‘Lwu’Ong’Gai, sometimes called “Pretty ‘Gai',” though he often just went by Gai’, lounged against the stone chamber’s gray wall, cleaning his fingernails with a purpose roughened scale of antler, and waiting for whatever it was Tj’Chin‘Ker had coming his way. He had grown bored with this whole affair the moment, many hours earlier, when he noticed how many blood stains were on his boots and leggings.
The air shook, and there was a thrumming beat of silence as Shoat slowly, ominously turned his head toward that of his peacockishly adorned partner, and only cousin known to regularly consort with Shoat. The smile on his lips nothing more than a thin veneer, slithering into a position, uncomfortable and out of place on a twisted edifice that had obviously never been used in past days to hang such a thing. Dead and lifeless, the smile on Shoat’s face looked as one might expect something small and slimy caught out in the open, an albino slug with no concealing stone to shelter it from the harsh light of day. He finally gave up on smiling as a lost cause, a facial stone Mosada, city walls crumbling, falling, killing itself before the Romans of rage could get there to do it.
“But he hasn’t screamed for me yet!” Shoat’s voice shook with ill concealed emotion. “And stop calling me that! We were chosen for this glory, NOT just YOU! And… and THAT means I might be the One just as easily as YOU!” The whiny, nasal quality of his voice a petulant high pitched sea bird; always shrilly showing Kaleshow’T’s edginess and extreme moods. Not waiting for a reply, another fowling blunt was strung and loosed. “From this day on no one will ever call me “Shoat” again. I’m more useful than you! I’m the one who does work, the Father knows; oh, he knows! I’ll be the one…oh, I will.” His breathless panting showed how much effort the screaming had been; this amount of work, the Herculean effort, had not been wasted on the prisoner; not one tenth of this emotional outpouring had been spent on ‘Ker.
The things we enjoy rarely leave one so taxed. Thought Tj’Chin’Ker. I know that simply washing my own dishes cost me more greatly than cooking my meals ever will.
As pain would have the effect of making each minute longer, each subsequent
shot crawled, and clawed through the air. The angry thrum buzz, and hum of each
oncoming injury almost mesmerized Tj’Chin’Ker. A long slow wait, it seemed to him, as
the modified arrow barged across the chamber to injure him yet again. A new crease in
his skull, one more broken rib, the left knee as yet untouched…yeah…Just as the last
seven of its kind had done, another blunt, spinning heavily, reached for more of his pain
from the far side of the chamber.
Through the one eye remaining in good use, he could see the fine work that went
into the fowling blunt as it glided toward his right knee. He even marked its trajectory.
At such close range, very flat indeed. Bloodied as he was, face all but pulp, ‘Ker could
tell now who had made the arrow.
The owl feathers that made up the fletchings…
These must have been made by Tj’Arr’Dne…huh… I would not have thought he would have participated here… his older brother. He was a Speaker to Things Dead, and had some respectability as a Maker of Fine Tools, called Greymantle by both friends and foes alike, ‘Dne had made this moment of crackling agony rushing toward his younger brother. A darting swift could have never matched the speed of this onrushing pain-a-flight. He made many arrows throughout the long wintry nights.
The new quiver Shoat was quickly depleting had to have been filled by his own quiet and often thoughtful older sibling. No one else would use owl feathers for arrows; and certainly not for fowling blunts. ‘Ker wondered if his silent sibling knew of the use these toad-eating lickspittles were putting his fine work, done as it was for the Royal Armory. If so, it might sour his thoughts the next time he took to fletching while at his warm hearth, surrounded by the ever expanding mass of playing children and doting wives. The man may have had appetites, but he also worked hard to keep both his wives and his many children happy.
Tj’Chin’Ker was sometimes surprised to see how productive his dour, brooding, silent older brother was when compared to how much work he put into his apparent crusade at repopulating the Tj’Shea, the People, to the levels they experienced before the Migration.
Cataloging his injuries ‘Ker found many broken ribs, two fingers missing, and all other fingers twisted at odd angles where they had been broken. He would miss the eye terribly until it grew back… if it could grow back …if they let me live long enough… His lips had been split in at least two places; made it hard for him to smile. He wanted to smile, to laugh, even. If only he could get his hands on Shoat, ‘Ker swore to himself he would smile. They took my rings…
{Twang-THRUM-Crumph!}
“Umm….heh” another wheeze. The attempt at a contemptuous laugh wasn't too convincing. ‘Ker was surprised he had it in him to express even that much.
“Screamed or not, Father comes.” Gai’s voice was nasal, and wheedling at the best of times, a born suck-up and social climber with all the grace of a fish on a cliffside. He began to speak in a sing-song voice. “Make yourself presentable for once, please. I don’t know how you can continue to huddle in these dark, dirty corners.”
‘Lwu’Ong’Gai spoke with disdain for all things dirty, equating any filth, even that derived from hard labor, maybe especially that of honest labor, with the lowest of moral standings. “Honestly,” he whined. “You value the approaching honor as much as do I, but your manner still reeks of foul things in dank shadows. You look, and smell like you may as well have rolled in midden heaps. Even if you are chosen over ME,” an eloquent giggle at that thought came from ‘Gai’s corner by the door. “You will still be seen as a slovenly servant, not a true emissary of our noble Father.”
Red and orange flashing of torch light flickered and reflected off of something in Gai’s newly manicured left hand, his fingers moving in as complicated a cascade of fluttering movements as he started admiringly at his own reflection in the polished surface of a well made knife whenever it ceased its dance across his fingers and the backs of his hands. Only then to resume its spinning path, trailing light and scintillating flashed of ruddy intent.
…gods, save us all, the idiot is flourishing a knife… to a beaten man, who is chained to a wall… At this thought, ‘Tj’Chin’Ker began laughing in earnest. Deep, bubbling laughter which all too that quickly devolved to wheezing.
“TISK!” ‘Gai ended almost every sentence not spoken to those above him with a “tisk” noise. As if nothing ever quite came up to his standards that was not directly from the mouth of his reigning monarch. Sometimes adding a small shake of his head,
setting his prettily oiled auburn locks trembling just slightly.
Shoat, who generally ignored all talk of what he considered “fashion.” The bow was unstrung, with a great and trembling effort… the fool has blown out his right shoulder… as he stood, shaking himself like a dog and hung it on the far chamber wall. He too heard the (...twang)
“Royal He” and his selection of guards stalking and stomping along the halls to the cell. (...twang)
The two brothers immediately took up stations to either side of the thick, bronze and iron (...twang, pok!)
bound door, and bowed deep as it began to swing open. A deep throb came before His (...twang)
Highness, guards walking lockstep around and behind, but never ahead of He That Is the
Father.
Stumbling and shuffling, the two cousins who had spent these last two days tormenting Tj’Chin’Ker now had to make even more room for the entourage as it flowed into the room with a repetitive and percussive force.
None of these hardened soldiers would ever need to flourish a blade, or make threats, much like his own older brother, they were a silent threat, just walking beside and in-step with his Royal Majesty. A knife doesn't need anyone to proclaim it as such, it is a knife or it isn't.
The Father was small, fine boned, almost fragile looking; yet his mien continued to loom over each royal guard.
Centuries could not dim the man’s Royal presence. An antlered circlet about his brow, bright glints from sharp silvered tips would have been too subtle a reminder of His rank on anyone else’s brow. A conglomeration of ivory, carnelian, and russet fabrics spun and danced about the tiny monarch as he glided into the dull, shadowy chamber. So much of such cloth would never suit almost anyone else. It would bag, slump, and obey all of the regular rules that physics demands; but not on the Father. Sparkles of blue among the finery told ‘Ker his ruler was dressed for Court. Scintillating stones to catch the eyes of all his admirers, and adversaries alike.
Never had he expected the charges, whatever they might have been, would have gone so high. Nor would he have thought they might be grand enough to be read before the actual High Court. Certainly not to the Father, no, never that high; the Mother would never have allowed her husband to pass judgment over ‘Ker.
This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work.
It was well known she would do that herself, whenever such a time might come.
Very odd, indeed… he thought.
His Royal gaze roved the room, around the walls, taking in the torches, the chair, the unlimbered bow, and quiver of arrows, then down to ‘Ker himself, surrounded by his leaking life and dozens of spent fowling blunts, then, finally stopping on the bowed figures before Him.
Raising an eyebrow, the Father, Lord undisputed of the Tj’Shea and all of the Lands upon which they lived, took a breath that swelled his petite form, and sighed expansively. All present could feel the regret and sadness in that expelled breath, the sorrow. Without turning to directly face the two cousins, he said in a grave, clear, basso voice, “Boy, the way you hold your right arm tells me you are in pain.” He pursed His lips in thought for a moment before continuing in a soft, deep voice. “Be more careful, boy. You have a mission, the People, OUR People, have a need.”
The King’s eyes alighted on ‘Tj’Chin’Ker where he slumped in his chains. The Father did not miss details, and the health of every subject concerned Him; even those wretches he had chained to walls of magically sealed stone rooms beneath His palace.
The Father’s First Guard, Muir’Huk, a grizzled veteran of more wars than any other member of any Fist in the written or sung history of the People spoke up in a tired but only slightly condescending voice.
“Remember to lock your wrist when you shoot. Who was your archery instructor? You could ruin your shoulder permanently with a draw that poor. Never mind… Get that seen to as soon as you leave here. The Court Physicker is upstairs bothering the kitchen staff. Tall man, with a wide, red and yellow hat. You can’t miss him.” Muir’Huk then pointedly looked at the pock marks on the stone wall that surrounded ‘Tj’Chin’Ker. “Hrrrrrmmmm… well. Run along now, the both of you.” He slowly turned to face both cousins directly, and to drive home his point with a single raised eyebrow.
”…told you…jackass…” A moment of pain blurred thought later, and ‘Ker realized he hadn’t actually spoken that last. When he tried, though, he failed to do more than dribble blood filled saliva from torn and, thankfully, numbing lips.
Shoat and Pretty Gai’ both flushed at the sudden dismissal by the Father’s servant, and did not move from where they both bowed. ‘Muir’Huk’s eyes narrowed in a mean squint, servant he may be, but he was seldom ignored when he gave an order. The old soldier nodded to his own First, and a soldier with an ocean wave crest on her shoulder stepped forward. She grabbed each cousin by the scruff of their necks, and ushered them out the door. The sound of their fine leather boots on the stone of the corridor shushed away into the distance.
The Father then sighed again.
“Out,” softly spoken; He Who Was Father had not raised his voice above a conversational low rumble in ‘Ker’s memory. Years almost beyond count these deep, sad tones had kept order in a land of ever fractured politics, thin tempers and dangerous egos. Even when his nephew reigned, the man who would become the Father spoke in low tones, sometimes He even whispered when others shouted.
There was a lesson here, but not one ‘Ker had ever taken the time to apply to himself.
No one moved.
Unprecedented.
His majesty knew, without even turning to see, what his retinue was, and was not, doing. He knew, from every overt clue in the æther, and every subtle and hidden clue written in the thoughts of the very stones about them, what exactly was now happening. An eyebrow lifted itself slowly on that most noble of brows, crawling slowly up, as if by getting higher on the Father’s forehead it might see clearly the day for itself and determine the meaning of this delay.
Though his eyes never strayed from the chained and bleeding form of ‘Tj’Chin’Ker sitting two body lengths away in the far too ruddily stained corner.
“My liege,” The gravelly, and very tired voice of ‘Min’Hel, freshly returned, ‘Ker hadn't even noticed her return, Thumb of the First Fist of the Father’s Guard, spoke from under the weight of a bow that left her nose almost within striking distance of the floor. “The Open Court you have had the Heralds announce will begin within the hour.”
His Royal Majesty turned to face His guards.
They all bowed. Immediately, and with a precision that ‘Ker always found astonishing.
His look, direct and unflinching was as calm, bland, as one could possibly imagine. He didn’t need anything else. It was a reminder.
Father held The Throne. He had taken it. And he could defend it from anyone with the temerity, or the ignorance, to try to come for it.
Not a soul outside of the Mother may She Rot, would have ever felt the need to remind the Father of anything, but ‘Min’Hel had served the Father nearly since the day of her own birth so long ago, and she had become Muir’Huk’s adjutant when Rome had yet to conquer their Greek neighbors, she was allowed privileges no one else amongst the Tj’Shea could claim, save her commander, and possibly the Queen, She Who Should Whither Away while Eating Iron Nails.
They always bow so low for Father... ‘Tj’Chin’Ker thought sadly of his former brothers; most of whom he had some knowledge of the whys and wherefores of their reasons for scowling at his huddled and bleeding form. If he was here, he must be treasonous. It was simple and flawless thinking, ‘Ker could even applaud them for making that mental leap; as a group the Father’s personal hand, though it held some of ‘Ker’s closest kin, held only two persons willing to think beyond their orders…or in some cases even think at all.
Gray hair wandered amok, and sprinkled amongst them an occasional spray of fine auburn, rare that a guard should live long enough to gain such color; especially in a race so long lived that the truly old counted their years near three thousand, often without such signs as gray hairs or even crows’ feet about the eyes.
Though the contentious nature of the People rarely allowed for many to die of old age, most fell in battle, from raids, or some even from poisoned treats. The Father himself had many fine gray hairs, having lived quite long before he was forced to ascend the throne after his own older siblings had died in the worst of the civil war that followed the People’s exile. When his nephew, He Who Once Was, had been assassinated, there was only this stolid, quiet man to take off the Antlered Circlet of the Tj’Shea. The massacre of His family had come at a time just after ‘Tj’Chin‘Ker had just been awarded his rights as an adult of the People. As a man.
The litany of what was now history ran through his head.
…We chose exile …I became a man…it was noted in the Royal Court…then…then…and then the Father was slain by traitors…the new Father waged a
short and blood soaked war in the space of one year…and has kept the peace... or A peace... ever since…despite his odious wife…and despite… me…
‘Min’Hel cleared her throat reluctantly, knowing the Father would not like what
she had to say. “She Above gave strict orders that Your Majesty was not to be endangered by this lowly and treasonous…child.” Her by-wrote tone said she had been quoting She Who Should Have Been Married Off to a Shaved Marmot. That last word, “child.” had been an intentional threat from the Queen.
Father slowly turned to Min’Hel, where she stood, owl helmet reflecting the torch light.
“Does Her Majesty, may she know only Blessings, attempt to rewrite The Book?” Muir’Huk asked.
A look of nervous anxiety dashed across her stern and otherwise motionless features, daring anyone to catch it. ‘Ker and the Mother were the same age, and he had
been given his full adult rights three years before her…another thing she would never
forgive him. “She wanted you to have your fun, but I was bade to have the First Fist here
as both witnesses and protectors. She does not trust …him.”
He tried to snort with disdain at the idea of he, himself, being a threat to the Father,
but the abuses of the last few days made it a painful and messy act as streamers of blood and
snot shot, arrow straight, from his broken and misshapen nose.
‘Min’Hel’s shift to formal speech was a note to Father that Mother wanted her direct
report on the events in this cell. While ‘Min’Hel would not regularly report to the Mother, this, by her cues, had been an order from the High Sapphire Seat.
Father’s eyebrow crept back onto its regular perch over his eye to watch things
unfold as he turned to his old retainer. “I would not have you skinned by my lovely wife
for obeying my orders. Neither you, nor your First should ever be punished for My own acts. You two stay…everyone else out. Now.” This last spoken word, iron in a coal fire.
…funny, everyone remembers to mention her beauty…”The beautiful Mother
this” and “In the glory of her smile that”…no one ever says “the wise Mother,” or “the
gracious,” or “the benevolent” …always about how pretty the petty little thing is…guess
that’s all they who like their heads on their shoulders can say…I’m hungry, maybe there
will be some food soon…ginger cakes would be nice…
His thoughts were starting to drift again.
Shoat and ‘Gai had stayed bowed at the far end of the corridor, rather than seeking out the Physicker, apparently. ‘Ker could just barely see them as the guards all left the confines of the small stone room, and they formed a phalanx in the hallway.
Once the room had emptied back down to just the four of them, the King spoke softly. “My word includes you two, as well. I doubt I’ll need more than ‘Min’Hel’s
protection from this prisoner, but Muir’Huk, you are welcome to hear what I have to say to him, as you were instrumental in bringing Me word of the Conditions that have changed. You both have accounted for yourselves splendidly over the years.”
He said this while slowly removing his royal cloak and hanging it around the shoulders of the Guard in the hall nearest the door. If you could concentrate through the building Glamour the King was weaving, you might even be able to feel the warm throbbing bass of his words reverberating through your chest, honeyed tones sighing softly around your ears, rather than the intention he laced through the words. A solid command of “Go from Me. Stay close, but be away from Me now.”
Promises of high offices, fame, fine treasures, even love, all to which one might ever aspire if only this voice was heeded.
The stones about the chamber, every joint where one cut gray piece met another, began to glow slightly blue and pulse with each of the King’s words.
“You Guards, valiant to the last, please wait there for Us by the head of the Dragon Stair. Any person that makes it past you to this point, well, they had better have put each of you far beyond both My and the Mother’s reach. Please see to it we are not interrupted, and as I do not want my cloak dirtied by what I do here now, also shall I see it well in your hands when it is returned.”
‘Gai and Shoat were marched away with the retreating guards, from what ‘Ker could see from his place on the floor. Shoat made mild protests until the rough gauntleted hand of a guard landed on his sprained shoulder.
Under the Father’s spell, ‘Gai’s eyes never left the fine garment adorning, and in the care of the guard who escorted him up the stairs for even a moment. Greed, adoration and envy all warring on his fine, if pinched, features as he along with his odious cousin into the darkness of the Dragon Stairs.
The silence stretched uncomfortably out as the remaining three waited on some
cue unknown, at least, to ‘Ker. Muir’Huk and ‘Min’Hel remained bowing low, and his monarch stood in the center of the chamber watching ‘Tj’Chin’Ker with sad eyes, rimmed now with red.
Finally he spoke. “I am sorry, my boy. We are almost at the time where you leave us. Forever, I think.”
Nothing more eloquent than this.
No words one might be proud to take to the grave were said. Nothing to inspire the future students of this moment, had there been the prospect of any, was forthcoming. Those three words spoken by a monarch to His most loyal of subjects, heartfelt and solemn.