden secret. Still new, I wondered if this was the actor peeking out for just that instant, or if this was a tell common to poor poker players.
"How are you adjusting to the natives, my boy?" Roderick finished his glass of wine as I settled into my place.
"Lord Roderick," I acknowledged again. "What an exciting event. I think 'overwhelming' is how I would describe it."
"Indeed, it is, indeed. I was sorry to hear about Lord Parque and understand you were dear friends."
"Thank you and yes."
I was about to add something when one of the porters stepped up carrying a familiar-looking tall, brown bottle with an aged, yellow label. He placed it in front of me and then put a square, wooden cup beside it.
"Lord Wynncase. Compliments of Lord Bunting-upon-Stropf. He says it is a cordial from your native land and wishes you to feel at home."
Seimei. That cheeky bastard.
"How did he know?"
Roderick laughed. "Lord BUS does his research, my boy."
The porter did not wait for a reply. The bottle's screw top had been replaced with a tasteful glass topper in the shape of a dragon's talon which I removed it to pour directly into a crystal chalice.
"Would you like a taste, Lord Roderick?"
"I am not a fan of rice in my wine or my beer, but thank you the same."
I filled the cup and offered a toast which Roderick met with his chalice. The saké was cold and quite welcome.
I asked, "When will Lord Bunting-upon-Stropf join us?"
He smiled. "The Lord of Lords will arrive at his pleasure. He despises these things for the same reason I think we all do."
"Why's that?"
"What you're doing right now? You'll be doing it for the next four hours. If you drink, it's tolerable. I'm not a fan of screaming teenagers or electric folk music, so…" He trailed off to follow something out in the crowd. I couldn’t make out what he was seeing and soon his attention was drawn away to the porter refilling his wine glass. "When Bus arrives, it will be like the Main Event on a pro wrestling program – the crowd will lose its fucking mind, he'll soak it all in, say a few words and then we'll have dinner. We'll all kiss him on his infinite genius, wave and nod when introduced to the crowd and eventually we'll wander out of here to get drunk or stoned or laid or a combination thereof."
"I appreciate your candor." We were going to get along well, Lord Roderick and me. "What is it you do?"
"I am the head writer for Aeternus Online. I work out the main storylines throughout the year." Roderick was a lot of fun. Once back in character, he spoke convincingly (in English, Greek, and Latin) about events of his native time and the fragments of future times and explained how psychic time travel worked to create new, parallel histories that are conquered by the time pioneers. In-character we had an equally engaging discussion.
"I come from Aeternus' distant future," he claimed. "thousands of years hence. My presence here may have inadvertently destroyed that future, so I am a refugee in time. I don't even have my own body. I'm trapped inside this woman's form."
"What happened to the woman?"
"Brain death, I'm afraid. Organic time travel is a complicated thing. It reached back through the genetic links between all people on the conduits of the subatomic streams that travel faster than light. Because of a genetic error along the time stream I ended up here instead of a warrior who lost brain function in the Battle of Largos."
"Huh. Organic time travel."
"Consciousness transcends space and time, Lord Wynncase. We will never master the computations necessary to move ourselves through time and doing so would break the law of mass conservation."
I leaned over and whispered. "Nice origin story."
He broke character and whispered back. "It won a Rory Award in 2014. I forget what for, but Alan collected it without telling me it was even nominated."
"I thought Alan wrote his own stories."
"You thought wrong, young man. At this point they are tie-in novels to the worlds my team builds. Every one of us is a character in his universe. We play the game, he takes notes and it becomes the next great bestselling Aeternus novel."
I laughed. "So, you're the ghost writer of Aeternus?"
"More a lich than a ghost, I think. We have a dozen writers on staff. Everything from the big wars to interactions with the local beggars is scripted into the A.I. engine with copy written or approved by me. Does that surprise you, Lord Wynncase? You're smiling like I just pulled your leg."
"No, it's just that -- you're not afraid of sharing your dissent with the new guy?"
Roderick craned his neck to get a look at the ten others sitting with us, each completely absorbed in his or her own world. He looked back at me, one eyebrow raised.
"Because, like Lord BUS, I do my research. You're not Lord Parque. You walked in here forty-eight hours ago expecting a big cash payout and nothing else. Here you are at –" he waved a hand across the air. "This looking so out of your depth and spooked you haven't noticed your Girl Friday waving at you from downstage like you're on fire."
There was Ezrin at her table making sure I knew where she was sitting. I faked a stern look and made a gesture commanding her to sit. She nodded obediently, sat, and carefully shot me a middle finger.
"I assume you remain here for the same reason as the rest of us."
"What's that?"
"Because you want something that it earns you or because Lord BUS has something on you that compels you to play the game."
"Which is it in your case?"
"Welcome to my lobster tank, my boy. See all these wonderful, delectable options out there in the shadows? I won't go home lonely tonight, I guarantee it. Tomorrow morning might be a bit lonely, but I'm not here for the cheap wine and crab cakes. So am I right about you?"
"I didn't even come here on purpose. Park sent me. I'm not doing this for Alan or that Mistress Huan or anyone else…"
He nodded. "Well, I don't want to tempt you, but while you're figuring it out, there are several people down at the velvet rope feeling out which of the people at the kiddie table is your valet. You're on the radar now, boy. What's your taste? Maine? South African? Australian?"
"Sorry?"
"Lobsters. Everyone has a taste for tail. Or do I have you measured wrong?"
"Roderick, I'm still t
rying to work out what's real and what isn't. I don't know if you're making a metaphor about lobsters or if you're into crustacean-people."
She laughed. "Such is the law of Aeternus, my boy." He emptied his glass and the porter swept in with more.
The rope separating the second, long table from the rounds was crowded by spectators who, for whatever reason, looked fascinated by what we were doing. I suspect they waited there for Alan to show up but, while they waited, they snapped photos of us and whispered to one another. A few caught my eye and waved. I smiled, but did not respond. These were men and women in their twenties on up, dressed in exquisite period gowns and uniforms of the Realm, detailed steampunk styles or medieval corsetry with the lines and the hems that signify the style of the online game, the "brand" as Mistress Huan called it. Above all, they dressed to be seen. From their hair to their feet, they looked the part of citizens of Aeternus even if their technology and attitudes did not. As the new guy, they paid close attention to me and snapped photos of Roderick and me, tapping into their devices as the night rolled on.
"The lobsters closest to the glass are those who want to be chosen most. Avoid them. As Lord BUS wrote, 'never slaughter the pig that wants to be eaten.'"
"Pigs and lobsters."
"I'm starved, young man. We hold dinner until Lord of Lords arrives, so I exist on wine and breadsticks until then. Should be soon, I see his lamplighters have arrived."
At the edge of the stage twenty security monks over equal height and size stood shoulder-to-shoulder looking out over the crowd. They held in their black gloved palms a tall staff capped in a soft, white diamond lamp. I did not notice them until the slow brightening of their lamps caught our attention.
A voice that might have belonged to Brian Blessed roared across the stadium. "Ladies and gentlemen, Lords and Ladies, Citizens of Aeternus: Please rise for our anthem."
"Whut?"
Everyone sitting stood, sharp and crisp like soldiers called to attention. Everyone standing around shifted around toward the spot of light that appeared against over the bandstand opposite our dais.
The Aeternus Anthem has all the pomp of a John Williams march with the kind of hopeful longing of a Danny Elfman theme. Loud and pompous, yet quirky and self-absorbed it felt like the anthem of a man rather than a nation, and was likely both.
I felt someone standing just behind me just before his shadow crossed the table. In that moment, the world exploded in light and noise, so much noise that I could hear nothing. So much light I had to squint and turn away.
Lord Bunting-upon-Stropf had arrived.
~
Lord Bunting-upon-Stropf. Protector of The Realm. Lord of the Lords of Aeternus.
Fucker may as well have been Geek Jesus.
He stood before his people, arms raised and grinning like a grunge rock god from the 1990s stepping out for his first concert since rehab.
He looked like David Bowie and Grace Slick's precious love-child all grown up in expensive green robes with solid gold trim, long black hair curled down over his wide shoulders, looking like some uptown twist on King Lear taking a second curtain call despite not yet speaking a single line.
Sincere, radiant love swelling from thousands of people at once is something you don't experience often, if ever. I don't mean the batshit insanity of seeing someone whose music you grew up playing or an actor you admire. I'm talking about an expression of love from the pit of your soul that comes when someone you cannot live without returns to your life. I'm talking real home-from-the-war, back-from-the-dead sort of holy-fuck-there-ARE-living-miracles kind of radiance.
I've experienced that in different ways since that night, which gives me the hindsight to recognize that these people did not just see Alan Horus as an author and celebrity. They saw Lord Bunting-upon-Stropf, their leader and family member, made flesh.
Horus was tall and handsome in a non-traditional way, like a character actor in a British period drama; the quiet, cunning butler here and the devious and articulate rival there, maybe even the quiet, ugly-duckling of a quirky rom-com.
His face commanded the wisdom of eons with eyes that proclaimed love while digging into the darkest secrets of your mind. His nose was long a little bent to one side and his deeply-set eyes gave him a mysterious look that could be gentle or terrifying with just a quick flutter of an eyelid or the slight arch of a brow.
He carried himself across the stage with an actor's grace aware and in control of every gesture and expression. He played the role of humble author-turned-superstar with a combination of deliberate stage moves: bashful waves and the posture of a man trying to look braver than he is with signs of being overwhelmed by the enthusiasm the audience generated. I'd seen it on countless talk shows when the big star comes out and the ovation begins to cut into the interview time; the star makes that face that says 'wow, I'm not deserving of such love' and their outturned palms of greeting change just slightly as to seem a little overwhelmed by the affection.
That was always the beautiful thing about Alan Horus, if anything about him beneath his façade could be called beautiful. In terms of celebrity, he never aspired to be the kind of celebrity who broke into the mainstream. His goal was never to be Stephen King or Tom Clancy but to dwell in that gray realm of success that made his millions of fans believe he was still their little secret. He could list among the New York Times' bestsellers twice a year, own a software company worth billions and yet still remain largely anonymous.
His appearance to the crowd confirmed their relationship to him, the reality of their bond that existed only through social media and carefully produced video. The denizens of The Realm believed they were a part of his creation and so they looked to Alan Horus as something of a leader, an oracle even because he alone owned the next unwritten chapters of their future. The entire time he kept up the appearance of the geek-like-me author who posed for photos and held brief but meaningful conversations with anyone. Through the small window of social media, he seemed like an everyman burdened with vision and talent. That was his key: he never seemed to be selling anything. His fans felt like they had to pull the genius from deep within him. And they loved that burden. It made them feel part of Horus' own creative process.
His courtiers kept the ovation going for a full minute as this Lord of Lords waved and smiled, pretending to be able to see anyone past the floor barriers. He stepped stage front and knelt to take the hands of our servants and valets. He was, after all, a man of the people and this gesture showed as much. He shared a moment more with Ezrin as her turn came, I thought, and the air sparkled with the fireworks of a dozen camera phones.
I kept up with the ovation despite my hands and arms starting to ache. I wanted to wiggle the ringing out of my ears and rub the purple spots out of my eyes, but I kept up the show until discrete young men at the corners of the platform raised their arms toward the audience and, in silence, made a flapping gesture in unison signaling it was time to settle down for the speeches. To emphasize this, Lord BUS took his mark at center stage in front of the long table bowing his head in prayer, hands clasped in front of him. I thought for a moment he might break into a musical number.
"Citizens of Aeternus." Alan Horus possessed the voice of a trained Shakespearean actor. His wireless microphone carried his voice to the far corners of the stadium, but he did not need it to reach the first dozen rows of his most adoring fans and executives. Graceful hands and fingers played the air as if touching the words he chose to speak and summoning them from history.
"I welcome you to our festival on behalf of the Aeternal Court of Lords and Ladies. Welcome honored guests, ambassadors, citizens and servants. I come to you with news that I am sure will astound you and shock you, give you hope and perhaps even challenge your very soul."
"Couldn't challenge it any more than my patience," Roderick whispered in my ear.
"The state of our realm is strong. We…" He knew the first statement would bring the crowd to its feet again and punch another t
iny hole in my eardrums. He teased the second sentence to give the impression he didn't expect it. One of the basic tricks of a political speech writer, even one like me at the lowest end of the profession, is to manufacture spontaneous moments like this to give the speech the illusory dimension of a conversation with the audience.
He talked about different regions and epic battles. He spoke of events taking place in the online game as though they happened just outside the stadium. Everyone in the audience felt included down to the "newest members who bring fresh ideas and new energy to our Family of Adventure."
The courtiers applauded again. I was a half-clap behind them, but I caught up as Lord BUS made his way back to his oversized chair, his cloak displaying the crest of Aeternus. This was another subtle tool, replacing himself briefly with the symbol of The Realm, subconsciously reinforcing the idea that he and his creation were one thing. As the applause faded, he turned back to the audience, slow like the sunrise.
"First." He paused and considered how worthy the wood and steel beneath him must be to hold him in that moment. He looked down and then turned his head toward me. He held the moment until the audience fell silent. "Grave, sad news comes regarding our beloved Lord Parque: my trusted man at-arms and loyal servant of The Realm."
This felt like a cue for a moment of silence so I bowed my head and closed my eyes to recognize my old friend and his character. I opened my eyes when I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked up into the soft, sad eyes of Alan Horus brighten like a news anchor shifting from a murder story to one about adorable seniors holding cats.
"In the wake of this tragic news, comes his successor, a pilgrim from a faraway land and a practitioner of the mystic arts. I ask you to welcome and embrace our new brother - Androsi, Lord Wynncase. Oracle of the Fidelphi!
The house exploded with screams and cheers. I bowed my head to Lord BUS. His hand on my shoulder was not protocol for this situation, at least as far as my reading told me. He was to offer a hand to me at best and I would accept it as his blessing. So, when he hugged me, it sent a wave of shock through the crowd. In a move, he stole from Pope Francis when he stopped to wash the feet of the poor, he hugged me in a manly way for a second, using the moment to whisper in my ear to render the small talk two people exchange when swapping spots at a podium.
