The Great Darkening (Epic of Haven Trilogy) (14 page)

Chapter Sixteen

T
he
days had been darker for Michael since his closest friend had been sent to the North in search of restitution. It seemed to him that Cal had taken a bit of his unusual yet unmistakable brightness along with him on his journey northward.

Michael both loved and hated the hopeful and expectant way Cal would look at the world. He loved it, because for the moments he allowed himself to indulge in the Poetic fantasies of Cal’s mind, he too would forget the gravity that this greying world had on him. He hated it because, as he often would tell Cal, it was just not reality and it certainly wasn’t going to fix anything.

He and Cal would sit in the grazing fields, watching over the city’s horses, and Cal would tell him of the stories of hope and light that his parents had once instilled into him. Michael’s parents had never been much for stories and Poets; his father was a practical sort of man, given mostly to hard work and frugality.

“Your mind is a sharpened tool, boy,” he would say to Michael. “You know what happens when you take a sharpened axe and play with it in the mud don’t you? You dull it!”

His mother was not quite as committed to the way of the flint. She and Cal’s mother had been sisters, and there was a time when she had trifled with thoughts of hope and dreams of light. But when Michael’s aunt and uncle had been found slain in the outlying fields to the west of the city, the tiny, hopeful fire that his mother once carried had been fully extinguished from her eyes.

He would still get small glimpses of her brightness here and there. Michael could remember hearing her sing the most beautiful melodies while she did the washing. He never knew what they meant, but he knew they came from somewhere other than this, from something brighter and more colorful than the grey world she chose to live in. Her songs were never on purpose and never deliberately sung in the company of anyone else. In truth, her music was more like a lament than a song, a mourning of a beauty stolen, or perhaps abandoned.

Nonetheless, Michael was raised in the way of the flint, and Cal was taught the forgotten words of the exiled Poets. The two seemed to be opposites in so many ways; even their appearances were a stark contrast. Michael was dark-haired and light-skinned, while Cal was of light hair and olive skin. Opposites or not, there was indeed a love between the two that was not often found among the people of Haven in these shadowy days.

Cal’s favorite story to tell was of King Illium the light-seeker. Many a day the two of them would weave stories, pondering and speculating what had happened to the King, when he would return, and if he had ever found the light that was prophesied.

As Michael went about his morning’s business, he allowed his mind to linger on the stories Cal used to tell. His hands were busy grooming and saddling the horses for the scouting party, but his thoughts were of King Illium the light-seeker.

Michael laughed to himself as he thought of Cal’s most favorite part. He could almost hear his friend’s voice reciting his imagined tale. “And then the ship
Wilderness
landed on the shores of the Western Wreath. King Illium and his brave men leapt into the cold waters of the Dark Sea on the shores of the new land. They kneeled in awe and reverence, holding their tired hands over their hearts as the shining city of the new light lay resplendent before them.”

That part always made Michael roll his eyes and laugh, for Cal could not seem to tell his version of this fantasy without excitedly acting out the imagined movements of the king.

“I miss you, brother,” Michael said out loud, still grooming the large chestnut gelding they called Timber. “No one has time for stories these days … not since the branch fell off the damned tree four years too early.”

Michael stopped his brushing. He stared off into nothing and said, “The whole world is going mad with fear.”

Timber turned and bumped Michael in the chest with his head, nickering playfully. “Oh, I’m sorry …
you
still have time I guess,” Michael said with laughter in his voice as he went back to grooming the brown horse.

The only good part about Cal’s departure to the cutter camps was that Michael had found favor with the master groomsman. With Cal gone, Michael had been given extra privileges and extra assignments alike. Truth be told though, as much as Michael was a competent groomsman in his own right, most of what he had learned about the horses came from watching Cal with them. This education of sorts is what gained him the attention of the master groomsman. Today, once he finished readying the horses for the cavalry, he had been tasked on a special assignment. He was to be sent to the Citadel to make ready the carriage horses of the Priest King.

In the seventy-three years since the Kingdom of Haven last had a true King, the bright sheen of nobility had been replaced by the joyless air of piety. Rising to power on the winds of fear bellowed by the panic, the Priests had assumed supreme rule over the greying city of former glory. Before most of Haven’s citizens had even noticed, the Priests had taken residence in the Citadel as stewards and regents of the kingdom.

Their brotherhood was led by one named Jhames, known by most as the “Priest King”. When time and timber became the sole obsession of the Kingdom of Haven, slaves were voluntarily made in exchange for not much more than a little kindling. His reign was largely unopposed as long as there was fear and timber enough to feed the people’s allegiance.

This assignment, to serve and transport the Priest King Jhames, was a trickier sort of honor than one might expect. In days past, this was the ultimate vote of confidence for a young groomsman, as there was no more important or honorable duty in the field than to tend to the steeds of their great leader. However, in recent weeks, a darker madness had colored the mind and mood of the Priest King. Michael, though honored by the recommendation, knew full well that he had been given the assignment mostly because the master groomsman did not, in fact, want it for himself.

He was able to put his concerns away for the moment, allowing himself to revel in a bit of excitement at such a task. He had never been inside the Capital, let alone into the courts of the Citadel, and he was eager to be as close as he possibly could get to the great and hallowed burning tree.

Michael made his way across the stable yard towards the royal equerry, eager to begin the task of making one of the royal carriages ready. Two older carriage horses, a beautiful silver color coating their well-fed frames, had been given the task of ferrying the Priest King while he toured the boroughs in an effort to speak peace to the fears of Haven’s frightened citizens.

People were more than ready to hear from their Priest King; they were ravenous for some kind of word, some kind of sign that this was not a surprise to the Priests and that soon things would somehow turn out to be all right. Letters of demands had been flooding the Citadel, and frightened mobs of people gathered daily at the entrance to the Kings’ Bridge. The Capital guard was beginning to have a difficult time quelling the frightened citizens, and it had become quite obvious to all that it was time to hear from the Citadel.

Jhames, who was supremely confident in his teachings and dogmatic in his adherence to them, was becoming uncharacteristically unnerved by this unexpected turn of events. His council, along with a few of his aides and Arborists, had been meeting in the great court for the last two days. The men had poured over the ancient books and scrolls, they had searched the almanacs and daily reports from the last seventy-three years, but they had not uncovered any other break in the trends of the falling branches.

The Arborists were assaulted with question after impossible question, for they too had been searching for answers since the very first branch fell. Now, gathered here in the midst of this holy council, these experts were as dumbfounded as the rest.

Up until now, the huge branches had been consumed at a rate of one every seven years; the pattern had gone unmoved and unchanged since the very first felling. The Priests had made great efforts of preparation and had stockpiled vast amounts of timber in the treasuries of the Capital, all under the assumption that the great darkening was predictable. But now the trend had been abruptly broken. Panic swirled and tempers rose as the council clamored for some semblance of understanding.

“What could this mean?” said a councilman.

“Can we expect a new pattern? Will the remaining two branches fall at a rate of one every three years now?”

“What have we done to anger the THREE who is SEVEN? That is why this has happened like it has!” argued another advisor. “We must make amends!”

Jhames sat in his stone seat, which was positioned in the center of the court, facing the emptied throne of the missing King Illium. He wondered what indeed had gone wrong. How could he have failed both Haven and the THREE who is SEVEN?

Speculation continued to muddy up the room, and soon Priests and advisors alike were pointing fingers, ready to assign blame to something or someone. Chancellor Chaiphus, the personal aide and confidante of Jhames, broke the chaos with the lifting of three fingers. The voices of the speculating council slowly quieted and the storm subsided for the moment as each one of them waited in submission for Chaiphus to speak.

“My fellow councilmen, perhaps we are seeing this all wrong. Perhaps this is a warning and not a punishment.” His aged hand rested back down upon his lap as he leaned back in his chair, observing the reaction to his words.

The council looked at each other, some of them beginning to whisper, while others let the gravity of the words have their full effect.

Elmer, the youngest of the Arborists, who was born into Haven just seven years before the shedding of the first branch, spoke up with a question. “A warning of what, Chancellor? What is it that you propose the tree is telling us?”

All eyes were on Chaiphus now, and the room went quiet with anticipation as the Chancellor prepared to answer the Arborist’s questions.

“What if the tree is warning us to seek,” he paused, “… a new light.” Chaiphus spoke slowly, knowing full well that as the words left his lips, the hearers would not understand their meaning.

“Blasphemy!!” one of the young Priests shouted.

A rumble of opposition began to rise as the angered Priests realized just what Chaiphus might be suggesting.

“This is why! This is why the tree is failing faster! We have a traitor in our midst!” said another.

The Priest King Jhames rose to his feet and demanded the men silence their accusations.

“Explain yourself, friend, for clearly,” he eyed Chaiphus sharply, pausing for effect, “we have misunderstood you.” Jhames spoke with a touch of anger in his voice.

Chaiphus stood as all eyes turned to him. “Every one of you has read the reports coming in from the North. Every one of you has heard the pleas and requests from their Chieftain, and every single one of you know what I know. Our forests will not hold out much longer.”

He walked to the window that overlooked the tree and continued his speech. “The time has come for us to seek a new light from a new land. Maybe Illium was not so misguided when he sailed the Dark Sea, though perhaps he took the prophecy a bit too literally.”

The murmurs of voices again broke out between the men, each one of them trying to anticipate where the Chancellor was going with this.

“We are aware, aren’t we, that the THREE who is SEVEN, in His infinite mercy, has planted other trees in other lands?” Chaiphus asked. “Illium went chasing folklore. What I propose … is that we go looking for forestland.”

Jhames spoke up. “And just where are we to find this forestland, Chancellor?”

“What if the THREE who is SEVEN, in His wisdom and providence, has given us a sign to initiate a new movement? Perhaps the untimely felling of this latest branch will set in motion a new harvest in a new land; a harvest that could save us all. This great darkening is no longer some distant problem that we will one day leave for the next generation to face … for it is nearly upon us.”

The room was wide-eyed in thought, letting the possibilities of what this proposal might mean for all of Haven sink with deep and weighty realization into their bones.

Engelmann, one of the last remaining Arborists, spoke up. “Am I correct in my understanding, dear Chancellor, that you are indeed suggesting that we sail across the Dark Sea and harvest timber?”

“That is precisely what I am suggesting,” Chaiphus replied, scanning the room in an attempt to discern the mood of the council.

“Impossible!” roared Pichan, one of the Priest advisors. “You know very well the Wreath is forbidden! No one from Haven has crossed the sea since life vanished from Dardanos altogether!”

“And just why is it forbidden?” Chaiphus retorted. “Not one of us set foot upon those western shores, not one of our eyes saw what the small-minded mariners spoke of. Besides … the times were not so desperate as they are this day. It very well could be that our forefathers made a
mistake
.”

“How can you suggest we send our citizens to that … that place of shadows? We don’t even know what became of the great city of Dardanos! They disappeared from the face of Aiénor!” Pichan stood out of his seat, livid at the thought of this blasphemous plan.