The Great Darkening (Epic of Haven Trilogy) (16 page)

Chapter Eighteen

T
he
Capital was stunning when the amber light was in full bloom. The white sculpted walls, alive with vibrant colors from the flourishing gardens, caused the buildings to sit like sparkling gems set against the sheer magnitude of Mount Aureole. The embellished precipices of the glittered rock face shown like a radiant, sculpted halo, telling the stories of ancient power, departed kings, and (if one were to look for it closely) a future hope. Such artistry masked the royal homestead as a work of beauty, juxtaposing all the business and order it housed underneath with its spectacular grandeur. At the very center, the burning tree sat as the crowned jewel in the garden of the great Citadel.

Michael sat in the annex just outside the office chambers of the Chancellor. Never in all of his life did he suppose he would find himself in the Citadel, let alone here, near to this holiest of places. Lieutenant Armas had been kind enough to him and saw to it that Michael’s arm was properly looked after and bound with clean bandages. The tunic he had received that morning was well beyond repair, so the good lieutenant made sure a fresh one was made available to him. The two silvers were in the stables of the Capital guard, watered and calm for the time being, but certainly in no shape to ferry the Priest King. Michael was just relieved that their lives had been spared after the senseless destruction of the morning.

Enormous tapestries, woven stories of the brighter days of Haven, festooned the high-raftered walls of the annex, while elaborate iron chandeliers hung all about the room. At the center, underneath the silver rotunda, the original parchment of the Priests occupied its final resting place, encased in glass and etched in silver. These were the very first writings of the way of the flint, inscribed by the long-deceased father of their brotherhood, Jhosiah.

Michael watched as the large wooden chamber doors on the opposite side of the annex parted ways. Out from their opening came the very same lieutenant who had so graciously seen to him earlier that day. His quiet confidence somehow gave the illusion of great stature, although in reality his height was only average at best. Though his features were steeled with an intensity that stemmed from a focus on the duties he was charged with, his deep blue eyes betrayed his unmistakable kindness. He strode deliberately out from within the chambers of the Chancellor, his leaf-shaped helm still under his arm. Michael rose to greet him and the lieutenant’s face softened for the moment.

“I am glad to see that you are not too scarred from this morning’s events, young groomsman,” Lieutenant Armas spoke as he surveyed Michael’s bandaged frame. His clean-shaven face did not hide the strength or the humility that he had about him, and Michael could not help but feel a respect for this guardsman of the Citadel.

“I will mend, thank you,” Michael replied. “Is the Chancellor ready to see me? He is not too angry with me about the carriage, is he?” Michael looked worried as he asked the questions.

“I won’t lie to you,” the lieutenant said. “He is certainly not happy about this day’s drama, so thank the THREE who is SEVEN that he has bigger things to be concerned with at the moment. One of which ... I must see to at once.”

The lieutenant extended his arm to embrace Michael’s, but he quickly realized that Michael’s arm was bound and unable to do much of anything. Graciously, he offered his other arm and the two of them shared a laugh.

“See to it that you mend quickly,” the lieutenant said with a fatherly tone to his voice. “I will have need of men with your kind of bravery and determination.”

Michael brightened at the compliment. “I will, sir.”

With that, Lieutenant Armas left to carry out his assignment.

Prior to this day, Michael’s impression of the men of the Capital guard was not favorable, to say the least. Most of the soldiers had lost the brightness that chivalry and duty were meant to bring to the task of this honor. Many of his encounters with the military had been purely business, solely transactional. The scouts needed horses, and so they came to groomsmen for horses; little else had ever been spoken between them unless it was a criticism or complaint.

Michael watched the lieutenant leave with a sort of awed curiosity. It seemed there was a depth to this Armas and his men that Michael had not seen before in the ordinary guardsmen that wore the green and silver. The lieutenant had a kindness and brightness about him that was evident even beneath the sharpened steel and bright mail.

Michael counted himself fortunate indeed to have met Armas and his men.

“Groomsman?” a thin sounding voice spoke.

Michael turned, surprised at the words that broke the silence of the large annex and brought his thoughts back to the impending encounter with the Chancellor.

“Yes sir?” he responded respectfully to an older, white-haired man who stood with an extreme hunch to his shoulders.

“Right this way. The Chancellor will see you now.” The old scribe gestured for Michael to come.

He followed the hunched man through the large chamber doors, a little less nervous now that he had spoken to the lieutenant, but still apprehensive to be in the presence of one so holy.

The scribe led Michael into a triangular office with walls that seemed to be made completely out of blown glass, save the large wooden doors they had just passed through.

The peninsula of windowed glass overlooked the whole of the walled city. From this vantage point one could see the light tower Maris shining off in the distance in the Bright Harbor of the Bay of Eurwen to the south. With a turn of the head one could take in the glowing braziers of the border villages all the way in Piney Creek to the north, and of course almost everything else in between.

Michael drank in this spectacular view and spoke aloud. “Never have I, in my whole life, seen the whole of our great Haven from one point. It … it is beautiful.”

“Beautiful, you say?” a skeptical voice replied. Michael turned quickly, realizing it was not the scribe who had spoken. Chancellor Chaiphus narrowed his greying brows and scowled at Michael. “What is so beautiful about it, pray tell me?”

Michael was not so sure that he was supposed to answer him back.

“Let me tell you what is beautiful—the
efficiency
by which our citizens put the whole of their energy into finding and producing light. That is the only beauty we have time for in these grey days, groomsman,” the Chancellor scolded.

Michael’s smile faded a bit under the reprimand of the Chancellor. “Of course, sir,” he said as he lowered his head.

“Lieutenant Armas has informed me of what happened out on the Kings’ Bridge earlier today.” The Chancellor looked Michael over, inspecting the damage. “I trust that you have received adequate care?”

“Yes sir, I have indeed,” replied Michael.

“Perhaps this is a lesson well learned by this office. In troubling times such as these, we should not send an apprentice to perform the task of a man.”

Michael began to speak up in defense of his actions, but the Chancellor promptly cut him off.

“We are aware of your commendations, groomsman, and we are well informed of your competencies and skills. However, fear-filled men have a tendency to disregard order and office, choosing to take matters into their own violent hands.” Chaiphus spoke matter-of-factly. “But you are aware of that now, are you not?”

Michael nodded in agreement.

“Lieutenant Armas and his men will henceforth see to the transportation of the Priest King. His Brightness has a vision for all of Haven, and no swelling mob or green-horned naivety will keep him from telling his revelation to the kingdom.”

“A new vision, sir?” Michael asked.

“Well, haven’t you heard? I thought you knew what your assignment entailed?” asked the Chancellor.

Michael just stood there; his body language said plainly enough that he had no idea what this new vision was. Chaiphus lowered his gaze, locking eyes with the wounded groomsman.

“We,” he paused for effect, smiling slightly and speaking with an indecipherable tone to his voice, “are going to seek the light.”

Michael lingered in silence, waiting for the Chancellor to explain his confusing words. And explain he did. By the time Michael had heard the whole revelatory vision, he was not sure whether to be excited or petrified. As he made his way out of the Chancellor’s chambers, through the Citadel, and into the surrounding courtyards of the Capital, he couldn’t help but wonder what Cal would make of all this.

He stood still for a moment, taking in the Citadel with its brilliant white walls and glowing dome of etched silver. As he pondered the news, he couldn’t help but notice how much
brighter
everything was here in the Capital, so close to the great tree. He soaked in the amber light for a few moments, wondering how much longer the people of Haven would have the chance to do so.

The garden in which he found himself was molded and terraced out of the same black granite that the Capital itself was built upon. Its elaborate fountains and chiseled statuaries told the ancient stories of deeper magic as they nestled amidst the perennial beauty of the fragile here and now.

The great tree lived and shone in what was created to be the inner garden, a holy place reserved for and tended to by the Arborists alone. This sacred space of hallowed green was guarded and fenced in by a gilded army of iron willows. Each branch and leafy vine was woven into the next, creating an irregular and yet quite impenetrable row of stanchions to separate this most holy and mysterious of places from the rest of the garden.

No gate was wrought into the golden willow wall, but at the easternmost point of the inner garden, exactly thirty-seven paces from its edge, stood the fence’s iron mother. A singular door sat in the trunk of the mother willow, the lone entrance to the home and the hall of those born into the service and stewardship of the great tree.

The vibrant hues of color made the courtyards come alive in swirls of artistry. Michael had never seen such defined beauty as this, and between the breathtaking gardens and his wild-running thoughts, he was not sure that he could make much sense of anything at the moment.

Before he knew it, his feet had carried him down the winding paths of the Citadel gardens to the sacred garden of the burning tree. He stopped in humble reverence at the edge of the green, hesitating for a brief instant with sheepish uncertainty.

Questions flooded his mind as he considered his next step. Should he remove his shoes, or stroll right on up to the iron-willow gate without so much as permission or privilege? Would he even be allowed to tread upon this sacred green, or would this act of irreverence land him with Cal in the cold North? Was it customary to be silent, or are offered prayers required before one could approach this holy tree?

And so he remained there, frozen on the border of the sacred garden and the paths that led him there, paralyzed with ignorance and fear of what a misstep might bring.

The air was quiet, but it was not still. A gentle breeze came off the rolling flames of amber light, and butterflies fluttered and danced on the gentle eddies of the hallowed wind.

The moments here seemed so isolated from the rest of the world. Except for the scarred trunk of the sacred tree, none would guess that a note of discord could ever strike such a place where something this beautiful still lived. Michael was lost in thought, wishing that his friend could be here to see this with him, when he heard a creaking voice coming from within the garden.

“Welcome, young one. Come in. There is no sense wasting your time dallying on paths of stone when it is light that you truly seek,” said the green-haired, old man who leaned against a large boulder of granite, smoking a long pipe and looking kindly at Michael.

“Are you sure it is alright? I mean, am I allowed to enter this place?” Michael asked.

“I think I should know, shouldn’t I?” said the man in between puffs of smoke. “After all, it is my garden! Well, not actually
my
garden, but I am responsible for it. And it has grown far too quiet in here as of late. Come and seek … perhaps you will find whatever it is that you are looking for.”

“Thank you, sir. My name is Michael,” he said as he walked on to the green terrace of the garden. “Are you, well … I mean, are you one of the Arborists?”

“Ah, you have heard of our kind!” the man replied playfully. “I should hope I am, otherwise I might get myself into trouble spending so much time delving into matters of ancient secrets and magics.”

Michael laughed a star-struck sort of laugh.

The Arborist introduced himself with laughter in his eyes. “They call me Engelmann, and if you like, you may do so as well, Master Michael.”

“I will, thank you, sir,” Michael replied.

The green-haired man pointed with his long, green pipe towards the burning tree and spoke. “Have you ever in all your life seen a light more beautiful, more perfect than this right here?”

Michael shook his head, overwhelmed by the flames of amber that licked the sky.

“I have tended this tree for three generations now. I was here keeping watch long before the first branches fell victim to its flames. I watched King Illium, and his father before him, King Cascarie, grow up underneath its brilliance.”