If anything amazed Tyr the most, it wasn't this newfound knowledge that everything came from the dirt. It left him wondering if that's how children were born. Had his own parents dug into the ground to pluck him free as a baby? No, it wasn't either of those things. It was all the green. Rolling hills as far as the eye could see split by roads of paved stone or dirt. Bridges and mills, tiny villages, more green than he'd ever seen in his life. He couldn't believe how big the world was. It was amazing!
A garden larger than anything he'd ever seen, he could feel the life inside of it and the clean smell of the air was like nothing he'd ever felt before. They even had trees larger than the keep spires...
Tiber observed with a wry smile as Tyr looked over the lip of the road nervously, as if he were anxious at the idea of touching grass. These roadways that split in each cardinal direction were old, older than the kingdom itself. Perfectly flat and solid. A pickax couldn't scratch them, and they regenerated over time with no apparent runes to facilitate such a reaction. Nobody even knew what elder race had created such a wondrous thoroughfare, stretching in an unbroken line to all four corners of the massive empire.
“He is a strange boy.” Tiber observed, and Rufus would never disagree on that point. “I suppose it's par for the course when you're raised the way he was. Always shut off in a room somewhere.”
“Indeed. Tyr is expressively forbidden from touching a plant or animal, and as you know, the vast majority of the citadel grounds are all stone for that reason.” Rufus looked at Tyr like a nephew, maybe even a son. The boy had lived a sheltered, regimented life from the moment he'd been brought into this world. Everything he did, what to eat, when to sleep, was all controlled by his parents. Now that he was of an age to possess a will of his own... Rufus looked forward to seeing him grow and learn, finally authorized to leave the palace. Only through Signe's insistence, of course, Jartor himself would have never allowed such a thing.
Tyr had only ever walked on hard packed earth or flagstones, wobbling awkwardly as the ground below felt soft and squishy under his boot. Like a mattress with grass in place of sheets. “This is amazing!” Tyr shouted, looking at the men flanking him with wild eyes. “What is this stuff!?”
Tiber raised an eyebrow, looking Tyr – lost for words. “It's uh... It's dirt, kid. Grass?”
“Dirt? No way!” Tyr asked, stepping down again with an exclamation of bubbling laughter. “Why is it so soft?”
Clearing his throat, Tiber replied. “They use magic dirt here, it's super soft so that when food falls off the vine it doesn't... Get hurt.” Despite his wavering tone, Tyr didn't seem to mind. Nodding energetically and jumping on the grass as if it were such a simple truth to accept. Another odd thing, Tyr could always smell a lie, any dishonesty, there were very few people who could pull the wool on him.
Apparently Tiber was one of these people.
“Magic dirt... I am glad the plants do not get hurt, but I still do not like vegetables.”
“Yes, and just like that – you've seen all you need to see.” Rufus smiled, rubbing the boys head and grabbing him by the hand. But Tyr had a unique sense of gravity. If he did not want to move, he wouldn't, ever. Those times when he needed to were the few situations in which his father the primus would make himself known. Moving him where others could not, the poor kid, it quaked at Rufus' heart to think of the dynamic between father and son.
“But what are they doing?” Tyr asked, pointing. There was an old woman, and a young girl next to her furrowing the fields. Information Rufus shared with the boy, watching as his countenance crumpled in confusion. “Should two girls be doing that sort of work? It looks hard...”
Indeed it did. Periphery homesteads like this could never hope to afford any artifacts to assist in the plowing of their fields. They stooped low, hunched in the back before their time, always working with the earth. Rufus Goldmane, first son and legitimized bastard of Count Gideon Goldmane's grandfather had asked a similar question once.
The inequity of the world had shocked him, once upon a time. Even as a bastard, the Goldmane family was kind to him, noble and proud were they. Blood was blood they said, but in any case, Rufus had lived as a commoner – noble in name only – not that much else mattered when it came to these things. He'd still been given that proverbial diamond spoon to eat with all his life. The empire could afford better for the people, but they just... Didn't.
Granted, the people were certainly not abused. Haran hadn't lived under the feudal system as the Varian's did for centuries now. People were free and they owned their land, the nobles ruling over them were little more than glorified wardens and tax collectors. An agrarian lifestyle saw people undertaking backbreaking work, but only during brief moments of the year – free to do as they pleased with the rest of the time. People were fairly happy in their ignorance and they flourished under the current system. Starvation was a thing of the past and harvests blessed by bloomers and druids, or other life attuned mages, saw their bellies full and their bodies sturdy. The most efficient war machine on the continent, but it had some very obvious flaws.
Count Hector, Rufus's father and the current Count Gideon's grandsire, had said something about 'alternatives', the curse of 'progress'. Something about industrialization and a nightmare of men all dressed the same, seated in boxes and cubicles. Something about... 'A new form of slavery', with a cycle of profit and cost being the yoke and shackle about a mans neck and wrist. It would make them weak, Hector had said, damn them until there were no great men left – only sinners.
Thus, the land remained tended as it had been for generations, traditional living. Man earned for his or herself, communities were tight and the countryside was peaceful. Rufus still didn't understand it though, there were plow artifacts that could be automated, with no need of workhorses. This family had naught but a skinny nag and a few goats beside, grazing in the yard before their shabby hovel of a home. Whatever the case, he knew the finer complexities of societal and economic balance would fall deaf on the ears of a young boy.
Rufus had come to understand some of the nuance there, if not the grander scheme. The empire produced far more than it could ever need, and what was not needed – was given in tribute to the crown or the churches. Where it went after that was anyone's guess. It was all a carefully maintained illusion, regardless.
“It's 831, kid.” Tiber grimaced. “Women can be farmers now, same as the men. Don't be ignorant.”
But Tyr wouldn't have it, and there was nobody there who could properly control him. Perhaps Tiber could have, given his reputation and impressive equipment, but he didn't. Watching as the boy marched up to the women, proceeding to discuss something with them punctuated by animated motions of his hands. At first, the old woman in particular was adamant. Saying something about 'young masters' and 'work for the common folk'.
Tyr was stubborn, plucking the hoe effortlessly from her hands. Marching off again to the end of the field where the granny helped him line up, showing him where the ridge and furrow were. The even lines that dictated where the planting was done, enough space between each crop so they could be weeded and tended to without disturbing them. The space necessary to blossom with just the right amount of sun.
The prince raised the hoe up a single hand, straight toward the sun. The old woman chuckled, she was a bold one, to touch an obvious highborn lad with no fear in her. Harani were like that, though. The steel in them, they said. She trembled a bit as Rufus began running toward her, with Tiber squinting at his back and wondering what the old fools problem was. It was just a little farming... Was he afraid of getting the dainty princes hand dirty?
“Tyr!” Rufus shouted, and the woman flinched again as he drew closer, finally releasing the boys wrist. But she held steady otherwise – hands on her hips and a stormy look in her eye. This was her land, the land of her fathers and their fathers before them, and it'd be a cold day in all the hells before a pompous prick in shiny armor was going to tell her how to manage it. That was until Rufus grabbed both her and the young chubby cheeked girl at her side, holding them close and tackling them to the ground. He was strong and able bodied, even in his advanced age.
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“What's this then, violence on an old woman!? You just wait until Baron--”
Her string of insults were split in twain just as the earth was. A thunderous booming, following by a crack that violently rattled Rufus's ears. Dust flew in all directions as the hoe disintegrated under the ungodly force that propelled it toward the ground. Tiber stared, open mouthed, gaping along with all the rest of his subordinate knights.
“What... What the hell...?”
“That's... Not natural...”
Rufus and the two women had been cast aside like dolls, uninjured for the most part courtesy of his quick thinking. He'd never been a talented mage, but the Goldmane's were a family well famed for their magic bloodline, enough to protect these women – at least.
When the dust cleared, all that could be seen was the small form of a boy holding what little remained of the splintered handle of a hoe. In front of him was a conal depression in the ground that extended beyond him, many times the length of the small field. Of an uneven depth that reached nearly two meters at the furthest end of the fissure, like a giant had stooped low to drag a finger through the earth.
It wasn't just the crushing force, but the cutting of it, something that didn't make any sense given the blunt and rusty farming tool he'd used. A tree off in the distance was cut clean in half at a vertical angle, tipping precariously until it came crashing down, buckling under the sudden change in its distribution of weight.
“...What?” Tiber managed to squeak the word out. Thinking about the first meeting with this ward of theirs and how he'd so foolishly challenged the boy. There was such an unexplainable majesty in the simple movement the boy had made, his feet rooted, single handed, he'd smashed through an acre of farmland and left damage far beyond that in the wake of the blow. This was a kind of strength that could flatten whole towns, perhaps even destroy a city.
Tiber had never been much for gods as normal people were, and primus' weren't those. Awl might've been his 'god' as the god of murder and killing was for all sicario – but Awl did not require worship. For the first time in his life, god fearing might have entered his vocabulary. A display of heavenly might so incredible that it could leave no doubt as to Tyr's identity.
This was a primus.
The old woman saw it. Dusting herself off and grunting, kneeling down and bowing as if before the shrine of her house patron. Tyr was not well known in the kingdom, even less to those beyond – all they knew was that the legendary Jartor who had protected them since before the time of her great grandsire had finally had a son. The whole empire had celebrated for weeks at his birth, praising all the gods for this great gift. Finally, an heir to the primus! Knowledge that their empire was secured for countless generations more.
This, to all observers, was simple proof of that. Five years old and already so titanic, just like his lion of a father.
Tyr turned toward her, seeing Rufus on the ground. He was pale and swaying on his feet, a thin ribbon of scarlet spilling from his lips. “Rufus... I did it! I used it and I didn't get sick or fall asleep!” He seemed to be celebrating something, though nobody but the old butler knew what that might be. “Does this help, honorable elder?”
“Of course it does, great primus.” The old woman's nose was pressed so firmly to the dirt that she could smell the manure in the soil. She was truly shaking now, like a leaf in the wind, whether out of fear or excitement, it was hard to say. Probably both, Rufus had considered the level of reverence his people felt for their primus, their living gods. That's why he'd opted for such a spacious carriage, in the hopes that Tyr would be distracted by something in the interior.
“We don't supplicate ourselves, my lady.” Rufus mumbled to her, but he didn't press the issue, some of the old folks were like that. Especially among commoners.
“Grandmother...” The little girl had a lost look in her eye, staring out over their ravaged field in sadness. She couldn't have been more than six or seven years old. Small and slender, chubby cheeks rosy under the summer sun. “You did not help us!” She shouted.
“Andrea!” The grandmother gasped, struggling to rise on limbs stiffened by old age, graciously accepting the helping hand of the battered and bruised knight beside her.
“No!” Andrea pointed at Tyr. “I don't care who you are. You just destroyed our field and threw away weeks of work, what the hell is wrong with you, you bastard!?”
The woman paled, speechless as a great doom settled upon her soul. Tyr's eyebrows were about as low as they could get, a hard frown on his face – a face a child should not be making. In his eyes, a wrathful light. Rufus could feel a pressure, like a tea kettle with the lid too tight that could pop at any moment. A cold chill made its way down his spine as Tyr's eyes met his own. Everyone in the vicinity could hear it, a clicking squeal, cold steel being thrown into a fire. Feel it, a pressure settling over their surroundings until it became hard just to breathe.
“I did a bad thing.” Tyr said. He wasn't mad at the girl for admonishing him, it seemed, but rather himself for having made a mistake. Always the little perfectionist, but with tutelage like he'd had... Added onto his naivety and complete lack of common sense, he wasn't a normal child.
According to Signe, Tyr was incredibly intelligent, frustrating great mathematicians come to tutor him to no end. So naturally gifted in every little thing. If not for his poor health, he'd have been the perfect child, a true prodigy. And yet Jartor was still so harsh with him, micro-managing every aspect of his life. Until a five year old child could recite advanced arcane theorem meant for old sages and archmages, but had never been allowed to feel dirt or drink juice. Tiber had offered the boy an apple, but Tyr couldn't eat it, he wasn't even allowed to eat when he wasn't supposed to.
Staring on in confusion as Tyr held the fruit in his hands, smiling softly down on it as if it were the most valuable thing in the world.
No snacking, no sugary confections, no friends of a similar age. His entire life was dominated by a code as determined by Jartor, everything from when he bathed to when he was allowed to sleep.
“Your heart was in the right place.” Rufus said, patting the boy on the head. “But yes, you did a bad thing. With the fields in this state, they won't be able to make their summer harvest and their taxes will--”
Tyr put his hand to the ground and whispered to it. The earth moved and writhed under his touch, molded like clay by the words he so casually spoke to the soil.
There would be no fixing the tree, but in regards to the fields, they looked otherwise identical to how they had before they'd arrived here. Rufus shook his head, sighing in contemplation of the lecture he was going to get, maybe a whipping for himself as well as the boy. “And since when can you do that?” He asked. “You are supposed to report any new abilities to me as soon as you discover them, prince...”
Tyr shrugged, the bleeding at his mouth and nose had grown fiercer, but a healthy amount of discomfort might convince him not to act so recklessly. There'd be more scolding besides, in more a more appropriate place and away from watching eyes. “I didn't do anything. I just asked.”
“You asked?” Tiber's approach had been silent. He bowed respectfully to the two women, both in a state of abject shock at what they'd just seen. Understandably so, Tiber had been trained from a young age to sniff out mages – and that was no magic. “Asked who? A god?”
“I just asked the dirt.” Tyr replied softly. A bit woozy, he sat himself on the ground and coughed more blood into a handkerchief given him by Rufus. At the question of 'what' he had asked: “I said that I was sorry for hurting it, and asked if it would forgive me. And... It did. You should try it, maybe it will speak to you as well.”
“Hmm.” The light of suspicion flashed in Tiber's eyes, but he said no more. Neither did Tyr, considering he was flat on his back and asleep. One thing Tiber had never been good at was... Well, anything to do with children. He wasn't an escort, nor had he ever been a proper bodyguard before. There were so many words one could use to describe his particular vocation. Sicario, assassin, hit man, artificio, or just call a murderer a murderer. Someone who wasn't born with a talent for magic but more than made up for it in... Other ways. He was arrogant and vain at times, but he was effective, rarely ever misjudging an opponent. One thing he was good at, however, was intrigue. He'd served as a temporary retainer for a score of households and had hushed one dust up or drama after another.
This was no different.
“I can't accept this... This is too much!” The old woman said. Murda, was her name, a name that Tiber found all too familiar – even funny in a cosmic irony sort of way. She was staring at the fat golden sovereign, the local state currency that Tiber had handed her. His wages weren't much here compared to his past contract rate, but even by a standard among nobles he was quite rich already and had inherited the estate of a merchant prince. This was a paltry sum to him. “Our entire farm is worth less than this a tenth of this.”
“Use it to purchase some better tools and livestock, the prince has taken quite a liking toward your farm and I'm sure he'll want to see it again one day.” He smiled, as fake as a three dollar bill, but she didn't notice. From her perspective, Tiber was radiant, heroic, and still very young – a charming devilishness in his dark features. “Just don't tell anyone about this, it's very important that the prince isn't exposed.”
“I swear it, my lord!”
Wait... What is a dollar bill? Tiber mused, eyebrows low, lost in some long forgotten memory.