by A J Burns
He had kissed her on the forehead before she and the escorts departed. They continued along the trail until they reached the Gwar Muharo where they then pushed the wagon onto a ferry and rowed across the river. It was here that they had come to their destination. The escorts followed the trail to the temple and abandoned her there.
“This is my palace,” said the pale man. He spread his arms wide and walked towards her. “All of this is mine. Every last stone in the tile.”
“Where’s my dad?”
“Your father is a bad man, Susyn.” He grabbed her chin and lifted it gently.
“No, he’s not.”
“Your father murdered a person. You are not going to see him for a very long time, my sweetie.”
“Where is he?”
“Come with me.” He ascended a few stairs; seeing that the girl had not followed him, he slid a finger into her fist and guided her up. “I have something to show you.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“I have something for you.” This man made her nervous, his voice creepy and stare intent. He had long, skinny fingers; and the right side of his face had been pierced with golden hoops.
“What?” For a moment, her childish ways had manifested themselves; but it was only for that moment as her tone went from excited to scared in the range of a single word.
“You are impatient,” he said.
“And you don’t make any sense.”
“Listen, you cunt.” He wrapped his fingers around her neck and slammed her against the wall. She could feel her throat burning as she tried to scream, but only a whimper came out as tears began to fall down her cheeks. He released his grasp and dropped her to the floor.
“Stop!” She glanced around for someone, anyone, that could help; but there was nobody to save her. Of the twenty or more people there, none had her wellbeing in mind. “Please,” she murmured. “Please stop.”
“I did not mean to frighten you,” said the pale man. “Take my hand.”
“Go away! Leave me alone.”
“Take my hand. If you wish to see your father, you will take my hand.”
Susyn clambered to her feet, holding the side rail for support. She didn’t trust this man, she didn’t believe this man, yet she followed him up the stairs and into the corridor. Light flickered from the candles. She glimpsed at the room they had left behind; it was now a small, white rectangle in the center of darkness. “Where are you taking me?”
“Do you know why we were forced to remove you from school?” He scraped his fingernails against the wall, causing Susyn to cringe.
“Because I didn’t understand those kids,” she said and asked at the same time. “You took me from school because I didn’t understand those kids.”
“Is that what your father told you?”
“No. I thought it.”
“It is because you hold a hatred deep inside your heart that we were forced to remove you.” He was looking straight ahead. “This hatred burns inside you and will twist and turn until it consumes you.”
“But I don’t hate them.”
“Whom are you trying to convince, Susyn?”
“I don’t,” she pleaded. “Please. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”
The man had remained silent till a smile overtook his face; and, as if feeling compelled to speak, he said: “Truth be told, what you think is irrelevant. I do not care about the petty feuds of the Raurs and Mesals. Do you know what I want, Susyn?”
“No.”
“Control.” He looked at her for the first time since entering the corridor. “My people were driven from their lands. We were nothing; we had nothing. When we came to this country, we were exiles. Your father’s grandparents shunned us—looked down upon us. We were beneath them. So, we destroyed them from within, gutting them until there was nothing left of their ‘superiority.’ The Mesals had been rustling in Soten and what a perfect opportunity for us to welcome them into your homes. They now have more influence in your own country than you do. But see..., once they outnumber your people, it will be the Raurs whom the holiest congregation protects. So on and so on as we sit perched atop it all. You harvest our fields and then you fight among yourselves, killing one another with our weapons, forged in our factories.”
Susyn remembered a phrase that her father had used to say, and she paraphrased it as best she could. “I see two wrongs and no right.”
“Maybe…, but those not strong enough to survive in this world do not deserve to.”
They came to the end of the corridor and were now in an atrium lush with vegetation and miniature waterfalls. Seven narangas flew overhead in a swirl of orange, cawing as the duo moved beneath them. Walls of glass showed the barren rooms beyond. Onlookers stood in every corner, motionless in all aspects except their eyes.
“Where are you taking me?” asked Susyn. “Who’re they?”
“Have you ever wanted to be a goddess, Susyn? To bathe in the pools of paradise? To live in riches and splendor?”
“Well, yeah,” she said. “Who wouldn’t want that?”
“All of that will be yours—every gem and every jewel that grows on this earth. I take you to be anointed with the goddesses.” The pale man moved gracefully over every rock and crevice he traversed.
“Why me?” Every corridor except for the entrance whence they came was bright and lively. The watery sounds were now soothing her; although curious, she didn’t care much about what the man had to say.
“Because you are one of the chosen ones. Every winter, a specious girl like you ascends into a deity and soars with the angels.”
“But why me? Why am I the chosen one?”
“A chosen one,” he said. “It is best not to question the goddesses.” They exited the atrium and came to a room of glass walls. “All of this will be yours, Susyn—forever.”
“Will my dad join us?”
“Eventually, but I told you: It will be a long time before you are reunited. He must cease sinful desires.” He called for a servant to come over; suddenly, one appeared, having turned a corner that Susyn had not seen. “Take care of the girl,” he said.
“Yes, Chancellor Surkin.” The servant had big, childlike eyes. “Hello sweetie; what’s your name?”
The pale man bowed, almost curtsied, before leaving them behind and swaying out of sight. He had vanished into the darkness beyond the glass.
“Susyn. My name’s Susyn.”
“That’s a pretty name.” She filled a bucket with water from the atrium. “Here, let’s take you a bath.” It had taken twelve buckets to fill the tub. Water dripped from a crack at the bottom.
“I’m a chosen one,” said Susyn, removing her shoes.
“I’ve heard.” The servant helped Susyn prepare for her bath, and when she got into the tub, the servant left. Susyn was now alone; with her diary in reach, she forced her words onto the paper. Most of what she wrote was only intelligible because of the indented markings upon it. She had managed to get ink for only a couple of dozen characters.
She relaxed in the bathtub as she thought about everything that had happened to her over the past month. “I’ll be a god. What’ve I done to be worthy?” she wrote. She would’ve loved to have seen her father again, but she would soon “become a goddess.”
“When I’m a god, they’ll love me and praise me and I can save my father and bring him to live with me.”
The servant soon returned. She dressed Susyn in a silky white gown that hung around her knees. Makeup was applied beneath, above, and around her eyes; on her lips; and over her cheeks and forehead. “You look beautiful,” said the servant. “Now what to do about that hair?”
“Could you straighten it?” asked Susyn. “Dad says I look prettiest with it down.”
“I can.” She brushed and straightened this little girl’s hair until the time came for them to leave. They walked together down the hall, and again Susyn’s path had darkened.
“Where are we going now?” asked Susyn.
“To the wishing well. Are you excited?”
She nodded. “I’m very excited.”
The area they came to was big and circular with stands raised high above the center where the girls stood. At least a thousand people sat around them, watching, waiting with some sort of anticipation. They cheered when they saw Susyn. Her heart began to beat more fast; she was afraid of crowds, and this one in particular frightened her. The room was reverberant, and she yearned to scream as if she could yell away the noise.
The pale man stood in front of them, a shallow pool to his backside; and when he lifted his arm, the entire room became quiet. “Susyn!” he exclaimed. “We have all been anticipating your arrival.”
“What’re they doing here?” Susyn looked from one face to another, trying to process what was going on around her, but she couldn’t comprehend what her senses told her.
“They have come to watch your ascension.” He extended an arm to her. “Come. Are you ready?”
“Yes,” she stuttered. “What am I supposed to do?” She grabbed his hand and stepped closer to him.
“You are to be baptized in the ichor of Kornelia.” He kneeled beside the pool. “Trust me,” he whispered to Susyn. “Trust me and you shall have everlasting life.” He laid her on his arms and moved her to the edge of the water. “Do you trust me?”
“Yes.” She breathed deeply. Before she had even thought of panicking, her face was submerged in the water, and the liquid filled her lungs. She kicked and scratched and tried to free herself from the man’s grip. She could hear the excitement of the crowd. She continued to fight, but the pale man was too strong. She continued to fight until her last, dying breath.
4
Tefvon Vyktaur
Vyktaurian Chief
The twelve clan-chiefs gathered in Bwumen. Each brought with them stewards and servants, nectors and guardsmen, friends and family; and by twilight, ten-thousand guests had arrived.
Tefvon was accompanied by his two sons and one-hundred of his personal guardsmen. He didn’t have much usage for servants, excepting Maisi, but even she was only kept because time wouldn’t permit him to do everything by his lonesome. He had been campaigning for thirty-four-hour days, but the solar system was yet to oblige.
Bwumen was on the westernmost tip of the Bezhol Peninsula, built upon swamps and marshes full of: bogeks and sypreses; mossy-leaf lizards that blended into their habitats; and flies that shone red and white in the darker hours. The bay had been pellucid but was now polluted and filthier than any bog; gobs of tar had eroded the ridges, and pests lay their eggs in the coral.
Tefvon and Kron had been observing ado from their balcony when Mauro Orynaur visited them.
“You look very fine this day,” said Mauro as he fastened the clip of his silly orange jacket. “Might I say exceptionally fine even?” He was by far the youngest of the clan chiefs, with soft, pretty features and a gangrel physique. Like most people his age, he was seventeen years old.
“Why not mediocre-ally good, or not quite perfect or—dare I say it—simply fine?” asked Tefvon.
“Exceptionally fine is better than mediocre good, Your Majesty.” Mauro reminded Tefvon of those monkeys with the silly little hats that bashed cymbals together for breadcrumbs.
“You’re a chief now, Mauro; talk like one.” Tefvon shoved a glob of tar-sugar into his mouth and rubbed it against his gums, which burned as they absorbed the drug.
“I’ve hardly forgotten, between the beggars asking for money, and niggards withholding money. Oh, and the greedy tax collectors demanding more money than they collect—not that they don’t swipe some off the top for themselves. They don’t think I’ve heeded, but I’ve wised to them over the years. How have you managed to retain your sanity?”
“It’s the job I’ve sworn to do, and do it I will, even if it means having grayed before my dear father—bless his heart.” Tefvon critiqued his own reflection in the basin below. His gums were black and rotten, his lips were parched, and his teeth had decayed into a brownish yellow.
“You can scarcely notice.” Mauro smirked in the boyish way to which his familiars had become accustomed. “I’ve just come to inform you that you have our support should you march in the rebellion.”
“This is none of our concern, and I shall be staying out of it.” Tefvon thought it preposterous: this child’s heavy-handed attempt at “offering support.”
“In that case, our support is not yours…. Such a shame; your endorsement alone could sway the thought of this war.”
“Four noble families can’t yield an army.” Tefvon was referring to a law of antiquity, where each noble family was indebted to their chief ten companies of men. The clans had no standing armies, only the militias of their lords and the nectors of their Provincial Guard.
“I’ve made no mention of your resources,” said Mauro. “You’re a legend of old.” His hands were behind his back: a nervous tick that he had maintained for years.
“A failed legend of old.” Tefvon cleared his throat. “Every man who’s entered the city has already made his mind.”
“It is impossible for a man to know any mind except his own.” Mauro straightened his shirt by tugging on the fabric.
“Aren’t we the little philosopher?” Tefvon had plenty of time but none that he wished to share in the presence of a flatterer. “I will be the flint of no war.”
“Sometimes more is lost by not fighting.” Mauro had an awkward smile that didn’t fade like those of most people but lingered there till long after it had been set in motion. “I beg that you reconsider.”
“Do you honestly think to change my mind?” Tefvon moved his hand back and forth, rubbing the hair of his face. “I must remind you that you’re wasting your time—and more aptly, wasting mine.”
“Well, I should be going anyhow. Have a pleasant stay, Your Majesty. We shall meet soon enough.” He saluted Kron halfheartedly and flitted away.
“And he was supposed to betroth your sister.” Tefvon hadn’t deigned to look at his son. “I really ought to stop using this stuff,” he muttered to himself, moving his sights from the basin to the town below.
A crowd had formed around the city’s museum. Tefvon kept his sight on Otysoru Hytaur: a son to the man whom Tefvon hated more than he hated anybody else, a son to the man who had taken Tefvon’s wife.
The Hytaurs had ridden in palanquins. They wore periwigs and had not deigned to wear breeches and short coats but insisted upon extravagant clothes instead. The bronze casings on their fingertips jangled and scratched against the poles. The stench of sweat and perfume followed them everywhere and often forebode them. Hytaurs came in three sizes: chubby, plump, and obese, with most being the lattermost and all claiming to be the first. Their women were either gorgeous or grotesque, and this was without anomalies.
“I thought what’s-his-face was supposed to marry Emowyn,” said Kron.
“Her suitors could’ve composed an entire village, yes, but this wasn’t very much my point. You’re not only going to die first; it appears you’ll lose your hearing first as well.” He poured merlot into a mug and sipped it. “I keep thinking the wine will help me quit dipping, but they just go so good together. I could only wish Vyktaurian wine was this good…. How is that coat-rack of yours doing anyhow?”
“Brenton’s quieter than he used to be. Manic some days and others I’d imagine he hasn’t quite recovered.”
“There is no recovering. Forsakes, I lost mine too, but at least it wasn’t from the stupidity of my own ruse. I would’ve ended myself long ago were I him—or rather in his position; if I were actually him, I’d—of course—also be a dastard.” He took very small sips, and when he put the mug on the coaster, he immediately raised it for another sip.
“Say what you will. He’s still out there fighting for your cause while you sulk on your throne.” Kron seemed to adore this argument, having repeated it on a seasonal basis.
“That’s because I still have people who rely on me. Ha
d you all died, who knows? Maybe I’d be marauding around. I’ve always wanted to become a pirate, you know.”
Kron snorted. “Is everything a quip to you?”
“Only my eldest son and his boyish expeditions,” said Tefvon apathetically. “An undeclared war might bring a death now and again, but total war is another beast—one that doesn’t need prodding. Even if it did need prodding, it won’t take kindly to it. It is a beast after all. You’re too young to remember and far too young to understand. Mauro, and others like him, are leading their family into the slaughterhouse. Our enemies have no sense of chivalry or virtue. All the last rebellion achieved was the prospering of the Hytaurs and their lackeys. With them and the Bostaurs fellating the congregation—metaphorically I do pray—there is no hope. Not a one. You might as well place the dagger to your wife yourself.”
“You’d rather wait until they come calling at your door.”
“Kron, my son—listen!” Tefvon used his tongue to spread around the tar-sugar. The burning sensation tended to soothe him. “We’re divided, which means we’ve already been defeated. Perhaps one day a decent heir will ascend the Hytaurian throne. Maybe then we might unite. Maybe then we’ll have a chance. Listen Kron, I don’t not love you; you know this, but I also love my other children. I’ve made this decision once before, and I’m not inclined to risk it again.”
“I just hope it’s not too late when you do make your decision.” Kron shook his head and lowered it into the palm of his hand.
“I hope it’s not too late when you regret yours.” Bells clanged in the night. “Do say hello to your mother.” Tefvon acknowledged his summons and hastened towards the shrine where the clan chiefs were scheduled to meet.
He had hidden at this shrine as a boy, lying beneath a pew and clutching onto his toy as the vanguard opened his mother from right to left. They abandoned her there on the floor, and her eyes met with Tefvon till the last sign of life had drained from her face. He sat alone, staring into her bright, green eyes until dusk had replaced dawn. The town had burnt to the ground; the earth was scorched, but the shrine endured.
