Chapter
Nine
The
Whisper of Aflarien
As morning grew lighter R’thera’s red walls neared as the horse grew
tired beneath him. All night he had half driven the nag to death to escape from
the fires and horrors of Ket. Not once
had he looked back. When finally the desperate orange light from the city had
fallen behind the horizon, only then did he slacken his pace. He had slowed
almost as if he had ridden into a pause in time. He looked up at the sky
shimmering with star-light. His mind seemed free of the incessant sibilance of
the Countess’ sweet voice. At last he
could feel the texture of his own thoughts and the heat of an ember of spirit
still burning within him. His eyes clutched at the stars, wrenching them from their
lonely revolutions into him, cleansing him of the debris of his corrupted
thoughts. Behind his blue star arrowed eyes he felt capable of his owning his
soul of determining his own path, making his own choices free from the will of
Krostic. In that long, long moment a slight breeze touched him and he started
to rein in the horse and turn away from R’thera- but he could not. He beat the
horse into a gallop as if he were whipping freewill and goodness.
For she had to pay. He knew that
was there only choice. She had perverted and twisted him until he had forgotten
himself- that freeman, the good simple man that had been ripped from his reality. He had been a being of love, yet she had made
love the means to pervert him.
As he neared R’thera she was there like a snigger waiting in his
thoughts.
‘You will love none but me,’ the twisted love song repeated with each
horse print the nag left behind until he was filled with it ceaselessly ringing
with a tinnitus of glee, raping his thoughts.
At last he breached the unguarded walls of the Keep and slowed the horse
in the empty courtyard. He took the wine
bottle, into which he’d mixed in the poison and the Shouel’s blood, from his
saddle. Slowly he walked to Krostic’s gardens
trying to rediscover the courage within him.
‘Then I will never love again,’ he told himself. Tonight Aflarien knew she must die so that he
could be free of her.
He saw Krostic asleep on a gentle hillock in the half-light of her
gardens. He almost fell to his knees at the sight of, all his new resolve
vanished instantly and he stared transfixed by her beauty. She seemed
surrounded by an aura of the intricate colours of her dreams. Aflarien crept
forward inch by inch, struggling forwards against a gale of emotions.
‘She is so beautiful,’ water streamed from his eyes. ‘What did she make
me do, I couldn’t...’ Filled with rage he stood tall above her. ‘I couldn’t do
that.’ He gripped tighter at the bottle of wine. Now. She must die now while
she is drowsy with sleep.
He shook her shoulder.
‘My lady’, he said and she smiled upon awakening and the banished ghosts
of his dreams blazed in her eyes.
‘Ah, my pretty one,’ she said, her voice purring with a yawn.
‘I have news from Ket,’ he said automatically, but then his body contorted
with the rage that he was consumed with. ‘Why did you make me do those things?’
Countess Krostic laughed.
‘I know what is in your heart mushroom picker. It is as black as
mine. As you trampled on the newborn and
murdered the innocent you knew purpose and you knew yourself for what you are.’
He wiped the tears away from his eyes as if he were washing away his guilt and
smiled apologetically at his lady.
Aflarien proffered the wine bottle. ‘Shouel blood,’ he said. ‘To toast the start of the war.’ She took the
bottle and drank deep from the life thick liquid. Her eyes blissful with the spring taste of
it. She seemed to be filling herself
with the whole of creation and in the last blazing moments of life she was
illumined from within and it was as if she grew immense.
Then she diminished and the bottle fell to the green hillside.
Aflarien smiled at her corpse.
For a moment he thought she was sleeping, but as he lay beside her his
hand brushing strands’ of her red hair from her face he felt no breath come
from her. She was so still. He almost
didn’t realize there was peace in his mind. He laughed at the irony of his
thoughts.
I just want to stay with her now, hold onto her as if she were air or
food, and never leave her side. Love her with my last thought. He reached for
the bottle. A little of the mixture of
blood and poison remained. He drained the bottle. Slowly dreams flitted within and out of him,
spectre’s of his life comforted him telling him he was finally free of her. Yet
with his last look a sudden fear blew up inside him.
From Krostic’s body a translucent ghost form rose up and turned her face
harsh with hatred toward him her eyes were more cruel and mocking than they had
been in life, her hair raging with whips of fire lashed his body. He had no strength now to keep open his eyes.
Finally Krostic’s spectre fell into him.
It gave him life, but he was no longer Aflarien, Aflarien was just a
whisper on the edge of things. He was
wholly Krostic. Resisting her now was impossible for the heart that beat within
him was hers; he had no thoughts but her own.
Her eternal life in his body brought him to his feet. The whispering of Aflarien
slithered away, unheard and he was left lost wandering in a copse of green
trees where she had imprisoned him.
‘I have become more.’ Krostic laughed at the strength and vitality of
the boy’s body about her. There was no weakness in his body and slowly she
filled it with all the power of her mind. ‘I have become Omelyn,’ the Countess
sang with glee. Yet the practicalities of her plans started to order
themselves. One Omelyn was not enough,
she would have them all. Then the only hope in Menerth would be she, Menerth
though she would leave bereft of hope and the land and its people would know
only of her corruption and her twisted lusts.
Fresh morning light adorned the gardens of R’thera and Aflarien walked
to an oak tree where his Ravens slept.
At the sound of his voice the Ravens laughter cut through the beauty of
the morning. To most of them he gave
orders to fly North and find Dalrosse, swiftly the storm cloud of Ravens flew
toward the forested lands of Soen. Three lingered to these he said:
‘Go to Tasen; tell King Loor that my army will ride to the city. Let him
be sure that Tasen will fall and I will soon be at his side.’ The Ravens took flight and headed for the
sea. Aflarien watched them until they
disappeared into the distance.
Chapter
Ten
The
King, the Princess and the Chamberlain
Nen-Resul looked at
the posturing actor who uttered such badly worn phrases and the Chamberlain
yawned with boredom. He had been
showing the Shouel witch, sitting beside him in the plush high seat, Princess
Marriamme of Leme around Tasen for the last two days, his yawn was both bored
and exhausted. He rested his head back,
half closing an eye, yet conscious of the gold filigree in the ornate ceiling
of the theatre.
“Chamberlain
Nen-Resul, a terrible situation has started in the South of the Country and the
King wants to see you immediately,” a psybot voice on his ear piece exclaimed.
He mouthed into his
ear piece as he stumbled out of his chair.
“I’ll be there
immediately.”
So relieved to get
out of the theatre, he forgot to say he was going to Princess Marriamme. He pushed through the sea of knees and
stalked up the aisle alerting his Psybot driver to bring his vehicle to the
entrance. When he reached the marble
stairs of the windy entrance he breathed in so deep that the sharp inhalation
of air invigorated his blood cells. He
ran down the stairs. War, famine,
natural disaster or even if the King’s bath water had run cold, Nen-Resul told
himself was better than spending another moment with Marriamme. His carriage was at the bottom of the
steps. The Chamberlain ran down them
and got into the warm car. He ordered
Psybot 320 to take him to the Palace.
Now the cold white
of the Palace façade brought back to him the weariness he had felt in the
theatre. He shivered in the bitter air
and the blasting wind from the southern ocean.
The Chamberlain felt like turning away and going home, cuddling up
beside the warmth of his wife and child yet duty called, despite the fact that
he had not slept for three days and nights and knew Liailan and little Somen
missed him. The Psybot, at the top of
the steps to the Palace, touched him with a warm hand that sublimated his
weariness and he fell into a deep sleep.
Instantly Nen-Resul was invigorated and he raced to the King’s Water
Chamber. The King spent most of his
time in the bath.
To his surprise two
Psybots flanked King Loor and as he floated on his gravboots towards them, he
squeaked.
“Where is the
Shouel?”
“I left her in the
theatre.”
“Unescorted? You are a fool.”
“What harm can the
witch do?”
Bellowing, the
sublimated Psybots struck Nen-Resul. In
a calmer voice, King Loor told him.
“There is a Shouel
Army not three thousand taiga from Tasen.
Krostic massacred the Shouels at Ket and she too is on her way to the
city, this city, our paradise, and Marriamme is the only bargaining tool we
have. She must be arrested before she
infects the Psybots and you have just left her to wander about the city.” Finally the King coughed his final command.
“Get the witch
before the Psybots sublimate her; get her Nen-Resul before it is too late.”
King Loor rested
his thin arms upon the Psybot and they turned the old weary King back to his
water chamber. Nen-Resul was left in
bewilderment on the mosaic corridor, his head hung down, and his mind void of
thought. He mouthed into his throat microphone
to the command centre.
“Put a cordon about
the Anthat Theatre and arrest Princess Marriamme as she leaves.”
He returned back
the short way he had come into the Palace.
Luckily the car was still there and knowingly the Psybot 302 took him
with all speed back to the theatre.
Unfortunately, he was too late, Marriamme had already left the building.
From the corner of
her eye Marriamme saw the King’s Chamberlain dash from the Anthat Theatre’s
production of The Slaying of Rex Mundi.
Five minutes later she slowly rose, slim and small, hardly disturbing the
enraptured audience by the dirge song.
At the top of the aisle, an usher, psybot 605, asked if she was all
right. The Princess brushed her long
black hair against the arm of 605. A
look of instant recognition filled his eyes.
“Princess!” he exclaimed. “Your son is on the final journey.”
She hissed.
“Where is he?”
“In the Mountains
of the Red Rose, my lady.”
“And Jon?”
She could see the
tears fill up in the eyes of the sublimating being.
“He is lost to us.”
Despite her grief
at the news of Esierk, she commanded 605.
“You must guide me
through the city. Together we must
awaken all the psybots from their long dream.”
She dashed ahead of him, calling back.
“Follow and tell me
the news of Dalrosse.”
605 darted ahead of
her and deliberately touched the arms of the various psybots he passed on the
way to the entrance of the theatre. She
could hear the rising sweeping of the dirge for the Death of Rex Mundi, yet clamouring
above there were the cries of exultation of the psybots.
“The Queen of
Menerth has returned,” they cried.
As the Queen
listened to the news of Dalrosse and his great journey, all the psybots from
the Anthat Theatre rushed away down side streets, back alleys, avenues to the
factories, brothels and serving quarters and a rising, rippling song of joy
rose above the smoke and amber glow of Tasen.
“The Queen of
Menerth has returned.”
***
The King’s two psybot servants helped him back
into his bath. They knew instinctively
that His Majesty wished to be left alone.
He reached for a book when they were gone, a proper book. He had no time for the consoles or the eye
piece in-loads that were so popular with the younger generation of Tasenian
Royalty. He slipped deeper into the
lemon scented water, his tired eyes slowly caressing the words.
He had read the
book many times. It concerned the one
of the early Librarians, Lebin, centuries long dead and set during a time when
there was no Kings but The Will of Thoolagarl and an elected Directory. Thoolagarl was one of the last Giants. In his youth he had been the commanding
force and The Directory issued his dictates, yet times changed after a thousand
years of his manifold life and he grew tired of the affairs of Tasen and
slumbered long in The Citadel, dream-fed.
The Directors then issued new legislature and levied the taxes. Thoolagarl would rubber stamp the
directorates with a contented snore or daydreamed and would completely ignore
what the prattlers went on about for he was so immersed in his age long
memories.
Yet, as the Giant
came nearer to the time of his death he talked and roared in his sleep and in
his bellowing snores became so intolerable to all the people in the city that
the politicians ousted Lebin from his work in the Library and bid him speak
soothing words to aid the Giant’s sleep and passing, he concocted nonsense
rhymes or sang old songs so that the people of Tasen could get their own
restful sleep.
So night after
night, Lebin’s vigil continued until Thoolagarl’s last breath. Then the Giant fell, crumbling his Citadel
and killing the Librarian in its’ collapse.
The King heard
shouting outside the door of his water closet then the clashing of swords. Unnerved he let the book fall into the
water.
“Yeric of all
graces! What’s going on now?” Sadly he looked down at the sodden
book.
“That was my last
copy!”
Nen-Resul came
storming into the water chamber, his sword dripping with the grey blood of the
psybots.
“What have you
done, Nen-Resul?” The King with
unexpected force threw the damaged book at his Chamberlain.
“You pathetic old
fool,” Nen-Resul screamed at him. “You
have let these mindless slaves run the city, supply our every whim. Now you have reaped what your slothfulness
deserves. I could kill you now,” he sighed,
“but what would be the point? The
Psybots have turned. Princess Marriamme
has gained their control. Now we must
contend with them, the Shouel army and Krostic’s boy hot on their heels. And you…You just lie in that bath.”
“Oh calm down for
Yeric’s sake. The Psybots won’t do
anything. I have thought through
matters since you left earlier. Krostic
is the problem, it is she that has started the war and she won’t rest until she
has the whole of Menerth in her soft hands and eradicated all the Shouels from
the land. The Shouels would not be
coming to Tasen if she had not slaughtered their kin folk in Ket.
“The important
thing is that the Shouels get to Tasen before Aflarien’s army does. If they know that their Princess is safe
they won’t enter the city.”
Nen-Resul snorted.
“The Shouels are on
foot and just a raggle taggle bunch of woodlanders in the desert that will
probably kill half of them before they get here.”
“Aflarien will be
here in days and she’ll have the Princess’ corpse hanging on the city
walls. Without the Psybots he will take
Tasen in hours. There will be slaughter
and he will let Yeric sort out the sinners from the sinned.”
Standing naked from
his bath, imperiously, the King commanded.
“Get me my gown
Chamberlain. Then kill me if you must, you have desired it for
so long,” and continued more softy.
“There is a way out
of this mess. The Legien. You have forgotten that you were once a
soldier.”
“You will, and this
is a specific order, assemble the Legien and go to meet Aflarien in
battle. I will make sure that the
Princess elicits the help of the Psybots to protect the city, at least until
the Shouels come to claim her.”
“And then what?”
“We’ll cross that
bridge when we come to it. Now muster
the Legien and go into battle and stop that murderous upstart from R’thera.”
***
605 and Marriamme
reached the Croe Courtyard at the centre of the city. He had been speaking constantly of the
Princess’ son’s journey from the Forest
of Soen
“He has found the
pass through the mountains to the hidden vale of the Red Rose. Yet, whether he is successful in getting a
cutting of the Rose is still unknown.
Bede, the despot of those lands has watchmen everywhere along the inner
rim of the valley to keep out strangers and to keep his people within. The Bede holds his people in thraldom,
keeps them besotted on the dew of the Rose so they will feel a sense of
equilibrium while he works them day and night in the mines and his fields, they
are like contented beasts. The people
there have such short lives and they are allowed but one child in each family
as the land is not large enough to cater for big families. However, the Bede’s elite prosper and live
in luxury. Dalrosse may find his way and
reach his goal unharmed; he has survived so well already. However, time in the underland spins at
faster speeds than here in the uplands of Menerth and the closer he gets to all
Five Roses he will age rapidly.”
“Shush now my
friend.” They found a marble wall to
sit upon. She knew Dalrosse was beyond
her. She was unable to help him on his
journey as it was his alone. She
recalled the day she had given him up to the vintner, how she had grieved, for
she knew deep in her heart she would not see him again in this world. Also in the long walk with 605 and his
report on Dalrosse, in each pause and hesitant silence she heard his earlier
words echoing and clamouring about her husband.
“He is lost to us.”
Oh, my love, my
sweet singer, husband and heart. I love
you dearer than The Black Rose and all the lands of Menerth; my heart weeps tears
for you. Oh return from the blackness,
the unseen void, the uncertainty that you have fallen into. Let all the light of the stars bring you to
me, my last song. Jon. Jon.
Jon.
A silence had
fallen across the city or perhaps she slept her head upon 605’s shoulder. She dreamt of silence and woke to the
clamour of the gathering of psybots about her, filling up the Croe Courtyard
and more and more was coming there from all the parts of the city. An afterimage of the dream came to her; a
vague vision of The Esierk singing silently, his grey eyes crusty with tears.
***
Nen-Resul was angry
that there were no psybots to take him quickly to the north side of the city
where the Legein House was situated. So
he strode purposefully, resolutely, stamping his heavy boots upon the road. Despite himself he did not look back at his apartment
where Soren slept and his wife wandered about in the dark worrying.
Three hours later
he arrived at the Legein House. He
kicked open the door and one by one woke the sleeping Legein and commanded them
to the Order Room. He told them of the
King’s instructions, trying to eradicate his sense of futility from his voice.
“My Legein, so long
has this land and City stayed dormant with peace, yet, we have each day trained
for this moment and kept ourselves in readiness while the Tasenians have sleep
walked through life. Within the hour we
must be sixty taiga from the walls of Tasen and ready to test ourselves to the
utmost. Wipe the sleep from your eyes
and forget your daydreams. I want fifty
men in the serviceable wings and the rest of you in the chariots. Now go.”
The one hundred and
twenty men of the Legein charged from the Order Room to the hangers and garages
leaving Nen-Resul alone with his second, Kren.
He slumped into the nearest chair and drank from a bottle of Leme wine, his
eyes cold grey with tears he had no energy to shed.
“Where has all this
madness come from?” In moments he had
finished the bottle of wine.
“I try to believe
that there is hope Kren, but my heart stings with the lie. Whether we live or die it would have eased
my heart if I could have seen Soren and Liallan and kissed their eyes
goodnight. But, I cannot. You must put the hope into the hearts of the
men and let them unleash their valour.
I am too weary for all of this, too pampered, despite what the King says,
I am a pen-pusher, a tour guide, not a soldier. This city is cursed and my heart is filled
with the ash of its’ smoke. You must
give them hope, though there is none.”
Kren lifted
Nen-Resul from the chair and smiled at him.
“We stink too much
of peace and yearn to feast upon the battle field. Do not fear, my Lord Chamberlain, I will ride
with you in the first chariot, and with the sun and the sharp wind that carries
us all your doubts will fade away, like the walls of Tasen beneath the horizon.”
Together they went
to war.
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