by Marin Landis
“The King is looking for Arnkoer.”
Three mornings after this, as he breakfasted on the balcony that overlooked his gardens a great black bird landed on one of the short pillars that of the ornate fencing around the veranda. He eyed it suspiciously. Birds were not usually brave enough to come this close to the palace, besides which Thacritus had a penchant for such creatures, using them as harbingers of his arrival. The last thing he needed was his creepy, younger brother turning up and trying to influence his plans as was his wont. The innate paranoia of a head of state about to commit war in this instance was beneficial as his keen eye and curious mistrust of the bird drew his attention to the glint of a something. King Alpre stood and walked towards the creature and to his, probably naive, surprise it didn’t immediately flutter off. It shifted from foot to foot, the metallic gleam of reflected sunlight now plainly visible. This was a messenger crow. Calra loved a mystery; there were too few when you had lived for centuries.
The bird didn’t move even when he picked it up, it must have been incredibly well trained. He grasped it round its winged body with both hands, one would have been too small, and lifted it above his head. Yes, a metal cylinder had been placed around the avian’s right leg. Talon? He brushed the thought aside. Who cares? He started to apply pressure, firmly and slowly at first. Until the bird started to peck at him, frantically, fearing for its life. If such an insignificant being was able to appreciate its own existence. Was it too big to crush? Be that as it may, he thought, and flung it to the deck of his balcony and kicked it into the wall with his slippered feet. He strode over to his breakfast table and retrieved the serving ladle from his entirely too big bowl of preserves and lashed the weakly struggling bird about the head and beak. Two swipes and it moved no more.
King Calra Alpre breathed heavily. “Ortense!” he bellowed bending down and roughly pulling the metallic tube from the dead bird’s spindly limb.
A guard poked his head out of his chamber door. It wasn’t Ortense but it would do. “Dispose of this and situate a baton on the balcony in future, don’t make me think of these things myself. And tell Ortense to bring wine.” He ignored the terrified guard’s groveling and sat at his breakfast table.
Now, let’s see what this is all about, he thought as he unfurled the parchment from within the tube.
Your Most August Majesty,
I will attend you tonight. Pray do not wonder how this will happen, just know that it will. I entreat you to carry on your normal business.
Any attempt to stall or interfere with me in any way would be most regrettable
A
It was written in an educated hand, Arnkoer’s initial highly stylized. Looks a bit like a cock, the King thought without amusement. So he waited from dusk to midnight without a sign of Sunar’s old Spymaster. Calra had never utilized the man before, preferring to deal head-on with issues, but now he saw the benefit of such subterfuge. King Calra Alpre had a problem that might easily go away. He could invade Maresh-Kar, take the throne for himself and annex the city-state or he could just have Melvekior assassinated and that would be that. He initially had a plan to blame that dolt Marcus and then have him publicly hanged. The very idea of successfully engineering and executing such a plan made his heart pump. The ennui he had faced for the last few decades was dwindling; he was finding himself interested in things again. And not just mildly like when he found a new mistress or inhabited a new body, but energized, almost revitalized.
Am I evil? he thought fleetingly. What if I am? It makes no difference. Calra feared no Gods, he barely believed they cared about the comings and goings of man. Surely they were above the petty wranglings of lesser beings and would be concerned not at all with which King was betraying which Prince.
His musing was interrupted by a loud knock at the door. “Your Majesty,” boomed a voice. It was that guard who needed a haircut; he was the one guarding his chambers tonight and he had that lazy drawl of an Amaranthan born. He stood, furious, intending to give the man a piece of his mind. What the hell could be so urgent as to disturb one’s king at midnight?
He strode to the door and flung it open. No guard stood without but a man that was a stranger to him. Unafraid, yet curious, his anger dissipated, Calra looked left down the corridor. His guard sat slumped on the floor, his back to the wall, his chin upon his chest.
“May I come in, your Majesty?” the fellow before him queried, in the same slow twang of the unconscious guard. He didn’t need to experience again the impressive mimicry of the man in his hallway to know that this was Arnkoer.
“Yes, quickly. You’re late.” The King uttered, stepping back.
Arnkoer, sneering, walked in and stood, utterly confident and surveyed Calra’s chambers. Trying not to be offended by the man’s effrontery, he returned to his desk and sat. Waiting and observing.
The Spymaster was as average a man as one could be. He was neither tall nor short, handsome nor offensively ugly. He was a little on the paunchy side and his hair was cut in the style of a peasant.
“You’re…”
“Not what you expected?” Arnkoer turned to peer directly at the King, a look on his face that might have seen another man to the gallows. “I get that often. Outright normalcy is my aim. You wouldn’t pick me out of a crowd.” His voice had changed. It was a reflection of his appearance. Unaccented and bland.
“Very good, can we get to business if you’re quite finished examining my rooms?” King Alpre indicated a second wooden chair that he’d brought in from the balcony for this very purpose.
Arnkoer sat, legs spread wide, elbows on his knees. “I’m here to help, your Majesty.” He sounded earnest, though it was definite sarcasm.
“I’d like you to work for me, Arnkoer. Sunar mentioned more than once that you were invaluable to him and I doubt your new Prince would have any truck with your services so you’ll need a new position.” Alpre wasn’t quite used to making offers but knew the art of negotiation.
“I had thought of approaching Prince Melvekior, but he’s quite uptight and I had doubts I would make it out of the meeting with my liberty, or even my neck, intact. He has a need for me, but no desire. Your assertion though is incorrect. I am a wealthy man, though bored as wealthy men become without challenge or something to aim for.”
Calra recognized an opening gambit when he heard one.
“For what does such a man aim, Spymaster?” He knew the answer, it took no genius to guess.
“The very thing you have called me here to discuss. The throne of Maresh-Kar.” He looked smug.
“How could you possibly know that? Do you have spies in my court, my palace, that listen at my doors or can read minds?” Though surprised and a little angry, Calra was impressed.
“No spies or subterfuge necessary to understand who and what you are, My Lord,” he said, almost in a whisper. Calra panicked briefly and then realized that the little plain man meant something along the lines of ‘a greedy and ambitious ruler’.
“Yes, I suppose not.” Calra pretended to be deep in thought for a moment. “Well, what can you do about the throne of Maresh-Kar?” He held up a hand to forestall any immediate response. “Let it be clear though, Arnkoer, while you are no doubt a resourceful fellow, I am the King of Uth, the most powerful ruler south of the Malannite Empire and I have unlimited capabilities and the capacity to hold a grudge for a long time. A very long time. Should you cross me, all your bravado and veiled threats will avail you nothing.” He looked directly into the man’s eyes. He saw no fear there, but he knew it was present. He lowered his own voice into a whisper. “Do I make myself clear?”
Arnkoer paused, presumably weighing up his next words. “Perfectly.” He continued with some greater animation than before, as though excited about the prospect of danger. “ So, the throne. I empty it, with a minimum of fuss. Let’s say there is some sort of accident and then there is no heir. I am a bystander who attempts to save the Prince from the terrible accident and as a reward you pre
sent me with the throne. It could be a wonderful way to win the love of the populace, putting a man of the people in such a position rather than a spoiled noble with no experience of the real world.”
“You’ve given it some thought already I see,” King Alpre replied. This relationship wasn’t going to end well, he could tell. For Arnkoer.
“Ambition. I’m not a strong man, your Majesty, nor am I respected or even liked. I have had to scrape and claw my way to get even where I am, but I know what I want and now I can see a way of getting there you can be assured of my, of our, success.”
“We have a bargain then. On my word and honor.” Calra held out his hand to clasp the other man’s forearm in the universally recognized ritual of deal making. Arnkoer did the same and nodded solemnly.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Discovery
“Avert thine eyes, favored one, lest madness follow.” - Mithras’s words to the author of the Maru.
They stood outside the shaman's cave. The wind was howling, whipping into a frenzy the streams of brightly colored patches of cloth that adorned the cave mouth. The heavy furs that served as a door swayed only slightly.
The clouds were dark and roiling and rain was on its way.
The cave stood on a plateau which to the north and the east dropped away to a crevice below. To the north one could see for miles. Endless canyons and rocky plains, the odd tree the only living thing in view.
Melvekior stood with his shoulders hunched, his armor doing little to protect him from the freezing wind. He had given Ottkatla his cloak and regretted it. She looked unaffected by the cold, her bare arms showing nary a goosebump. He admired her for a brief moment. There was something wildly attractive about her. Not like Janesca who was merely beautiful or his mother who had fine features and a regal stature. Ottkatla was like a force of nature. Her pale skin, freckled face and reddish-brown hair untethered now and blowing behind her, spoke to him of a wild, savage freedom. He watched mesmerized as she pulled a hair from her mouth and let it free to mingle with the rest of her impressive mane. Her lips were pink and full and he found himself daydreaming.
She turned to him and smiled and then turned back. Slightly embarrassed he shook himself from his reverie and focused his gaze on Faerlen and Herjen, naked as the day they were born, performing their ritual.
The Anaurim themselves had referred to it as a ritual but it seemed that all they did was stand, hand in hand, free arm outstretched and look up at the sky. Their hair was also being strewn about the place by the wind but they didn’t notice. How they weren’t cold he didn’t know, but put it down to the fact that they weren’t quite human. Faerlen lived in a human body, but Herjen was the same as Tiriel; pure energy focused into a form that appeared human.
They stood like that for a handful of minutes and then lowered their arms. Faerlen must have been susceptible to the weather for he darted inside with Herjen following, but she took the time to beckon them and whisper “come,” that he only knew was that word by reading her lips.
The inside of the cave was surprisingly warm and free from the impact of wind. Faerlen had already, somehow, built a fire and was placing a small black pot onto a tripod. He poured a liquid into the pot from a wineskin and added some crushed herbs he picked up from a bowl on the floor.
Herjen stood, making no effort to cover herself, her perfect physique a distraction for Melvekior but he purposefully didn’t look. He tried his hardest to make this look casual. He didn’t want to offend Ottkatla as while nudity didn’t figure into her canon of things that were bad, he didn’t want her to think he was lusting after the being that had inhabited her for years. That seemed inappropriate somehow. He could also sense, from the way she looked at the Anaurim that she was conflicted in her feelings towards the divine being. Were it any other that she felt aggrieved towards there would have been a confrontation imminent, but he felt sure that this would not be the case here. Definitely though something would happen between them, he could feel it.
Faerlen spoke, in between sips of whatever herbal mixture he had put together.
“We have discovered your father’s essence, Melvekior. He is not dead nor is he making any effort to secure himself, which signifies one thing.” He took another sip of the draught, blowing on it beforehand.
“Well, what does it signify?” the young Prince asked impatience driving his clipped speech.
“That he has not the strength. I suggest he needs time to acclimate himself to the new form he inhabits.”
“He could be anyone? I will not recognize him. There’s always something! Why can it not be straightforward?” He started raising his voice, more through frustration than anything else, “I just want to get to the truth of the matter and no longer be a puppet in some mad scheme over which I have no control.”
“You have more control than you give yourself credit for. As you heard, yet refuse to believe, something about your heritage has given you strength beyond your imagination. I can sense it. I also know that you have seen but a minute portion of it.”
Herjen nodded her agreement. Ottkatla merely looked at him with her soulful light brown eyes.
“Regardless, I have no desire for your power or frankly terrifying divine magic. I want to see my father and I want to hand over my crown to another and I want to walk North as far as I may, that none of this can touch me.” Melvekior almost laughed when he realized he was sounding more like his father. More direct and spontaneous and willing to just throw caution to the wind. He took two steps to Ottkatla and looked her directly in the eye, taking her hand. Her eyebrows raised in surprise and a small smile played on her lips. “Ottkatla, you know I have loved you since I first looked upon you in my father’s house. Once I have unraveled this skein of half-truths and manipulation, would you accompany me on a journey? We go where our feet and our swords lead us!” He knew he was being dramatic but manners served him not well.
“Melvekior, you have become the man I knew you would. I will come with you.” She squeezed his hand, harder than maybe she meant but to him it was the affirmation of an idea that had been worming its way through his brain for a while.
A feeling of exultation rose in his chest and he kept in a yell of joy. No matter all that had occurred, this moment more than any other told him that he was now his own man. He felt invincible.
“Shaman. Where is my father?” He spoke to the Anaurim as his equal, no longer scared of any reaction.
“When we saw his essence it seemed to be making its way to Maresh-Kar. To where he believes you reside probably.”
Bhav, was his first thought. He ran out still holding Ottkatla’s hand.
His dreams were constant. In many ways the difference between the Dreamworld and the physical world was unclear. It mattered little, one experience was the same as another, but the Dreamworld was more pleasant. There were none there who attempted to thwart His Will. Many years ago, centuries probably, He had set out a system of living that should have been enough for those living it.
He had seen His plans crumble and He had become dissatisfied.
"I have no choice," He reminded Himself. Exactly as He reminded Himself multiple times daily since He made that decision. Choice was a concept that had no meaning any longer, His mantra an excuse. He made choices as if they were divine mandate and that's what He believed.
He slept beneath the open sky, His energy derived from the Sun. In His dreams He was the Sun, his power extending to the limits of vision and imagination, and beside Him rode His consort on a silver winged steed.
In His dreams there were no traitors, no deserters. His friends and disciples all shared His vision. Cleanse the world.
He woke, almost startled. As if such a thing could happen to such a being. There it was again. He smiled.
“There. The Key. Always the Key.”
He summoned her with a thought, her luminous presence by his side in an instant.
“What is it, my love?” her silky voice filled his mind. She loved Him, H
e could feel that. She more than any. If any other did. He could feel the waves of adulation and worship come from the mortals, but that had long since ceased to excite Him. Nor did he believe that it fueled his power as that wretched Aelvar had told Him and that if He should go ahead with His plan, that power would fall to naught. It wasn’t love they felt for him, but awe and fear and desperation for a reprieve from death. He did not provide that; His halls were empty. That mystery was beyond Him and hated Garm was silent.
“The Key is abroad,” He said and shared the knowledge.
“He will not evade me,” came her response and she was gone.
He regretted that He did not go Himself to apprehend his wayward comrade. There were Dreams to dream.
The Cartografica made an excellent office. Povimus enjoyed looking at all the maps when he had free time. None came in here save the Prince and he was mostly away or too busy. There were no annoying junior priests, or demanding worshipers or those trying to exploit a relationship with him. He felt the weight of his age as he ran his fingers through his almost non-existent hair. He kept it long, what there was of it, not as a last attempt to retain some vestige of youth, but as a last attempt to retain some vestige of rebellion. His had been a controversial career. From raising the Avatar of Sehar to spending his time now raising a church in the most corrupt kingdom this side of the Tarkans. There were also the rumors, the rumors of embezzlement coupled with a never-ending curiosity about his personal wealth. The wages of a priest of Mithras, even a High Priest, were pitiful. One would be expected to live frugally while vast sums of wealth were invested into the creation of grand buildings dedicated to His majesty and the commission of fine art works to glorify His existence.
A true believer needed none of those things to appreciate the magnificence of Mithras.
He intended to retire from service once this temple in Maresh-Kar was built and return to his ancestral lands, the deeds to which he possessed, in Malann. There, he would build his own monument, to Mithras; a temple for his own use, suited and designed around his needs. For decades of faithful service this was his due. He had earned the money that he skimmed from collections and donations. Of that he had no doubt.
