by Marin Landis
He kept assiduous records, correct to the cobbit, and none could question his probity. For none had the accounting skills that he possessed. One could prove anything with numbers.
Such records were what he was keeping when the door to the Cartografica opened. He looked up from his scribing in shock, who would dare enter without announcing themselves and seeking permission. He sighed internally. It was the one person who would do such a thing. Not even the Prince entered without knocking. It was Bhav
“Bhav,” he was completely familiar with her, having raised her from a mere homeless toddler, almost a father to her he was, “I am extraordinarily busy.” He loved her, certainly as much as a man might love a child who inadvertently shaped his life against his will. She was his biggest headache, worse certainly than the church. The Prince had foolishly left her in charge. Surely he, Povimus, was better suited, but it was his mother after all. It occurred to Povimus in that second that the Prince would take umbrage at the fact that the clergy knew of her relationship with Sehar. He didn’t doubt that the Melvekior would accuse him of keeping him apart from his mother.
I’ll just lay the blame on Mikael, he thought. He’s not around to object.
“Whatever activities you have planned must wait, Povimus, the wheels of fate are turning.” Her voice was hollow, like a person unable to display emotion was reading the words from a book.
He fell to his knees instantly. He recognized what was happening. Bhav, no longer, this was the Handmaiden of Mithras, Sehar the Shining One. “I live to serve.” He sincerely meant that. A great honor it was to directly serve the Will of Mithras. Any guilt he felt at keeping some of the God’s money was assuaged by the fact that surely He knew and no mention of this was made. He felt justified.
“The renegade Anaurim are abroad. In league with Melvekior. And must be stopped.” She stated matter-of-factly.
He was stunned. Renegade Anaurim were but a myth, a distant memory recorded a couple of times only from the first wave of Mithraic teachings. It was not canon, merely a hangover of pre-Mithraic faiths where Gods fought and strove like mortals. None could defy Mithras. Surely.
“I know little of such Anaurim, Lady, can you explain?”
She looked down on him, still on one knee, whereby before she looked straight ahead. She never looked at anything specifically when possessed by the Goddess, he just supposed her senses took in everything around her regardless so she had no need to. Her eyes were a bright, blue color. The whole eye. There were no pupils or white orbs visible, merely a luminous azure. It felt somehow hideous when she directed her gaze toward him, her awful expressionless scrutiny. He could feel a trickle of urine escaping from him and a scream rising in his throat.
Before he could lose his mind entirely, she turned away again and he fell to the floor, breathing heavily.
“They will converge here. Arrange for them to all be present in a public place and I will make an example of them.”
“They will come here?” He could feel his bladder loosening again.
“Your Prince is the spawn of such a one; Mikael, the Key. I believe Melvekior is in league with others. The Shaman and the Warrior; barbarians, you will know them.”
“Lady, Melvekior is Heiligr, surely he would not turn against Mithras.” He almost pleaded, it made no sense to him.
She looked again at him, those terrible eyes boring into his soul. He lost control of himself and spiraled into unconsciousness.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Father
“Spiteful and demanding with no boundaries. Who will stop them?” - Sjahothe
Melvekior waited by the side of the road. Ottkatla had left him, but had promised to return. A mysterious quest that she would not explain took her and Herjen away. Faerlen traveled with him, but made himself scarce somewhere only Anaurim could go presumably. He had affirmed that Mikael would be traveling this way, indeed it was the only route into Maresh Kar.
The day was cold, summer was a memory and autumn was an irrelevance to the Prince. What cared he for weather when such events were unfolding?
He silently summed up what he had been told, not that he believed it all. Aeldryn’s insistence on critical examination a lifelong phenomena now built into Melvekior’s thought processes.
Mithras was insane and somehow a danger to humanity. His father, Mikael was not dead but part of a group of divine beings, the Anaurim, along with Tiriel, Foerlund the Shaman of Ottkatla’s tribe and even Ottkatla’s personal spirit and guide, Herjen. Of course this was an immense surprise for Ottkatla too, for never would she have thought that the Herjen was an actual physical being and was possessing her rather than complimenting her.
Now he waited on the road to Maresh-Kar for his father, whom he saw die. Twice. If Faerlen was to be believed, his father could not die that easily and was now risen in a body quite possibly unrecognizable as that of his father. This in itself created two problems for Melvekior. Should he waylay every lone traveler? But then he remembered. Faerlen and Tiriel both mentioned that he would be able to identify Aurim, the divine magic, in others. Tiriel claimed by the power of his amulet, the knucklebone from Tiriel’s own finger, but Faerlen intimated that it would be through his own innate power as some sort of demi-god. This last claim was the most difficult to believe, but not the least attractive. He’d mourned his father twice and if he was honest with himself, felt a certain amount of anger about that. The claim that Mithras, to whom he had devoted his life, held malicious intent towards him and the rest of humanity, all of his devoted followers was almost too absurd to contemplate.
For that reason he needed his father. That would provide at least some evidence that Faerlen spoke some truth, if not the whole truth. He had learned that not all divine beings were completely honest. His father’s actions taught him that.
As the day grew old he grew colder. His armor was scant protection ‘gainst the elements, but the fur lining stitched in this set by Flaubert was welcome, no matter how he scoffed at the suggestion. Maybe he should turn his throne over to Flaubert. From an efficiency perspective he’d make an excellent ruler. The populace would hate him though, he was Melvekior’s exact opposite. Slight, foppish, peculiar and particular.
He hunkered down, tired of standing like a statue waiting. Just waiting. The sky was getting darker. He pulled his cloak about him.
And woke.
He had no idea how long he’d been asleep or even how he had fallen asleep, he had been through a lot recently and had little sleep so it wasn’t a total mystery. Something had woken him up.
There would be no travelers at this time of night, he groggily thought. He listened and heard nothing, but there was a something, an unnameable sense, that somehow told him that something was there. Something from the west, something moving not very fast but at a consistent rate. It was his father, the feeling told him that as well and that it was his father with the unmistakable scent of Aurim, the divine light that he himself had emitted more than once in times of stress. Once in the bowels of his palace, again outside of Faerlen’s cave.
He stood and waited silently, unable to see anything but the merest shadows, the moon being hidden by cloud. He caught a whiff of himself on the chilly air. A masculine body odor combined with the smell of metal and oil from his armor. As he concentrated he fell more in synchronization with the world around him. He could see minute amounts of Aurim in the sky, far beyond his reach. The stars themselves were made of Aurim! How unexpected. Was light itself a divine gift to man?
Eventually he could hear footsteps. They were indicative of a fair pace, not hurried but not made by a tired man. Mikael’s form must have been of a relatively healthy man. The poor fellow was probably stuck in there with him, wondering what in the Hells was going on. The thought of being possessed repulsed him. From his experiences with Janesca and Mikael inadvertently infesting her to thinking his mother was dead for nearly his whole life, instead of being inhabited by a Goddess. It made him angry actually. Maybe Mithras w
as all that Faerlen said he was, Sehar, in his mind, was no longer the virtuous Lady of the Sun as he was led to believe.
Either way, revelation was upon him.
He waited until Mikael was almost upon him and stepped into the road. He was about the speak when he felt a heavy blow to his jaw and he was thrown to the side. Before he could react a strong hand propelled him by the neck into the hard packed earth of the road. He quickly closed his mouth lest he ingest dirt.
“Were ye thinkin’ that a man by hisself would be easy pickins?” a rough voice grated. It was his father all right, but more common certainly. “Now ye’re the victim, let’s see what ye’re carryin’.”
Melvekior opened his mouth to speak when he felt a yank at his belt and neck simultaneously.
“Armor, by Garm’s sack and cock, who are ye?”
Melvekior felt a rush, almost like the pushing against his mind that the Aurim had caused to wake him and a light flared out of nothingness to hang above their heads.
“Melvekior!” His father’s voice was shocked and his face the same face Melvekior knew and still loved.
“Father,” the Prince said, feeling a bravado he never had when his father was still alive, “you’ve got some explaining to do.”
The Ideal Vintner was the most expensive bar in Maresh-Kar. You could buy drinks for the whole of the average clientele for an entire night in any other bar with what you'd pay for a bottle of wine in the Ideal Vintner.
Consequently, Maresh-Kar being the sort of place it was, the bar was frequently full of young noblemen and merchants trying to impress their highborn lady friends by wasting entire week's or month's profits on a single night of alcohol fueled excess. It was the place to be seen and regular attendance virtually guaranteed one a place in high society.
Of course, Sunar was regularly here, Marcus in attendance on his heels, the focal point of the desperate-to-impress ladies and fawning males. Of course, many well-to-do merchants and minor nobility were not such toadying wretches and gave Sunar a wide berth though still paying him the proper deference.
The common room, referred to as the Hub Elite by the pretentious patrons of the Ideal Vintner, was large by normal standards. Several partitions in the form of free standing divides, masterfully illustrated with scenes of debauchery and excess, offered a modicum of privacy if such was necessary. Most being there to be seen, they were used sparingly and if a closed off area was visible it was generally left well alone. Several duels had been fought over pranks in the past and the owner of the establishment was eager to maintain his pristine reputation and rules about disturbing the divides were put into place.
Several tables sat scattered throughout the Hub and a bar was conspicuous by its absence. No normal establishment this, waiters, all male, stood unobtrusively, waiting for a summons. A hand gesture, a nod, an empty glass, all were signs and some patrons had their own unique tells. Enrik Almaun, the owner of the Vintner weathered any and all requests, demands and bribes to bring in female serving staff. It wasn't worth it. Entitled, spoiled and disrespectful young men with money to burn treated women poorly. Enrik despised them but they paid for his houses with their arrogance and stupidity.
Such was the place that Mikael insisted they visit. He'd refused any in-depth conversation, declaring that he'd need a good few ales to get his blood flowing properly.
It was early evening and they made their way through the streets of Maresh-Kar, Melvekior eager that none see his father as it was well known that he was dead. Mikael himself shrugged off any attempt to disguise his appearance, saying that "I've already become visible," and refusing to explain more. Faerlen was nowhere to be seen though Melvekior hoped that he would stay away. For tonight at least.
It really was Mikael. In the flesh. It was his own body, rejuvenated somehow and the speech patterns were a little different, but the same man who had raised him. He found himself feeling happier than he had anticipated and was even looking forward to sharing a few beers with him. He was still furious, but was starting to imagine that there were good reasons for his father's actions.
"Members only." The blunt voice snapped him out of his reverie. Two huge men stood without the entrance to The Ideal Vintner, fat clubs at their belts. One was bearded, the other just had a double chin.
"Ye f...," started Mikael before Melvekior could interrupt.
"I am the Prince of this Kingdom, are you suggesting I am not a member?" He spoke in a formal, regal tone which normally had a bigger impact than it was having.
One of the men squinted down at him, he must have been nearly seven feet tall, the other whispered something in his ear.
"I suppose you must be," said Squinty. "Have a good evening, your Majesty." Melvekior ignored the incorrect honorific and walked through the door into the bar, Mikael slightly behind him. He seemed bristling for a fight as well as a drink and Melvekior needed to avoid that.
The entrance hall was made up of two settees arranged in an 'L' shape to the right, a hallway to the front and wide stairway leading up to the left. Half a dozen feet into the hallway there was a set of double doors on the right hand wall through which laughter and general hubbub could be heard. He prevented Mikael from climbing the stairs, guessing what might be up there and pushed open the double doors with his foot.
No matter the general social standing of people, they were the same in their cups. Behind the door was a large, lushly appointed room, wooden tables of all sizes spread around in a haphazard manner. There were booths against the far wall. mostly occupied by couples or mixed sex groups. Loose standing walls broke up the warehouse-sized room. Men in a black and silver uniform circulated, delivering drinks and food.
A group of bravos stood against the wall as they entered, laughing in an intoxicated manner. They stopped when Melvekior and Mikael walked in.
"Hellooooo," they all intoned simultaneously. It sounded sarcastic to Melvekior. The sorts of people who would mock just about anyone. Neither were dressed the part, he in his armour, his father in simple clothing that made him look like he belonged in a monastery. One of the drunks jumped in front of them, stopping their progress and waggled his tongue, bending at the waist with arms outstretched and hands flopping about.
Before Melvekior could react Mikael had kicked him square in the balls and started towards the now gagging and coughing man's comrades.
Melvekior almost laughed at the panic in the men's faces. Rich enough to never worry about defending yourself or being drafted into the Prince's armed forces, they were lost for action when confronted by someone like Mikael.
Seemingly from nowhere, a man appeared. Similarly dressed to the other staff but his uniform had a red trim the others did not. He was average height, small eyed and bearded. His facial hair was trimmed but not shaped, denoting a lack of vanity, smart though he was. Receding slightly, he had a paunch and he stood rather oddly; almost as if he couldn't remain still and needed to continuously adjust his stance.
"Your Highness," he bowed, "we have your customary booth. There's no need for you to stand here." He motioned with his head towards the three men standing who were helping up their friend and eyeing Mikael warily at the same time.
"Err thank you..." he paused with intent.
"Enrik, Sire, this is my establishment. By your leave of course." He bobbed his head.
"Cut the slavering, Enrik. I've been here before, ye're not always this pleasant. Show us the booth and bring whatever ale won't make us ill."
Enrik's eyes widened as he realized who spoke to him so roughly.
"Sir Mikael, how...I thought you, well obviously." He took a deep breath. "Word was spread that you had met your demise, Lord. I can see now how that is not true and I welcome you back to The Ideal Vintner. Right this way." The man moved away from them quickly, Mikael hot on his heels. Skirting tables and cutting through a group of fashionable looking women, Melvekior took an instant liking to his booth. A round table, a curved bench taking up about two thirds of its outside edge, it wa
s large enough easily for ten people. There was also a good five feet gap between them and anyone else and nobody stood nearby. The royal seal of Maresh-Kar sat on the wall over the most concave part of the bench. There were definite privileges of being the ruler of a wealthy city-state.
A large glass jug of ale and two fine mugs were placed before them, all three vessels with the seal imprinted upon them. Sunar must have come here often.
Mikael drained his mug in one long mouthful. "Well, boy, or should I say Prince Boy, ask me what you want." He smiled. Melvekior knew his father didn't know how to talk to him and had made his peace with that.
"All I want to know," he took a mouthful of his own and was amazed at the clean taste of it. Nothing like the swill he had previously imbibed. "All I want to know is, who in the Hells I am, who you are, and what in the name of all that is holy and unholy is going on!" He silently congratulated himself on not shouting any of that.
"I'll give ye the quick version." He finished another mug of ale, poured out the rest of the jug and handed it to a young man who was suddenly at his side. "Then I'll have to go and lie down."
"Food, something hot," Melvekior said to the boy who was about to rush off with the empty jug. "Also, see if Enrik can arrange some accommodation for the Earl. Please, lad." The boy, about the same age as Melvekior, nodded and scampered off.
"Right then," said Mikael as he placed his mug down and wiped his mouth. "Keep yer ears open and yer mind as open. This isn't a thing I'd care to repeat. I was born many hundreds of years ago, more hundreds than ye have years. My tribe were farmers and I was called up by our leader to fight our enemies, as were all men of fighting age. I can't remember them now, I can't even remember my wife or my children. They are long dead." Mikael's voice had taken on a forlorn quality and he had forgotten to affect his soldier's accent.
