Once Were Men

by Marin Landis

  Neither of his parents were anywhere to be found the next day. This wasn’t surprising but it was frustrating. He was excited about putting them in the same room. From what he understood, Mikael swore enmity toward Bhav each time she became infused with the spirit of Sehar. The last time, when Melvekior was a child of tender years, was the final straw. Hiding his contempt for Sehar under the guise of concern for their son and distrust of the Gods, Mikael and Bhav had become estranged and the Warlord had told their only child that his mother had died. This was a strategy to protect the boy, whom only he knew to be some sort of hybrid semi-divine being, the extent of which, none knew.

  Melvekior had a fantastic idea that now his parents could be reunited. In the back of his mind a voice scoffed at the idea, but it would be grand. Of course, they’d have to banish two divine beings, or maybe more, to make it a reality but following Aeldryn’s teachings he didn’t get ahead of himself. Putting them together to rekindle old feelings was the first step.

  He had knocked on Bhav’s door. She had encouraged him to have the same freedom to her chambers that he allowed in his, but he baulked at the thought of it. There was no answer. The guard insisted that she hadn’t left her rooms, Flaubert hadn’t seen her and Povimus was busy preparing for his impending ascension to High Priesthood.

  Sitting back in his chambers, he felt very alone. For all he knew, Bhav had reverted to avatar status, Mikael had rushed off on some crazy quest, Ottkatla had found something to challenge her. Jotnar held no meaning to him, and he started to feel annoyed that he was being left out in the cold. He needed some fresh air so he took to the gardens at the back of the palace. Reserved for him, there was nobody else here apart from one grounds-keeper who must live somewhere within the gardens for Melvekior had seen him nowhere else and he always was to be found there. The man was a few hundred feet away, low to the ground gardening. A curious fellow he was, rather tall and forever wore a loose bodysuit of a plain, uncolored fabric, the hood always up. Melvekior didn’t realize until that moment what he missed from his life. Aeldryn. The wise Aelvar always had time for him, no matter what else was happening and Melvekior felt lost without that level of support. His eyes narrowed as he thought briefly about the other incredible coincidences and seeming fantastical events that had taken place in his life recently. Nothing was ever as it seemed.

  Almost without conscious thought, so tired and desperate was Melvekior, that he stormed over to the grounds-keeper, the man on his knees tilling some flower beds near a hut of some indeterminate purpose. “You there,” he bellowed at the man, louder than he intended. The figure turned, his hooded head up to face his employer. He then stood as Melvekior approached. He was of equal height to the tall youth and at the distance Melvekior could see his face more clearly. How had he not seen it before? The gardener was extremely youthful looking and fair of face. “Remove your hood, please,” Melvekior continued, a little taken aback.

  Graceful, ethereal, alien. These were words that summed up Melvekior’s opinion of the man in front of him. Was it even a man? It was certainly male and after a few seconds of staring blankly he realized why he had come to think of Aeldryn. This man was of a similar ilk. While his tutor was plainly some decades older than this fellow, they both possessed a certain otherworldly quality. So used to Aeldryn’s ways it seemed normal for him, but now, confronted with another so similar in appearance Melvekior realized how truly odd his sorely missed friend was.

  “Your Highness,” the gardener intoned. The young prince almost laughed aloud. This man had such a similar accent and way of speaking to Aeldryn that it was almost like he was making fun of the older Aelvar. It was plain to Melvekior now that this man, this ‘simple’ gardener, whom everyone had ignored, was of that race. Aelvar, the secretive, mystical folk, so close to the Gods.

  “What are you doing here?” Was all he could think to say.

  “I am taking some cuttings from these roses.” He indicated some yellow flowers in the flowerbed. Melvekior was confused at first. He hadn’t expected that answer, but it was after all a perfectly good answer. One Aeldryn would give. The gardener was smiling now; a friendly smile, if a little mocking.

  He took a better look at him now that he’d removed his hood and Melvekior had got past the shock of seeing someone so like his old friend and mentor. The gardeners hair was straight and brown, dark brown, like the color of the earth he worked with. His complexion was ruddy and his cheeks almost rosy, his features fine.

  “Not all of your people are severe then?” Melvekior himself smiled now. “Forgive me, it has been a while since I’ve seen Aeldryn. He is one of your people.” He felt a little rude saying that, as though all Aelvar would know each other.

  “He is not as severe as you think, Prince. Unless you are one of his pupils, as many of us have been.” The smile again and the familiar voice.

  “You have been his student as well? I am overwhelmed, friend….?” He let the question hang.

  "Raelyn. I have worked here for many years, Prince. Is my work not pleasing to you? The grounds are very beautiful." He seemed genuinely concerned that Melvekior didn't like his handiwork.

  "No, no, it's grand. The gardens are lovely. I just wasn't aware that we had any Aelvar on the staff. In fact, it would have been made abundantly clear to me if there were." Again he left a question hanging.

  "You are the only one who knows, Prince."

  "Call me Melvekior, would you? The way you say Prince sounds almost insulting. How is it not obvious, does no one look at you?"

  "No, they don't. They notice a gardener. That is all.”

  "Just as I have done, to my shame. Something came to mind of Aeldryn and then I realized it was you."

  "You have keen insight, Melvekior, most would not see through the glamer." He took off his thick gloves and dropped them on the ground.

  "It is magic, then?"

  "Yes. I regret the necessity and there was no malice involved. Merely a precaution." He started towards his hut. "Would you join me for some refreshment? You look as though you need something to focus your mind. It wanders. I recommend a day or two of digging and planting, it soothes the soul.”

  “It has been a while since someone gave me advice like that. Are you sure you’re not related to Aeldryn?” Melvekior gave a little laugh, feeling like he should impress this person; gardener of his own employ. He was amused at the thought of it. Then further amused that he felt such entitlement or superiority. Aelvar didn’t work for the men of the Three Kingdoms, their aims were inscrutable and even Aeldryn would not divulge the great favor his father, Mikael, had done for his people.

  It was Raelyn’s turn to laugh. “I’m sure that he and I are related, but it is quite probable that all Aelvar sprang from the Prime Source so that is a moot point for us.”

  Melvekior wanted to question that mysterious answer, but had more pressing concerns. The hut, a simple gardener’s hut from the outside was a microcosm of Aeldryn’s library at Saens Martelle. There was a window on the ceiling and books. Books everywhere.

  “Where do you sleep, Raelyn?” He asked, looking around.

  “In the garden, Melvekior. The books won’t stand for the weather, but it rejuvenates me.” Bending over, the Aelvar produced two simple earthenware cups and filled them with a dull yellow liquid from a wide bowl that sat on the floor. He handed one to his employer and sat on the floor, nimbly missing every volume and tome that seemed scattered in some random order, but Melvekior surmised that the order would be anything but random. He too gingerly sat, being careful to move no books, a legacy of Aeldryn’s tutelage.

  “What is it?” He peered into the brown, handle free cup.

  “Nectar. The Evisol, the flowers, provide me with sustenance. It will nourish you in turn.” He drank deeply of his cup and nodded encouragingly to Melvekior.

  The Prince of Maresh-Kar, one of the richest men in the Three Kingdoms shrugged, both mentally and physically, and took a deep draught of the liquid. He had no expecta
tions, but this was entirely outside of what he could have imagined. His entire experience shifted. He put the cup down, feeling a little disoriented. He could feel Raelyn looking at him, and looked up to see that it was true. Of course it was, he knew it. Just as he knew that there was a bee’s nest in the rafters, a network of tunnels beneath the hut where rabbits and moles cohabited peacefully and a snake currently stalking one of the rabbits not ten feet from his position.

  The varying colors of the book covers, the various shades of brown the hut walls, their clothing, the floor, the bowl, all now perceptibly different where before they were almost the same. His senses in every way were sharpened. The materials of his clothing now felt like something, where before, they just hung upon him, the smell of the earth, his own body, the rabbits, too many other things to name.

  “What magic…” he couldn’t even finish his sentence so distracted was he by everything he had failed to notice before. The knots in the wood of the hut, the splinters of the planks, the loose fibers of the thatch.

  “No magic, well not true magic, but an opening of the mind. What you’re experiencing is what many would consider enlightenment, ascension even.” Raelyn’s voice was more melodious than he remembered, the careful pronunciation giving the words an otherworldly tone.

  “Why have you given it to me?” Another thought crossed his busy mind. “Are you like this all the time?”

  “My people’s consciousness differs from yours considerably. Maybe it is our breeding rather than some inherent difference, but as you say, it is so. Why do you think I have shared this with you? Do you think there is a purpose to our meeting or is it blind chance, Melvekior?”

  He could feel his mind starting to calm as he applied the teachings of self-reflection that Aeldryn had taught him and the discipline of Kehan. His senses though were no less sharp, but his focus had narrowed. He recalled something that Aeldryn had said many years ago, something that he had dismissed as frippery, one of his tutor’s frequent fancies.

  “Even the smallest coincidence, the faintest connection between two events that might appear to be pure chance, may well be the result of a well laid plan by those with great foresight.” Could this be such a time. Who would have such foresight and what could he, Melvekior, gain from this?

  “This is the result of foresight.” He muttered, distracted.

  “A fine lesson, well learned. Aeldryn will be pleased.”

  “What lesson have I learned from this, I still cannot decide?” He had other questions, but all the new experiences were taking their toll. He could feel himself tiring.

  “Question, my lad, question.”

  Melvekior was sure that it was the voice of Aeldryn that spoke those last words, but try as he might he could not stop himself from curling up on the floor and closing his eyes. He was aware of his own voice but he couldn’t quite make out what he was saying.

  “Sire, you must awaken.” The annoying voice of Flaubert came to him through a thick haze of confusion.

  He opened his eyes. He was where he should have expected to be, but he didn’t remember coming here. Sitting upright he waved away Flaubert’s fussy attentions. “Hold long have I slept?”

  “Well, I’m certainly glad that you’re back to the land of the living, Sire. You’ve been asleep for an entire day. I understand fully though. If I had thought my father dead and then found him again…” He clasped his hands together against his chest. “Even Povimus, the grasping wretch that he is, couldn’t begrudge you some celebration, though, and I pleaded against it, your coronation will still take place today. I must admit to feeling a little anxious, for more than one reason. You have already been crowned, there is no need…”

  “Enough, man. I have lost an entire day?” He motioned towards the tray on the beside table. Flaubert was ruthlessly efficient in every way. There was a chilled jug of some sort of fruit juice, probably the sour one his majordomo insisted was extremely beneficial for health.

  “You have, Sire, I have been in such states myself. The Lord Martelle, your father, insisted I let you sleep it off. He’s very fierce, if you don’t mind me saying. Even High Priest Hestallr would be hard pressed to match the severity of his instructions. He also seemed to understand your position, so instructed me to leave you be. As fierce as he is though, he could not deter me from my duties. You will need to prepare for the day ahead. Your outfit is ready and I have written a speech…”

  “No, no, no, I told Povimus no speeches. And I meant it. This is all so unnecessary and I have other things on my mind!” His voice being a little louder than usual, Flaubert looked a little shocked and stepped back.

  “Of course, Sire. I will re-iterate to him that you will make no speeches.” He turned and then turned back. “You will go through with this won’t you? The people are already excited and the Church is funding the celebrations.”

  That’s odd, thought Melvekior through his growing rage. Povimus wouldn’t spend a cobbit unless he really needed to, let alone the hundreds of gold crowns it would take to inebriate the populace. He could hear Aeldryn’s words echo through his mind, “appear to be pure chance.” Was this pure chance? Had Povimus suddenly become a generous man, casual with the Church’s gold? Who did he really trust?

  His father, certainly not. His mother? No, she was an unknown quantity. Flaubert? Povimus? None of them really struck him as guileless people. Ten minutes ago he would have counted Povimus as a devoted friend, but something about his behavior recently had been strange. Maybe it was nothing, but after his encounter with the mysterious Raelyn, he was determined to question. If other people didn’t like it, it was something they’d have to live with. Too many times had he been let down or deceived. Aeldryn. Ottkatla. He was sure he could trust them. They had his best interests at heart. He had no reason to believe otherwise. He missed them bitterly.

  “Sire?” Flaubert ventured, forgotten for those few moments.

  “Sorry Flaubert, I’ll get ready. Leave me, please and tell Povimus that I’ll do no speeches, but I will play the part otherwise.”

  He rose and waited until his manservant had left before dressing. He wasn’t prudish but still felt uncomfortable for another person to be in the room while he dressed. The clothing left for him was quite possibly the most fancy attire he had ever worn. At his original coronation, Flaubert had insisted on dressing him, but had spent some time reducing the amount of buttons and ties so now Melvekior could dress himself easily. Apparently needing help getting dressed was the purview of the powerful.

  He shoved himself inelegantly into the red and black robe suit, open at the front to reveal a gem studded belt holding up ridiculously flouncy pantaloons. There was a hat so extravagant that he decided not to wear it. There were also gloves, a pendant and some gold chains which he also declined to wear. He let the room only a couple of minutes after his manservant and hurried to his mother’s rooms. She wasn’t there. He swore beneath his breath.

  Before he could go anywhere else, Povimus appeared seemingly from nowhere. Dressed in his white robes of office he looked every inch the devout priest. For a brief moment Melvekior thought his previous rambling thoughts the result of an overactive imagination and then he saw the twisted lip, for a second only, that appeared when he saw Melvekior standing outside his mother’s room. He’s up to something and that something is extremely worrying.

  “Povimus. What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be preparing?” He hoped that would give the old man an opening to express whatever was concerning him.

  “As should you. I am, however, completely ready to honor Mithras. Are you?”

  He knows, he knows something, thought Melvekior, feeling a frisson of panic run through him.

  “Of course,” he replied calmly. “Where is Bhav? I haven’t seen her for days.”

  “I saw her earlier, she is very much looking forward to today.”

  Melvekior was relieved by this. “My father? Ottkatla? Have you seen them?” Povimus didn’t know the barbarian woman
but he knew of her.

  “Not since your father put you to bed more than a day ago and your heathen princess, not at all.” His face was straight, no hint of humor.

  “I see, very well then. I have said no speech and that I meant. What other would you have me do?” He could feel his temper rising. While Povimus was his superior in the Church, he was only here in Maresh-Kar by Melvekior’s good graces. If he carries on like this, Melvekior decided, I’ll ask Hestallr to retire him.

  “Come, Prince,” Povimus stated bluntly and led him to the cartografica.

  The throne room had been transformed beyond his expectations. He had queried Povimus about the location but was assured that this was the best place. It was large enough and it was the appropriate venue to cement his rulership under Mithras.

  All through the three hour preparatory piece with the old priest he had felt uncomfortable. The whole thing was a total sham. Mithras wasn't a kindly and wise deity, but an angry and genocidal tyrant. His teachings and dogma though were essential for peace and prosperity in the Three Kingdoms. And beyond. If he believed Mikael and Faerlen in all of this. Which he did; it made perfect sense.

  The huge room with the stained glass windows and vaulted ceiling looked enough like a cathedral that the addition of the tall candles, long white curtains decorated with the Sun of Mithras and omnipresent smell of frankincense were unnecessary. As Melvekior entered from the rear, behind where his throne, or chair of office as he liked to call it, usually sat, he was amazed at the heat of the room. The preponderance of naked flame and human bodies had made the normally warm room into something resembling the sweat-boxes that Ottkatla’s people favored. And here he was in thick robes, weaponless and itchy. Povimus seemed unconcerned as he made his way towards the huge altar that wasn’t normally there.

  The sea of people was almost overwhelming. Most he didn’t recognize. The odd guard he did, but nobody else he knew stood before him in the morass of bodies squirming and peering. There was about twenty feet between the altar and the barrier of pikes and guards. Povimus certainly wasn’t taking any chances.