Branson ignored his questions. “So what happened? Logistics officers get paid a lot more than a lowly archer. Fin’s clan would have crucified him for losing them that much money.” Branson looked confused as he stood on the balls of his feet to try and see over the crowd.
“Fin explains his fall from grace as a ‘disagreement’ he had with a House Parent during one of his monthly checks.” Jonah smirked, remembering Fin’s version of the story. “It was in one of those remote villages in the south – I guess the House Parent had been abusing the children in his care,” Jonah recounted with a sad grimace.
“What?!” Branson yelled, scaring the two bystanders beside him. He cursed under his breath a string of such nasty words that they could have scoured stone. Jonah was glad the people of Dawn didn’t speak Euran.
“So what’d Fin do?” Branson looked over at Fin, still chasing children around the square.
Jonah shrugged. “Well, Fin being Fin, he kind of lost it. Brained the fellow with his bare hands. I think we all would have felt it was justified, but there are laws. Can’t go around smashing people’s heads in, and apparently this House Parent was closer to the Empress’s Holy Lines than most: she had been banished from Eura City, but still, we all know the Royal Lines are damn near untouchable. Fin was stripped of his rank and tossed out by one of the Blood. An agreement was made between the heads of the two clans involved and Fin had no options left but to join the army,” Jonah finished with a sigh.
Branson ran a hand through his curly white hair and looked at Fin in a different way than he usually did. Then he stopped short, looking as if he had just realised something horrible. “So Fin has the touch then? He can tell if people are fertile?” Branson said, his eyes wide with terror.
“Yeah, I suppose he does,” Jonah said, and laughed. “Why? Are you worried Fin might find out whether you or I can father children?”
Branson didn’t say anything back and seemed lost in troubled thought.
Jonah thought it odd, but now was more intrigued with the energy in the crowd around him. He leaned towards the person standing to the other side of him, and tried to use some of his newly learned language to ask, “Pardon me, sir. Could you explain what’s going on?”
“Gladly, friend,” The stranger answered. Jonah saw the stranger point through a gap in the crowd. “See those flowers? Those are diffuses uliginosus, or, as they are locally known, ‘Sunbursts’. They are plants from an age long ago, and once they used to grow on almost every continent. Now there are but a few left. Their flowers open for one day a year and the church’s gardener has said that it will happen at any moment now.”
Jonah noticed that the stranger dressed a bit differently that the rest of the Dawnish locals. He wore a curious conical hat and, despite the heat, was draped in a long grey cloak, which caught the light in an odd way.
Jonah only wondered momentarily at how well he could understand the stranger’s speech, as his attention was diverted to the thick green stocks holding aloft buds larger than a man’s head. The outer petals of the flower heads began to slowly curl back.
“Life, in all its myriad forms, never fails to amaze. Life is what your empire fights to sustain does it not? Life above all else,” the stranger said quietly to Jonah. His accent sounded odd, like rough stone scraping over smooth steel. “Maybe Wunjo was not so wrong after all.” The last words seemed to have been private, but Jonah heard them just the same.
The stranger put his hand on Jonah’s shoulder then, and Jonah heard him whisper, “I’m sorry for what this will do to you, but know that it is necessary.”
“What do you –” Jonah tried to say, alarmed, but stopped as he began to recognise the strange flower. Memories began to stir from somewhere deep within him, somewhere that had been buried.
One after the other, each flower head burst open in an explosion of colour. Vibrant red, yellow and orange ringed petals as long as a man’s arm sprang forth like a fire roaring into life. The stamen of each rose out of the petals and pods burst open. Pollen shot high into the air and began to drift over the crowd like rain. The sun illuminated the tiny umbrella-like spores, making them look like tiny drops of sunlight floating down to the ground.
With that pollen, a thick and spicy-sweet aroma filled the plaza while the crowd gasped in awe and wonder.
And it was the smell which unlocked his memory.
They had had these flowers in Eura. In the Imperial palace, where he and Ilene had lived. But they had called them Fire Blossoms. And they had bloomed on that night.
The night he had killed Ilene.
“NOOOOO!!!!” Jonah screamed.
Suddenly he was back there. He saw it all again.
Ilene had been trying to give him children for years – so many years, and so many still-births. It had driven her mad, but they had shared something forbidden within the Blood, something which had pushed Jonah into a state of madness himself. They had been in love.
His position had granted him certain courtesies that others within the Blood were not allowed, and so his infatuation with Ilene Herimachi had been tolerated by his Matron for longer than was considered proper.
Yet when, miraculously, he and Ilene had conceived, she did not believe it. Even when she had their child, Amber, Ilene had thought she was crazy. Ilene had become more and more distrusting of reality. Even went so far as to call their darling little girl a demon, an abomination.
Jonah had brought in physicians to help her, and for a time she had seemed to be getting better.
Then the Fire Bloom festival had arrived. And Ilene had been left in her room with a headache and Amber had gone down early for the night.
When Jonah had returned to their wing of the Palace, covered in the scent and pollen of the Fire Blooms, he had ducked his head in to check on his sleeping daughter.
Instead he saw Ilene holding a bloody knife above their daughter’s crib, and smiling as if she had just done something righteous.
When he went over to the crib and saw those lifeless eyes he lost part of himself forever.
He remembered Ilene trying to justify what she had done. In her crazed mind it had been right.
Jonah couldn’t remember how many times he had stabbed her. He just remembered how red his hands had been.
“ILENE! WHY!” he had screamed, and had dropped to his knees.
The memories took over his mind and he relived that moment again and again as the Sunbursts’ pollen fell around him.
“I am sorry,” the stranger said as he left, his swirling red eyes trying to offer what little compassion their synthetic glow could.
“Damn it, no!” Branson yelled, looking at the flowers for the first time. “Fin! Get over here! Help me with him!”
The crowd had turned to stare at Jonah, who was writhing on the ground screaming and crying as if he had just had his heart ripped out.
“What in the Empress’s name is going on?!” Fin yelled as he ran up and lifted Jonah onto his shoulders.
“Just get him to the inn!” Branson yelled back, “I’ve got a tonic that will knock him out. Hurry, before any of our officers see him!”
* * *
“Are you going to explain what the heck that was?” Fin asked as he took a drink of his ale.
Branson had his head in his hands after an hour of holding his friend down on the bed while the tonic took effect. “I suppose I’ll have to.”
“Who is Ilene? And Amber?” Fin asked. His face was white as a ghost.
Branson took a deep breath and scanned the room for what must have been the hundredth time, but he couldn’t see anyone who wasn’t in his employ. No eyes or ears around, other than those he was paying.
“Ilene was Jonah’s consort. Amber was his daughter,” Branson said simply. He had no idea how to start. He had kept this secret for over a year now, but Fin had heard too much and had saved Jonah’s life.
Fin grimaced as if confirming a theory.
Of course, Fin would already have known that
Jonah was fertile. Fin couldn’t help but have touched Jonah on dozens of occasions during their time as soldiers. Yet he had kept it quiet. The truth, though … it seemed too much.
“He’s one of the Blood, isn’t he?” Fin stated more than asked.
Well, sometimes it is just best to dive in. Branson ground his teeth and said, “Yes.”
“What the hell is he doing pretending to be a regular archer then?” Fin asked, holding his cup as if somehow seeing the answers in his dark ale.
“He’s supposed to be dead,” Branson said softly, checking around him once again for anyone listening who shouldn’t be.
“What? What are you talking about?” Fin said, and then finally noticed he had a drink. He finished his ale in one long pull and held up a finger for another.
How much to tell? Branson asked himself. Fin seemed trustworthy, but could he trust him completely with something this big? Branson shook his head: they were going to need all the help they could get. Someone would have seen that display at the flowers, someone would start rumours flowing, and one of those rumours might reach the ears of Prince El’Amin.
“Fin,” he said seriously, and waited for the big man to meet his eyes, “what I am about to tell you is a secret which will threaten your life. Do you understand?”
Fin took his meaning and nodded slowly. “Yes, Branson, I understand. This is a Blood secret; I know what that means.”
Branson gritted his teeth before speaking. “Jonah’s loss was tragic and it drove him over the edge. I don’t quite understand the psychology of what’s happened to him. Something about his mind cocooning itself against the tragedy he experienced. What he remembers, well, most of it, it seems, steers away from any memories of his Blood connections, the Imperial Palace, and his life there. I guess all of it is just too painful. His mind seems to have fabricated a rather simple existence which Jonah can operate within from day to day. But have you ever tried to ask him about his past? About what he did before he joined the army?”
“Well … no. Not really,” Fin said. “It’s considered rude on the whole.”
“A point I was counting on. I’ve tried to elaborate on the things he remembers and fill his head with stories about his life before the incident. It’s worked up till now, but that damn flower – it seems to have unlocked something in him. Fin, if any of the Blood who travelled with us find out who Jonah is, they’ll kill him, and anyone who knows of him.”
“Alright.” Fin took another drink. “But why, Branson? Why is he supposed to be dead? Who is Jonah?”
Branson took another drink to wet a throat which had suddenly gone dry. “Jonah is the Empress’s son, Ja’Al Ona Hashi, Grand Duke and General of the Empress’s Glorious Imperial Army – and presumed dead by everyone in Eura.”
Fin’s jaw dropped, “Holy sh –”
“Yes,” Branson agreed as he put a hand over Fin’s mouth so the big man could recover from his shock, “and he would outrank Prince El’Amin and every other member of the Amin Clan which has been landing in Dawn these past few months.”
Fin nodded. “So what do we do?”
Branson shook his head. “We let him sleep.” He looked up to the ceiling above which his friend the Grand Duke slept sedated in a locked room. “And we see who wakes up.”
24 - An Old Book - Wayran
NRE 5 surprised me today. It and the others wanted new names. Why I hadn’t expected them to want their own identity, I don’t know, but the question was unexpected all the same.
My second surprise came when NRE 5 named itself Raidho. The others followed suit by all taking the names of ancient runes. They even went so far as to etch the old symbols into their foreheads, like some sort of branding or tattooing ceremony of a new tribe.
Michael and I designed them, yet I will never know the poetry that sings within a mechanical soul. I doubt I will ever truly understand my synthetic companions, though they are now the closest thing I have to family ... I’d best learn.
- Journal of Robert Mannford, Day 004 Year 05
Well, here he was, at the Academy. Wayran had never felt so out of place in his life.
He wandered somewhat aimlessly, zigzagging his way through the middle sections of what was called the Grid. Tall arched doorways stood open at each compass point of the interconnected garden courtyards.
As he walked, Wayran saw other initiates nervously scampering behind Fellows upon the balconied terraces above him. The black uniforms and youth of the initiates clashed with the loose red flowing suits and, more often than not, the white hair of the Fellows. Wayran felt an eagerness to please and a general excitement all around him. It made him want to retch.
He felt like such a traitor. Sure, it all made sense. Financially it was his best option, and the military training he would receive would open a lot of doors for him; but he was an imposter here. Matoh had spoken the truth of it. He hadn’t earned it. Of course, that wasn’t what father would say. No, he would say his sons earned their places the moment their mother left on that ship heading towards Navutia, towards Istol.
And Wayran understood that too, yet he just couldn’t shake the feeling that he needed to hide from all the other bright, eager students. For many of them, like Matoh, this was their dream, and Wayran didn’t want to sully that for anyone, and yet he felt his mere presence was doing just that.
His toe caught on the edge of a cobblestone. He stumbled forward and nearly dropped the book in his hands. The book, the one he took from that strange building buried beneath the sands. His only trophy from the life he had wanted.
Wayran gripped the book tight. He needed to get his mind off his predicament. He had registered early, and the registrar had stamped his papers and assigned him a bunk. He was supposed to go straight to the male barracks and claim his allotted piece of space, but there were still a few hours until the initiation ceremony, which he had to attend. He didn’t want to spend those hours being forced to get to know the other initiates. Gods, what was he doing here?
Instead, he had decided to try to avoid formally joining the military for as long as he could. Despite his somewhat aimless wandering, he found himself outside the building he wanted.
In tempori prait est cognitusem magnutia. The words were carved into the archway above him. It was ancient Jendar, and a phrase he knew well. In the past, there is great knowledge. It was the motto of the Chroniclers, and Wayran pushed open the doors to the Artificium in the hope that someone else at the Academy would also be interested in the book he held.
Stepping through the doors, he immediately felt a sense of relief. The walls were lined with the innumerable square black Jendar devices, which lit up when touched. Wayran let his finger trail along the surfaces of the polished black artefacts and grinned as light followed his fingers’ touch. The same swirling image popped up on each surface. The Chroniclers had found no better use for these than decoration. He knew Chronicler Mortigo had found these particular relics in what must have been a Jendar warehouse. However, most Chroniclers agreed that these Jendar devices were useless until someone could solve the strange security riddle which popped up when a person touched them.
Wayran had seen the rows of crates holding hundreds more of the thin black devices in the bowels of the Artificium, so he knew the Chroniclers could afford to wow visitors by putting this particular collection on display at the entrance.
He had asked Chronicler Talbot once about what the devices were used for. “We don’t know yet,” the portly Chronicler had said. “They all appear to be locked or encoded, not at all like those other devices old Uther Sanders brought us all those years ago. Such a shame: almost all of them have lost their power now.”
Wayran remembered when he had watched Chronicler Talbot demonstrate what the relics could do, on one of the old, unlocked devices. It had been like watching magic, as the Chronicler’s fingers were somehow able to control hovering images of light.
Why didn’t I take one of those black tablets? he scolded himself. There had
been thousands of them; surely one of them would have been unlocked? Yet he and Matoh had checked hundreds of them and nearly all were similar to the ones on display near the entrance here. The same swirling pattern lit the surface when touched, which, as far as anyone could tell, might be all the devices ever did. But there had been other treasures, Wayran told himself for the hundredth time. Countless Jendar riches and technological wonders – and I brought back an ugly old book. I’m such an idiot.
“Is Chronicler Talbot in?” he asked the woman who sat behind an enormous desk. She had what looked like a Jendar tablet on the desk in front of her, yet it was in pieces. The sight of it shocked him. “Lady take me!” he gasped. “Is that what they look like on the inside? Incredible.”
Tiny lines of metal ran in neatly crafted geometric patterns along what looked like a thin sheet of somewhat opaque blue glass. Wayran recognised two halves of one of the strange black devices lying in pieces around the desk. “How did you get it open?” he asked, still somewhat awestruck.
The woman smiled rather wickedly and pointed to the large hammer on the corner of her desk. “I persuaded it to open,” she said. “Though it took quite a bit of persuasion; and yes, Chronicler Talbot is in.”
“I’m Wayran Spierling, ma’am, the Chronicler will want to see what I’ve found.”
“Ah, yuck,” The woman said cringing. “I am definitely not a ma’am. I’m maybe a year your senior, and I know who you are.” She cocked an eyebrow at him. “You don’t remember me, huh? Sad, you’ve been gone a few years and already forgotten your betters. I’ll have you know I’m one of Chronicler Rutherford’s apprentices now.”
Her look of disdain and amusement jolted the memory awake within Wayran. “Bree Olmson? Is that you?”
“Course it is! Gods, you had me worried the sand had replaced whatever it was had between you ears. Good to see you back in civilisation, though the Wastes seem to have done you some good.” Bree winked at him as she appraised his tall and lean physique.
Visions: Knights of Salucia - Book 1 Page 27
