"Marked By the Gods" A Myth in Eight Parts
By ThePhallocrat (email: thephallocrat@gmail.com)
PART FOUR
Prince Tytus stood with his back towards his guardian, and so Rannell Kent could only imagine what emotions were playing across his young liege's face. For his own part, Kent felt lost in a way he'd never experienced in his many years of certain service to the God. It was as if someone had told him to sever his own limb from his body, and the Guardian found this troublesome and surprising. This mission, this purpose, had clearly come to mean more to him than he could have guessed.
He had expected Tytus to throw another characteristic tantrum, had prepared himself to meet the boy's rage with cold logic and resolute determination. This silence, however, was not expected, and Kent was forced to admit that he had no defense against it. The prince's quiet grief overwhelmed all his intentions and crushed him with its weight.
"So," Tytus said at long last, "It's over. Just like that."
Kent stifled a sob that formed without warning in his throat. "This is for the best," he said instead, "Your father is right. Our physical relationship has compromised our spiritual one. I cannot serve you the way you deserve."
"Do you really believe that?" Tytus turned to face his Guardian at last, his face composed and a fire burning behind his eyes. "Or are you just playing the dutiful subject once again? I commanded you to share my bed, if anybody is at fault, it is me."
"That is not how most would see it, Your Grace."
"What do we care how most would see it? Did you not swear to me that you were my man? Until your dying breath, you said."
"And so I am," Kent replied fiercely, "My concern is for your welfare. I can no longer teach you."
"I don't need a teacher!" Tytus shouted, but for once there was no hint of petulance in his voice. "I've had teachers since I was born. I've had people lecture me all my life. All these boring old men throwing their wisdom at me day in and day out, so many that I could never take them seriously. Until you. Because you don't just lecture about greatness. You ARE great. You inspire me. You make me want to learn. You make me want to be worthy of you."
"Your Grace--" Kent began.
"Nobody can replace you, Rannell!" Tytus continued, eyes moist. "Nobody. I won't be the same without you. I know... I know I can be difficult. I'm a terrible person most of the time. I know. I want to be better. You made me want to be better. You did that."
Despite himself, Kent realized he was touched by this admission. Self-reflection was not ordinarily high on the list of the prince's skills. "I am pleased to hear it," he said softly, hearing his heart thumping loudly in his ears.
"It's all my fault," the prince said, sinking to a chair, "I was not content to have you near me. I had to have as much of you as I could, your body as well as your companionship. I've always thought... I always thought if I wanted something I deserved to have it. Here is another lesson you have taught me, then. I took what I wanted, took it against your will even, and ruined everything. I have defeated myself."
Tytus sat, his head inclined gently towards the floor, his arms relaxed and dropping at his sides. The setting sun peeking in through the windows cast long slanting shadows across the room, but the sunlight itself caressed the prince's form, illuminating him distinctly. Kent suddenly found the image so beautiful that he could not breathe. The finger of the God of Light himself seemed to focus on the young man before him.
"What you demanded was not against my will," Kent heard himself whisper, the secret he'd been hiding from even himself tumbling out of him. "I could have refused you."
This admission had a strong effect on the atmosphere in the room. The young man looked up and met his Guardian's eyes, shock and joy clear on his face. He rose slowly, and, with the sun at his back wreathing him in a dazzling halo of light, strode forward to take Rannell Kent in his arms. Kent held him close, feeling waves of sudden certainty wash away all former doubts.
"Am I the Chosen of the Flame?" Tytus asked, his face pressed against Kent's chest.
"You are."
"Are you the Guardian?"
"I am."
Tytus' hand pulled Kent's face down for one light, spine-tingling kiss. "And where does the Guardian belong?"
"By your side, Tytus. Now and always."
"Forget my father. It will take time to send word to the temple. Come with me to Kadnaris. My father has given me a third of our forces under his command. Be by my side when we take the city. Let us fight valiantly and prove to the world how much you have bettered me. We'll show my father and everyone what we can accomplish, together. Come with me, Rannell."
"To Kadnaris or the end of the world," Kent heard himself saying, and knew that he meant it. ________________________________________________________________________
It seemed like it had been weeks since Mouse had last had a bite of food, and so when Salor offered him part of the roasted hare that had been simmering over the fire, giving off a delicious aroma, the former slave wasted no time in tearing into the meat eagerly. It took several moments before Mouse realized he was the only one who had begun eating.
Pausing his chewing long enough to look around, he was stunned to see Salor and the other Woodsmen near him standing, each holding their food out in front of them with their heads bowed. It made no sense to Mouse. Weren't they hungry? They stood like that for several minutes until a sudden gust of wind blew through the camp, ruffling cloaks and hair. Then they all sat and began to eat, laughing and talking as if nothing had happened.
"What was that all about?" Mouse said, his mouth still full of meat.
Salor grinned as he swallowed, the juices of the meat already streaming down into his bushy beard. All of the Woodsmen looked much like him, bearded and rugged and with a constant trace of mirth on their faces. They were warriors too, but at first glance the only evidence of this was the fearsome looking weapons each carried. Mouse had a hard time imagining these jovial men hurting anybody and would not have believed they could even use the swords and axes and crossbows they wielded had he not seen the corpses of two Imperial scouts who had been caught trying to count their numbers.
"We honor the creatures who gave their lives to feed us," Salor responded, "And give thanks to their Lord who granted them to us."
"Who's that? The Emperor?"
Salor and the others in earshot laughed at that, their usually deep, open-mouthed laughter. "No, friend Mouse. No mortal man. What do you know of the God sometimes called the Wanderer?"
Mouse shook his head and wrinkled his nose. "I never payed much attention to religion. Sorry."
His companion cocked his head, amused. "Don't be! This suits the God well, for he prefers the ignorant man to the one who thinks himself knowledgeable. He is sometimes called the King of Beasts, for to him belong all the creatures that walk upon the earth. Thus we honor him before our meal."
For the first time in ages, Mouse felt that he was actually full. Picking the last bone clean, he leaned back against a tree happily. A smile appeared on his face, which felt odd -- as though the muscles of his face could barely remember how to make one. "Tell me more about your God."
"There's not much to tell. The Wanderer cares little for words. He is the lord of the air as well as of the woods. When you feel the wind against your skin, it is the God's touch. But he is also the patron of poetry, of beautiful things, and of music."
Salor ruffled through a large pack that had rested at his side and produced a very strange looking object that Mouse had never seen before. It was a little longer than Mouse's arm, chiefly made of wood, but with a large hollow part with several long strings stretched tight along its face. Salor handed it to Mouse, who took it delicately, admiring its craftsmanship.
"It's beautiful," he said, anxiously. "Here, take it back."
The Woodsman shook his head. "You keep it for a while."
"I'm very clumsy," Mouse explained, "That's why I was sent to the mines in the first place. I'll probably break it."
Salor had a strange glint in his eye and a wide grin on his lips. "Play us a song."
Mouse didn't understand at first, but then looked down at the object with some surprise. It was for making music! He had seen men playing instruments for the Prince sometimes, but nothing that looked like this. Still, it must take years to learn to use something so complicated. Mouse used one finger to pluck a string, and a single sweet note vibrated through the instrument and out into the air. Curiously, he plucked a few of the other strings, then a few together at the same time, finding the harmonies that sounded nicest. The tones produced were wonderful, but there weren't very many strings and thus very few notes. Unless.... Mouse used his other hand to press down on some of the strings, shortening the length of the part of the string that vibrated. As he expected, this produced a different tone. This opened up a whole new set of notes and harmonies that Mouse could play, which sounded like fun.
He started playing a few notes at the same time, and he liked that lot. Some of the sets of notes reminded him of a song he'd heard once, though he couldn't remember where. He seemed to recall the way the tune went though, so he started to whistle along until the words came back to him and he decided to sing.
"No hearth of stone nor roof of wood No cottage, mansion, house, or inn No walls of brick can do me good No door or gate can keep me when I'm called to the open road.
The hills and valleys are my home The rocks and grasses are my bed The land shall keep me when I roam The land shall take me when I'm dead And buried in the open road."
As he reached the final note, he strummed a collection of tones that felt right and then fell silent. It was only then that he came back to himself and was stunned at how easy using the instrument and proven to be. Blushing, he looked around to find every single one of the Woodsmen on their knees before him, staring at him in wonder.
"Where did you learn that song?" somebody asked, to which Mouse could only shrug.
"He is a miracle," another murmured.
"As I suspected," Salor said with a smile, "Our friend Mouse is much more than he appears."
"I'm nobody," Mouse protested, and this produced a loud peal of laughter through the entire company and ended the eerie silence.
"As are we all!" Salor thundered in between roars of mirth. "Come! Let us open the casks of wine and celebrate this good omen. Tomorrow we shall reach Kadnaris, and then our work begins. But tonight, we honor our God. Friend Mouse, if you could provide the musical accompaniment?"
Mouse cleared his throat nervously. All around him, Woodsmen had begun to disrobe eagerly, and many were already fully nude. Jars of wine were being passed around, from which the men drunk deeply as men do when they fully intend to get as drunk as possible. There was a general feeling of expectation and eagerness in air. "Musical accompaniment to what?" Mouse asked in small voice.
Salor grinned widely and pressed a flask of wine to Mouse's lips. "There are many other things pleasing to our God of which we have not yet spoken. Play on, young one, and we shall show you how to honor the Wanderer of the Wood, the King of Beasts, the Drunken Lord."
The wine took over, then, and music flowed through Mouse's fingers and into the instrument for hours and hours until he could barely remember his life before the evening had begun. His head spun and he felt vaguely sick to his stomach, but the smile across his face was genuine. Around him, the Woodsmen grunted with the animal lust that had come to possess them, giving and receiving attention freely from their fellows throughout the evening, always drinking and drinking from their seemingly inexhaustible supply of wine. Grinning, naked, playing music he had never heard before, with a pair of lips wrapped around his cock, Mouse rolled his eyes up to the heavens, certain he was in the presence of a God.
Their worship continued long into the night. ____________________________________________________________________________
The Emperor sat reading for a long time, so long that Commander Damek began to shuffle nervously in his seat before scowling in annoyance at his own anxiety. It was not like him to be so easily unsettled, not even before the Emperor, in whose presence he had been often over the course of the war. He was seasoned commander, not some green boy easily intimidated by his superiors. Knowing that, however, didn't stop the growing discomfort that had plagued him in one way or another since Calla's revelation.
It was no surprise to Damek that, when the Emperor began to speak, he said nothing of Nathar or the victory there. Success was expected. The medals and its attendant honors would come later, for the public eye, but in private Damek knew he would get no words of congratulations from his liege. It was how Damek himself chose to lead his own men. Congratulations for a mission completed as ordered sent a message that success was extraordinary when it should be commonplace. Punish failure, ignore competency, expect excellence; that was Damek's way, the way of the Empire. It was an approach patterned directly off the man that now sat before him. Damek would be offended if the Emperor thought he needed a few fair words in exchange for doing his duty. He was a soldier and a tool of the Empire, no more. He repeated this to himself like a mantra hoping it would bring him the peace and determination that it had for so many years previously.
"You have looked over our battle plans for Kadnaris?" the Emperor said at last.
"Of course, Your Grace," Damek replied.
"Your thoughts?"
"Sound strategy and textbook military procedure," Damek replied, "However, there is the matter of the False Emperor's recent reinforcements..."
"Those mercenaries? A minor annoyance, surely. Your scouts were thorough in their report, and we can adjust accordingly," the Emperor waved a hand dismissively as he picked up another report.
Damek looked away with a sudden stab of pain. Two of the men who volunteered for that mission did not return. Not that it should matter; the information obtained by their efforts, Damek reminded himself, was vital. "Their presence in this war concerns me, Your Grace. Why get involved in this conflict? Why now? And why join the losing side?"
"They are mercenaries. Their motives are hardly a mystery."
The commander shook his head. "It's not just about gold. With respect, Your Majesty, it is easy to overlook the fact that they are also a religious order. Those kind of men are different. Their intentions are difficult to predict."
"He they serve does not concern himself with human affairs," the Emperor raised his head long enough to give Damek a searching look, "Do you fear the gods, Commander?"
"As a boy I did," Damek replied honestly, "I was raised in a temple of Urbanus the Lawgiver, an orphan, and was force fed the rituals and the creeds since before I could even understand the words. As a soldier, though... I've seen too much bloodshed and have too much of it still left to see to worry myself much about what's going on in the heavens."
"A shame," the Emperor said, "though I understand the sentiment. We are nothing to the gods, less than ants, that much is clear. So I say that if I am nothing to them, they are nothing to me - abstractions, stories for children. Still, as abstractions the gods have their uses. They help some find balance and direction. Perhaps, Commander, it is time for you to return to religious roots."
"Your Grace?"
"By all reports you have not been yourself since Nathar, Damek."
"That's nonsense."
"Is it? Come now, let's have it out honestly. Speak plainly, man. It's not uncommon for fatigue to take its toll in a long campaign."
Damek pulled himself up to his full height. "I am not fatigued, Your Grace."
"Is your ability to lead your men compromised in any degree, Commander Damek?"
The commander took a deep breath and pushed down all the feelings that suddenly began to manifest inside of him. "Not one degree, my Emperor."
"Good. Your men are veterans, some of the best we have, and don't think I don't know that its because of your leadership. You are the key to our efforts at Kadnaris, and I have another, special mission for your division that I can't trust to anybody else. I have to know you can handle it."
Damek swallowed and then saluted smartly. "What mission, Your Grace?"
The Emperor slammed the report he'd been reading down on the table in sudden anger, and then jammed a finger at it accusingly. "Kill Rannell Kent." ___________________________________________________________________________
The air smelt of strange things, things Calder had never encountered before, things that made his flesh crawl. He immediately regretted his decision to come with Joren into this foul smelling hut, even though it had been he who had insisted on not being left outside in the open air. Unable to see his surroundings and accompanied by nothing but his fear-induced imaginations, Calder found it more and more unbearable to be separated from his companion. And yet now, his senses assaulted by the exotic and baffling contents of this strange home (the appearance of which Calder found he could not even imagine in his mind's eye, no matter how he tried) he began to feel as if he had been better off outside, even if alone.
The old woman who called this dubious place her home cackled and shuffled around the room. Her location was easy to pinpoint by her loud, throaty voice and the way her legs scraped against the uneven wooden floor. Calder clung to Joren, too terrified to say anything.
"Many potions and herbs," the crone was saying, "Elixirs, medicines, poisons. Mixtures to delight the senses and the mind. Poultices to cure the pox or to increase virility. Brews? Cordials? Tonics? Spirits?"
"My friend's affliction isn't physical," Joren said.
"Know that!" the old woman snapped in return, "Meant for you! A salve here, guaranteed to reverse balding."
"By the Gods, woman..."
"Alright, maybe not reverse, but slow at least, yes?"
"I'm not balding!" Joren protested, causing the crone to shriek with piercing laughter. Joren nudged Calder. "I'm really not."
Calder forced a smile, but was too uncomfortable to laugh. He gripped his companion's hand tightly, felt a reassuring squeeze in return.
"The townsfolk say you know many mysteries, and that you worship the Dark God under the light of the moon," Joren said directly, "We are on a pilgrimage to make an offering to the Lord of Night and secure his blessing and favor so that he will remove Calder's curse."
The crone snorted. "Pilgrimage? Favor? The Man in the Moon does not deal in these things. Know little of the God you seek, do you?"
Calder felt Joren shift slightly and sensed the anxiety the man worked so hard to hide from him. "No, I suppose we do not. But we would learn. We seek a temple or shrine dedicated to his name. Can you help us?"
"Dark God is everywhere, and nowhere."
"Okay..." Joren said, then paused. "What does that mean?"
"Nothing. And everything." She cackled again.
Joren sighed. "Can you help us or not?"
"No. But maybe yes. What you seek is impossible. If the God has cursed your friend, he is not alone. Many are the mortals who have been afflicted by the Gods. Best come to terms with it."
"That's your sage advice, is it?"
The old woman spat loudly. "Life is shit," she summed up.
"Well, thank you for that." Joren said, not bothering to cover up his disdain.
"Let's go," Calder whispered, tugging on his friend's hand.
Joren reached with his other hand to pat Calder on the head. "Don't worry, we'll find a way. We can't give up hope, right? You'll see again."
Calder nodded, since he had no words. He couldn't say what he wanted, that he didn't mind not being able to see and that it was the memories of his past life he missed. That what scared him most, anyway, far more than the Whisperer's curse, was the thought of Joren leaving him, of having to live alone forever. Unable to say any of this, he simply clutched at Joren's hand as they turned to leave.
"Wait," the old woman called after them, "Wait, wait, ye fools."
"We don't have time for more nonsense, woman," Joren said, and Calder sensed an impatience and anger in his friend quite different from the kind caretaker and friend he'd come to know. This was more like the other Joren, the one who had defended their lives from those bandits in the forest. Calder didn't like to think about that time.
"You seek the wrong God, soldier man," the woman said, a new gentleness in her voice, "The Man in the Moon does not offer forgiveness or healing."
"I know," Joren replied flatly, "I seek him on Calder's behalf. He cursed the boy, and maybe we can at least find out why."
The old woman was silent for what seemed like a long time.
"There is place, sacred to the Dark God, hidden in one of the ancient cities. A secret pool of water in a grotto far underground, under the city streets, but where one can still see the moon reflected in the waters. It is difficult to find."
Calder felt a thrill of terror as he recognized the place the woman was describing from his strange visions. "Tell us where, and we will go," he said without hesitation.
"You sure? I think you will like not where this journey will lead you. Either of you." The crone's voice was quite different now, Calder thought to himself. She sounded very serious.
"Out with it, woman," Joren commanded, "We aren't going to stand here listening to your dramatics all day. Which city is it?
"Kadnaris," the woman replied.
There was a long silence. "That's where the war is," Joren said at last, "The city is under siege, or soon will be."
"I said you wouldn't like it."
"There must be someplace else. Come on, Calder, we'll get a second opinion somewhere else." The older man tugged on his hand, but Calder shook his head.
"No. This is where I am supposed to go, I am sure of it. The priestess did say it would be difficult."
"Difficult I can handle," Joren replied, "This is impossible. It's far too dangerous."
"We'll be inside a city. She said her God would protect us in places of civilization, didn't she?"
Joren squeezed Calder's hand tightly. "We'd have to get into the city first, which won't be easy. Listen to me. Kadnaris is probably the most dangerous place on the whole continent right now. I am just trying to protect you."
"Are you sure it's me you are protecting?" Calder asked suddenly, angry. He wasn't sure why he said that, but it certainly quieted Joren right away. Calder didn't like feeling angry at his only friend, so he took a deep breath to calm himself before he spoke again. "You are supposed to help me get to where I need to go, and now we know where that is. We have to go to Kadnaris."
He heard Joren sigh in frustration. "How do we find this sacred place, woman?" he asked, "If we go, that is."
"I will teach you the signs you must seek. But the young boy must beware! Journeys such as this may end in enlightenment, and not all knowledge brings one joy. The Gods are not often kind."
"I know that already," Calder said.