Authors: D.W. Rigsby
—From
The Journal of the Father, King of Tallud
, by the Father
A
splash, and water enveloped the Father’s body; he held his breath and swam under the surface of his garden pool. He kicked like a frog, powering himself from one side to the other, taking his time, letting tiny bubbles of air trickle up until they broke the water’s plane. He reached the other side of the pool, turned his body, and kicked off the wall, kicking as he went along; more bubbles trailed behind him. He had perfect form, each stroke where it belonged, no energy wasted, not an ounce. He moved with such grace, such devotion, gliding through the water as though he were born to it. When he reached the other side, he dipped backward, spun, and pushed hard once more against the wall; he came up to the surface, turned his head, caught a breath, and then continued with a full stroke, one arm out in front of the other. The buildup of carbon in his lungs was released into the atmosphere, and oxygen now replenished the depleted levels in his red of life, giving him a new awareness of this moment. He came to the wall, stopped, turned around, and put his arms up on the wall, resting awhile. The lactic acid buildup tensed the muscles, yet it also gave him the sensation he wanted, the challenge he needed, and the much-needed release of endorphins. He cleared his mind, and kept with his decision to hold for a while until he was ready to make his move against Dugual. He took in a deep breath, let it out, and turned, again facing the wall, and lifted himself out. A servant rushed to his side, wrapped his waist with a towel, and then draped a robe about him.
He walked to the gazebo, upright, dignified, self-aware. There sat in a chair and a table near him with fruit. The Father plucked a grape from its bowl and bit down on it. The sweet flavor ran over his tongue and down his throat. And so was his thought: this grape was the last, yet another would replace it next season, and so this was his own fate. It was not new to him, yet he pondered this greatly, wondering what would come of all he did, what would happen to Spearca once he was gone? If there was a way—and maybe there was—he could live on, but not for eternity; he knew the current advances in technology would not allow for it, unless there was something the Numas were withholding. As for now, there were possibilities to extend life, not in the conventional ways but in other ways. Scientists he employed had made some boasts and promises to find a way to extend his own life, to stave off the sickness that encroached upon his body every day. Did they have an answer? None had revealed itself, so he had to turn to a witch, to medicines of the unknown, to secrets only they kept. There were claims, boasts—yes, of course there were boasts, ones that said the medicines of the forests, of the mountains, of the sea could cure nearly any illness. However, these medicines could not extend life, they could not stop the inevitable; and so technology would soon need to intervene if he were to live on to see his legacy find its turning point. For now, there were many kingdoms that, if they were to come together, could undo all he had done, bringing their armies against him and his sons. The Father knew that his own death might spur the other kings to rally and so kill the opportunity for his sons to be kings, and their sons to be kings, and their sons to be kings. The line would be severed; and now, with all that was happening, all that had taken place, the time still was not right. He could not move on them, or could he? Yes, maybe he could. Maybe what his son Fin said was more out of fear rather than out of logic. The witch had come; she had succeeded, he felt renewed, but for how long? In his state, his mind clear, his body ready, he could lead his army against Dugual. He could do more than play a game of distraction to find the technology he wanted from the Numas. Yes, there was an idea he’d missed, a path that went unnoticed. His army could attack Dugual, take her and her wealth; then he would have what he needed to go after the Keepers. This was the plan, had to be the plan—there was no other way. Waiting accomplished nothing!
“Guard! Summon my advisor!”
War is the great cleanser; all those who fight and live do so for the red of life, and those who fight and die do so because they were fools.
—From
The Journal of the Father, King of Tallud
, by the Father
V
etus Sepher entered the sanatorium; it was their first night back from the forest. It had taken several days to get back to Tokus Numas using train and wagon. Along the way they tried to doctor Petro’s leg as much as possible. There was fear he might die, yet Vetus Sepher would not hear it, and he drove on into the third day and night, never letting up on the unfortunate horses that pulled the band of brothers along. The whole way they had heard and watched as Petro wailed and thrashed about. His leg swelled to twice its size, and a fever took hold. Nothing could be done. Vetus Sepher wondered if his actions only prolonged Petro’s agony and was nothing short of cruelty, but he felt compelled to try to save him.
It even occurred to him once, late in the night while the horses trotted along at a slow but steady pace, that maybe he wanted to keep Petro alive because of the prophecy. He thought it, checked it, and dismissed it. Petro had been observed for a year, and there were no signs of any special abilities, although the boy had shown promise in other areas. He was strong-willed, able, and a natural leader the others looked to when they needed someone to bring them together. No, the prophecy held no weight in his decision to try to bring Petro back to Tokus Numas and see if Master Lim could save him.
Vetus Sepher entered Petro’s room and shut the door behind him. Inside the room, it smelled of disinfectant, and the unpleasant medicinal taste rested upon his tongue. This entire ordeal was unexpected. Never once had Vetus Sepher had one of his own in such peril.
He hated the sanatorium. It brought back haunting memories of his past. His wife, Liliana, and his son, Patrick, had both succumbed to an early death. A disease had taken hold of both, and within a week of each other, they were gone. Being here made him feel empty inside, just like when he lost those he loved most so many years ago.
Master Lim had instructed that this room was to be completely gutted of all furniture, and the bed was to be scrubbed, cleaned, and disinfected. It was a precaution he felt necessary for Petro’s recovery, an optimism that Vetus Sepher did not share wholeheartedly. The room had been prepared in advance, and Petro would be brought in here at any moment, after they’d stripped him of his clothing, cleaned his body, and cleaned his wound again. When Vetus Sepher and Kad had come back for Petro, they had brought a gurney and took Petro back to camp, where they were able to see his leg more closely. It was packed with dirt, and Vetus Sepher thought to remove it, but he didn’t have the proper medical supplies to clean it thoroughly; and he didn’t want to stitch the leg up, for he was certain an artery had been cut from the amount of blood he saw on the ground in the forest. He did try to rinse the wound with water and douse it with alcohol, which caused Petro further grief. Vetus Sepher was amazed that Petro had not died out there and was further amazed that he had not died on the way to Tokus Numas. The young man held on. If there was anything more that Vetus Sepher could do, he would, but he was powerless now. It all rested in the hands of Master Lim.
Vetus Sepher stood by the bed covered in white linen. A small table stood on one side. On it was a pitcher of water, a cup, a bowl, a white cloth, and a plant in a clay pot. It was a woody shrub with grayish-green leaves and had clusters of purple flowers. Vetus recognized the plant, knew of its healing properties. He walked over to it, bent forward, brought his hand up, and waved it through the air just above the plant, cupping the aroma toward himself and taking in a deep breath through his nose. Its fragrance was sweet but also smelled of Spearca herself.
Voices carried from the hall, and he heard the squeak of wheels. It was probably Petro. Vetus Sepher wanted to see how he was doing and to find out if things had improved or had gotten worse. He hoped for the former, but it was the latter that clung to him. Was it too late? Had he not arrived back in time? If only he could have done more on their trip to Tokus Numas. He had done what he could, and now it was up to Petro, God willing.
Master Lim walked alongside Petro as he was wheeled in by two other Numas. They lined the gurney up next to the bed, lifted Petro up, and laid him down. The two young Numas left, and now it was only the three of them. Petro’s complexion was pale, and he took in shallow breaths.
It would be unfortunate
, Vetus Sepher thought,
for Petro’s life to come to such an end
. He stopped himself and willed himself to think that this was not the end of Petro, but his doubt was growing much too strong. If Petro did recover, what other damage had been done? Would he lose his leg? If only that were the least of it. Master Lim had explained that there could be damage to his brain. In his condition, with little medical aid, Petro could be facing a life with a feeble mind, never able to function as he once did.
Petro stirred, and his eyes gradually opened. One was filled with blood, turning the white of his eye to red. The other eye was bloodshot. His face, arms, and legs were all covered in thin purplish lines. The leg was clean, still swollen to twice the size of his other leg, and the wound had been sutured. The lines on his wounded leg showed a deeper purple than the rest of his body. He no longer looked like the young man who had come to Tokus Numas, finished his first year, and ventured out into the forest on a hunt for boar.
Vetus Sepher studied Petro, looking over his body, knowing the signs of impending death.
Death is a creature of its own
, he thought,
coming when he wants and taking who he wants
. No one here was powerful enough to stop it.
Master Lim moved across the room and stood next to Petro.
Will he ever regain full awareness?
Vetus Sepher thought.
“Never…” Petro’s voice cracked.
Master Lim and Vetus Sepher exchanged uncertain looks.
“He needs water to wet his lips.” Master Lim took the pitcher, poured a cup of water, and held it to Petro’s lips.
Petro raised his head and sipped the water.
Vetus Sepher watched curiously and wondered how much longer it would be. He tossed the thought aside, damning himself for thinking it.
The water seemed to burn Petro’s throat; he spit the water out, followed by a painful look. Petro knocked the cup away.
Master Lim placed the cup on the table. “It’s only water, Petro, nothing more.” He turned to face Vetus Sepher. “We placed saline in his blood earlier. I’ll need to arrange for it again.”
Vetus Sepher sensed in Master Lim’s voice that he was only doing so out of obligation rather than the optimism he thought he’d expressed earlier.
“His lips could use some balm to help protect them from cracking further,” Master Lim said. He took the white cloth from the table and dipped it into the bowl of water. He wrung it out. Petro stared up at the ceiling, never giving Master Lim or Vetus Sepher full acknowledgment. Master Lim placed the cool towel on Petro’s forehead.
“Wha…ts…wr…wi…th…” Petro tried to speak.
Master Lim dropped his gaze to the floor and then reached out to hold Petro’s hand. “Don’t talk. You must conserve your energy,” he said. “Your body is fighting. You just need time.” He patted Petro’s hand.
Time? Did Petro have any more time? His body was waging war against an invader, battling for control, for sheer dominance; and only one would have victory, Vetus Sepher thought. He imagined hundreds of thousands of soldiers warring within Petro, killing each other, riddling the battlefield with the dead left to rot and decay. Death was on him. He could feel its presence like an invading wisp of cool air that sinks deep into the lungs and settles, snuffing the life out.
Petro’s fingers twitched, and his arm shook when he tried to raise it.
Vetus Sepher stood helpless, unsure of what to do, unsure of everything; the prophecy was wrong. Petro was just a young man—a young man they should have never brought to Tokus Numas, a young man who could be running free with his friends at Castle Dugual and learning a profession, one chosen for him by King Amerstall. He fought against the plague of imagery that flashed through his mind—Petro dead, Petro’s funeral, Petro’s grave, tears in the eyes of Queen Lilith, the solemn look of King Amerstall, the stifled cries of Princess Dia and Silda. He even saw Sid—uneasy, his arms folded—while they lowered Petro down to rest within Spearca.
“Try not to move, Petro,” Master Lim said in a low, soothing voice.
Petro swallowed dryness, and his lips cracked like the skin was peeling off, exposing the raw, tender flesh underneath. “Die…die…I’m…”
Vetus Sepher stepped forward with a look of concern. He looked at Master Lim’s face, his downcast eyes, and his mouth bent slightly at the corners.
“Ho…home,” Petro said and then closed his eyes.
Vetus Sepher fought back tears and nodded quickly. “I’ll make arrangements,” he said. “Master Lim, let’s let him rest. I’ll be back within the hour. I want him prepped to travel back to Dugual. After I’ve contacted King Amerstall, I’ll let you know.” He looked at Petro again and then exited the room.