The Return - 9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Monykom City. It shouldn't really be possible for a city to have this many people in it. Five thousand people were about ten times the size that a large town could really get away with holding. Certainly the place looked grossly swollen, bloated in a way that suggested it had expanded massively, and very quickly, at some point in the past; like a starving man bolting down far too much food to decently hold, and then lying down for a week or so until the swelling went away. The smell suggested that maybe the rhetorical starving man had died at some point, but had still been left to lie for a week or so.

At the heart of it all stood the last surviving monastery, a white stone building surrounded by its own protective wall. Gardens, tended by the monks, further insulated the building from the city. The monastery was square in shape, with a tower in each corner. Each tower had a domed ceiling that sparkled like gold in the sun. So, too, did the very center of the monastery, a spire taller by far than its four sentinels.

Inside, very little remained of the cathedral’s fragile beauty and the last of its wealth resided in a series of drafty, echoing chambers overflowing with writing, some of it centuries old. At night, only one monk wandered the dusty halls. Though young, he had no hair. His blue eyes weren’t unusual in a city swept at least once a year by plague, the same plague that kept the body thin and wasted in appearance. Scars were mute evidence to the pox that had killed hundreds the last time the merchant marine caught and hanged the crew of a pirate ship.

His name was Brother Marius. He carried a scroll under his arm, and a tray holding vials and flasks and bottles, stirring rods, a crucible, mortar and pestle, and two shallow, circular glass plates. He carried all to a deserted laboratory and lit the torches. There he whiled away the hours dutifully following instructions carefully translated and copied from the forgotten archives.

The end result was a scarce few droplets of an amber liquid collected by fractional distillation: an orange solution boiled inside a round-bottomed flask, the gas travelling through a length of curving glass where it condensed into a liquid to fall drop by drop into a tiny flask. Marius swirled the liquid doubtfully. It looked like whiskey but smelled like roses.

Touching his fingertips to his chest, Marius bowed deeply. If he’d made a mistake in either his translation or the instructions, he would die, and probably horribly; however, if correct, he’d just made Frual, a word which meant Zeroun’s Nectar. Marius wasn’t entirely sure what it would do because the ancient writings said only that the Frual “allows those whose hearts are true to pierce through confusion to truth.”

Marius was the first monk in a hundred years or more able to read the old inscriptions and he couldn’t be entirely sure, but he held tightly to his faith. Taking a deep breath, he put the flask to his lips, and drank.

When nothing happened, Marius dropped his elbows on the workbench and sighed into his hands. He left the lab and padded down the silent halls to the atrium. Incense went into the brazier before Marius knelt and touched his forehead to the stone. His brow creased when instead of stone worn thin by generations of prayer he smelled dirt, thick and dark like a garden in the summer. He sat up, mouth falling open.

Marius kneeled in the center of a ring of seven statues, each approximately life-size, standing on small pedestals on the border with the garden's picturesque, living beauty all around them. The clearing was empty, save for a layer of sweet, soft grass. Small baskets of flowers, fruits, and other offerings rested at the feet of each statue. There was a presence in the garden that stretched in all directions. It felt powerful, but benevolent, a warning, and a welcome.

Hardly daring to breathe, Marius bowed to each of the statues. He started with the one in the center, facing directly north.

This first one was a woman, her long hair entwined with flowers. She wore a long, flowing garment, with just the toes of her sandals showing beneath. Her arms were bare and she held a flat basket of wheat balanced on one hip. In her other hand she held seeds, casting them as one might when sowing a field. She had a kindly, benevolent expression. Her name came to him, whispered in his ear: Menabra, Goddess of the Seasons, Patroness of Farmers.

Next, Marius bowed to the statue on Menabra's right. Again the whisper: naming Zeroun, God of the Sun and the Stars, Patron of Justice and Wisdom. Then Marius turned to the god on Menabra's left side. This was Prem, God of Love and Music, Patron of Artisans and Craftsmen. Animals, some that Marius had never before seen, crouched or slept at his feet and on his arms and shoulders as he played his flute.

Then to Prem's left was a woman with wild hair, holding a lightning bolt in her hand. Her name: Kendaleigha, the Goddess of the Sea and Storms, Patroness of all those who sailed the oceans. Across from her, to Zeroun's right, was Xhaiden, God of Light and Darkness, Ruler of the Underworld. Further to his right was a woman dressed different from the rest, in battle armor, with the symbol of a griffin painted on her shield. She was Bellona, the Goddess of War, the Killer, Deliverer of Justice, Messenger of Mercy, and her other names swirled around Marius' head like fog.

The last of the gods stood next to Kendaleigha and across from Bellona and was as different from both of them as night was from day. She alone wept, her face turned up away from the earth, and her hands stretching toward the heavens. Her name was as soft as a sigh. This was Eirny, Goddess of Healing and Prophesy.

As Marius made his last bow and faced toward Menabra again, the surrounding greenery seemed to merge, to meld into a solid curtain, blocking his sight, and narrowing his focus so that he only had room for the sculpture of Zeroun, now seeming to bend forward from his pedestal and pointing East.

Marius blinked, fighting the disorientation as he looked where the God pointed. Someone was coming, someone very important. Why? For what reason? He squinted until the vision faded, but the only answer he received was a raging headache and an empty belly. He couldn’t decide if he should be disappointed at his own weakness, ecstatic over the success of his experiment, or worried about the future. As the brothers began filtering in for morning prayers, Marius focused on one thought only: the Gods were alive! They were alive and they’d spoken to him. He’d do whatever they called upon him to do, because that was all that mattered.

*              *              *

So used to waking to the sounds of unrest was he that Mordred lay awake for several long minutes before he could place the sound drifting to his ears. Blinking up at the stars, he categorized and discarded Tai’s snores, the slight crackling of wood shifting in the small fire, the shushing of the long grass, chirping crickets, and even his own breathing. Turning his head, he saw that Dmitri was missing from his blankets.

Mordred sat up. The moon had set, surrounding them with the darkest part of the night. The unpredictable rises and lows of the hills had over the past few days gradually faded into a long slope down to the sea. Shoulder-high grass now stretched across the horizon, broken only by a few roads. They’d left a small farming community behind only the morning before. The people there had actually seemed almost happy.

Happy. Mordred’s ears tipped toward the sound he heard and he knew it for laughter. Curious now, he left camp and slowly ventured into the grass. Dmitri was down by the pond and Mordred knew the horses were there somewhere, too. They’d worn a path down to the water earlier. Now Mordred stopped to listen at every other step, but the enticing sound beckoned him on. Definitely not a giggle, but not quite a chuckle, either, Dmitri’s laughter was a rare, precious, and beautiful thing.

Finally, he saw him: Dmitri was down on one knee with both arms raised. Soft, golden light surrounded him and moved as he moved. As Mordred looked closer, he saw that the light came from bugs, attracted by the shine of the stars upon the water. They flitted through the air and alighted on Dmitri’s skin. Dmitri had his face tilted up, half in shadow from where Mordred stood. Tiny lights flickered in the depths of Dmitri’s eyes. His lips were curved up in the most remarkable expression.

For a moment, Mordred couldn’t breathe. He knew with a suddenness that frightened as much as awed him that he’d once had Dmitri look at him like that. He wanted it back! His nostrils flared as he held back a sob and something else shifted in his chest.

Then Dmitri looked up and, catching sight of Mordred, grinned. “Look! Isn’t this amazing? It’s like they have little fires inside, like stars!” Then he made that sound again.

Mordred shivered, unable to quit staring, but Dmitri had forgotten him again. He was so happy; Mordred stared unabashed. As Dmitri cupped a few bugs in his hands, Mordred wished he could do the very same with the whole scene. Was he dreaming? He saw Dmitri release the bugs, following their erratic flight with his eyes as he laughed again.

The bugs swirled away as Mordred moved forward to kneel at Dmitri’s side. He took the strong but delicate hands in his and tugged gently. That smile was now directed at him as Dmitri leaned forward. The buzzing of the bugs made his skin shiver, or maybe that was the light breeze, or maybe that was the touch of their lips.

Dmitri had been drinking from the clear pond; his mouth was cool and fresh. Mordred could feel Dmitri’s pulse where his fingers caressed Dmitri’s wrists. His hands were just slightly damp.

Since that time by the ruins, they had shared a kiss here and there, but nothing like this. Nothing could be more beautiful than the way Dmitri’s lips parted as he sighed. Mordred gasped; he knew this kiss!

A bubble of laughter burst on his lips and Mordred got a close look at Dmitri’s smile. Brown-gold eyes flickered with uncertainty as Mordred raised his hand to trace that smile and feel the quiver in Dmitri’s bottom lip.

“Mordred?”

“I know you,” Mordred whispered back. “I know you!”

Dmitri jerked his face out of reach, the fireflies dispersing around the sudden action. He smiled, but it just wasn’t the same.

“I know you!” Mordred insisted. He went to capture Dmitri’s hand, but missed.

Dmitri folded his arms as if he was cold. His eyes were round as he stared, breath coming swiftly. “You, uh, you’re scaring me, Mordred.”

“I love you.”

Sucking in his breath on a gasp, Dmitri staggered backward and onto his feet. He stared down at Mordred. “You don’t know what you’re saying!”

“I know I love you.”

Evading his grasp again, Dmitri shook his head. “No. That’s impossible.”

“Why? Gods and curses -- you believe in that, but you won’t believe I love you?”

“My faith --“

“Your faith is misplaced.”

“How dare you say that!” Dmitri hissed.

Mordred bounded to his feet. “Where are all your gods now?” he demanded. “Why would they curse this land, turning people into monsters? Or worse! Why try to murder you in your sleep? No sins like what you preach could possibly deserve suffering like this! You don’t know; you’ve never been out of your tiny, little village. You’ve never seen people torn apart by their neighbors and families, the dead wandering the streets, the screams and pleas of the dying, the fear and the anger! Where are these kindly, loving gods you talk about? Because I haven’t seen them! Coddled and protected in that amazingly lucky town, what do you know of this world?”

Dmitri rubbed his arms, turning his head away as tears filled his eyes, but Mordred couldn’t stop. “And yet I can stand here right in front of you and tell you I’m in love with you and you throw it back in my face!”

“Mordred…”

“No! I don’t want to hear any more of this!” Turning on his heel, Mordred strode back to camp. He found Tai there awake and sitting up on her bedroll.

“What are you looking at?” he snapped.

A swish of the grass alerted Mordred to Dmitri’s return. Stiffening, he turned his back and started to shove things into saddle bags. Since they were all awake, there was little point in sitting around waiting for dawn. By the time the sun rose, they were far enough along the road that they could see the smoke from Monykom City.

Monykom City, Tai told them, was the biggest and had always been the biggest. The city sat on the edge of the deep port where ships came from all over the world -- or they used to, before the plague. The smoke from thousands of chimneys cast a perpetual cloud over the city and for the first time since they’d set out from Whispering Cliffs, there were other people on the roads.

The other travelers were a quiet, nervous lot, but Mordred watched Dmitri smile at them and, one by one, they smiled back. Then they started talking and even laughing. Where strangers looked askance at Mordred’s hair and avoided Tai’s pale, icy eyes, they adopted Dmitri. It was Whispering Cliffs all over again.

Mordred faded to the edge of their now bustling camps, watching Dmitri charm all the people who flocked to their fire. There was food and stories, but no music. Singing was a taboo subject, as if people were afraid to appear too happy and yet they soaked in everything Dmitri said about the gods. To Mordred’s way of thinking, they couldn’t get to the city fast enough.

The days grew heavier and heavier as they inched closer. Everyone on the road kept one eye on the clouds overhead which grew darker and more forbidding with each passing hour. Mordred didn’t care to watch the sky; he watched Dmitri. They couldn’t really ignore each other, but there was distance between them again and Mordred didn’t know how to fix it. He spent two days thinking before he realized he felt bad about losing his temper that night by the pond. What he did know was that he wanted to hold Dmitri and kiss him again. He couldn’t push away the feeling that Dmitri was sad, despite all his smiles, so maybe Dmitri wanted the same? They certainly hadn’t had another night of fireflies.

Thunder came before the rain. Streaks of lightning lit the road and startled the tired horses. Standing outside the massive gates of Monykom City was quite miserable, but stand there they did. The horses hung their heads and their riders huddled in their shadows.

Mordred rested his hand on Dmitri’s knee. Dmitri sat hunched over his horse’s withers, water dripping off his nose under his cloak and sliding down the horse’s shoulder to blend with the rain there. False spots of color highlighted a face turned pale by illness.

“Just a little longer,” said Mordred. He frowned at where the guards stood as dark shadows in the gloom, safe under their oilskins. Currently, a family on an open wagon held the guards’ attention. Then there was the man with the mules, and then Mordred would have to plead their case.

“It has to be you,” Tai had told Dmitri earlier. She kept looking to her right, addressing comments to empty space.

Dmitri had nodded back, unsurprised and accepting of the burden, but that had been hours ago. Now, it was up to Mordred, and well he knew his deficiencies when it came to interacting with people. He looked over at Tai who stood as implacable as ever. She looked back and said nothing. Still, Mordred shivered. He didn’t quite understand how she could still unnerve him after all he’d seen in his life.

Finally, the line moved and Mordred led Dmitri’s horse up to the guards.

“Name,” said the first. His face was indistinguishable underneath the hood, but the golden symbol of a griffin glowed faintly against the blood red tunic.

“Mordred Kaybil Vance,” Mordred answered. “This is Dmitri of Whispering Cliffs, and Tai, um.”

“Trade?”

“Blacksmith.” Mordred’s voice trailed off as he saw someone under the gate’s overhang.

“Is he sick?” Another guard stood close, staring up at Dmitri and scowling. “If he’s sick, he can’t enter.”

Mordred stepped closer to Dmitri’s side. “He’s hurt, it’s raining, and you’ve kept us out here for hours.” He stiffened but refused to step back at the rasping sound of a sword being partly drawn.

“Back off,” said the guard.

“It’s not plague.”

Plague! was the whisper now drowning out the rain. The guard pushed back his hood and Mordred’s hand dropped to the sword hanging at his waist. Beside him, the horse shifted, tossing her head as she sensed the tension.

“Wait,” coughed Dmitri, but no one heard.

Water dribbled down the back of Mordred’s neck. He held his ground.

“Back off.”

Mordred saw the man’s knuckles turn white where he griped his sword.

“Stop!”

The ringing voice caused all to turn and stare. Even the rain went quiet.

A man stood under the archway leading into the city. He was tall, taller than Mordred, and thin like an old man, but he seemed young. He wore simple clothes turned dark by the rain. Water glistened off his bald scalp. Behind him stood two others who were older but lacked the compelling superiority blazing from his plague blue eyes. He stepped forward and the guards stepped aside.

Mordred lifted his chin and took two steps to stand in front of Dmitri.

“Oh, don’t worry about him,” said Tai cheerfully. “He’s dead.”

Mordred turned to scowl at her, but she wasn’t talking to him at all; her comments were directed to the bald man. Deciding he didn’t care to know what she meant, Mordred looked back to meet this new man’s eerie stare.

“I’ve seen you coming,” he said. “Please, come with me. Your friends, too.”

Was he talking to the horse? Mordred wondered. But if he were, then why would everyone obey a crazy man? He had to be a priest.

“Mordred.”

In the hush, Mordred heard Dmitri’s call. He went to his side and stared into eyes bright with fever. He saw gold again in the bronze-brown eyes, saw something he wasn’t sure he understood, and he felt once more the terror of an old nightmare, when a man with Dmitri’s face and golden eyes cried out to him for help.

Dmitri’s cold fingers slipped over Mordred’s hand. “No,” he rasped before beginning to cough dry, shallow coughs that made him grimace and gasp for breath.

The priest’s appearance at his elbow made Mordred jerk away a step.

“Please, let me help you.”

Mordred slapped the priest away from Dmitri. “No. We’re leaving.”

“Are you crazy?” snapped Tai. “We’ve traveled weeks to get here and you decide now not to --“

“Shut up!”

“You shut up.”

Dmitri groaned, slumping over further.

“If you take him away from here, he will die,” said the priest. His focus now was entirely on Mordred. He had his hands hidden in his robes, face calm, and voice steady. “Then we’ll all die.”

“We’re all dead anyway.”

Mordred ignored Tai. He watched the priest and suddenly he was on the road again, the road where a merchant cart appeared out of nowhere to offer him a ride. This, he suddenly realized, was another of those moments. He blinked, and stood once more in the rain before Monykom City.

“It’s not just your life at stake,” said the priest, mirroring Mordred’s thoughts.

He scowled. “I don’t believe in your gods.”

“I don’t care what you believe.” Those eyes of his burned almost as brightly as Dmitri’s. “This is bigger than one man.”

As if on cue, Dmitri began to cough. Mordred reached up to steady him.

“Mordred.”

He wiped water from Dmitri’s face and nodded. He knew he could not care for Dmitri alone and Tai was right. Whatever reasons Dmitri had for suddenly not wanting to enter the city could not erase the days of his insistence they find this very place.

They followed the priests past the irritated guards and inside the city walls. Tai and Mordred walked, with Mordred leading Dmitri’s horse, and Tai with the others. The bridle was something solid to cling to amidst the teeming hubbub of the city. The rain muffled the noise, but Monykom City was unlike anywhere Mordred could remember. Raised voices and cart wheels on the cobbled roads assaulted his ears. Bells rang and whistles called to the people. A fight in a tavern erupted onto the street as they passed, sending jangling shouts and the muffled impacts of fists on skin spilling over them.

The priests were unfazed and the horses were too tired to care, but Mordred and Tai both paused. Hearing Dmitri groan, Mordred reached for him. He’d gotten weak so fast!

“Let’s go,” Mordred told Tai curtly. He jerked on the horse’s bridle and hurried after the priests.

“Only the dead live here.” Tai shuddered and walked in Mordred’s shadow. The horses trailed behind, obedient in their misery and fatigue.

“The priests?” Mordred asked. He braced himself for a nonsensical answer.

Tai shrugged. “Oh, yes. He’s dead, too.”

“Is there anyone not dead?” Mordred immediately felt bad for yanking on the horse’s bridle, but striking Tai seemed pointless. She turned her pale, lifeless eyes on him and Mordred shuddered. She was a wraith in the cold rain. Even the light spilling out from the windows they passed failed to spread any warmth to her face.

“I don’t know what they see in you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? Who?”

She did not answer and they continued to walk, past the small shops, taverns, and inns into the heart of the city. Mordred noticed that Tai stopped looking around and stayed hunched in her sodden cloak. He heard something about seagulls and bells and death before closing his ears to her insane mutterings. Instead, he lengthened his stride, forcing her to hurry after.

More guards stood at the gate into the monastery, but these men were more cheerful and called out greetings to the priests and their guests. Then they were inside, the gates shutting away the city’s hum, oppressive after so long on the road with only each other and horses for company. Mordred, with Tai behind him, continued down the main road toward a building that loomed, ghostlike, out of the rain.

There were few people inside, and they all turned to stare as the strange procession passed. At last they stopped. Mordred pulled Dmitri into his arms and followed the priests inside, leaving the horses behind. Their bare feet slapped against the stone and Mordred and Tai’s boots echoed in the drafty chamber. Mordred thought it was warmer outside.

“This way,” said the bald priest, beckoning them on. The other two priests appeared to have vanished into the thick shadows lurking from every wall and corner. Up stairs they went, around corners and down again until Mordred doubted his ability to navigate back out. For as light as Dmitri was, Mordred’s arms ached long before they came to a section of the monastery blazing with candles and warmth.

There was laughter and cheer as well in this room, and children who gazed up at Mordred in wonder before their mothers pulled them close. Mordred smirked and tried not to slip in the water trailing his every step. He followed the bald priest into a private room. A trio of priests in robes stood waiting, taking Dmitri from his arms before Mordred could voice a protest.

They shuttled him and Tai aside, forcing warm, dry clothes, fresh food and drink upon them in a whirlwind of activity that left them, at the end, seated alone at a long, wooden table. Tai was already drunk on a half-cup of wine and dozing.

Mordred stood. Instantly, a boy appeared at his elbow, nimbly evading the startled punch Mordred directed at him.

“Where is that priest?” Mordred demanded.

The boy quailed under Mordred’s scowl, bowing repeatedly as he backed away, beckoning with his hands until Mordred blew out his breath in a sigh and followed.

The room he entered was again private, occupied by a table and countless scrolls tucked away on shelves. Wax dripped from a candelabra dangling precariously from the ceiling. The fireplace did little to warm the little room. He pushed aside the priest waiting there and went to the door on the opposite wall. On the other side was Dmitri, in what had to be some priest’s private chambers.

Mordred sat in the chair at Dmitri’s bedside and plucked at the blanket which had slipped from his shoulders. In the candle light, the hollows under Dmitri’s eyes and in his cheeks looked more pronounced than ever before. His breath whistled, his skin tight and dry beneath Mordred’s seeking fingers.

Dmitri’s eyes blinked open and a faint smile tipped up the corners of his mouth. “Mordred.” He lifted a hand to grasp Mordred’s fingers, closing his eyes again.

“I …” Mordred closed his mouth helplessly, watching as Dmitri drifted off to sleep.