The Korellian Odyssey: Requiem (7 page)

Korel came forward to stand before the throne of Toresten. Turning to Soren, the king spoke, "Here is a man with what I perceive to be a small bud of that curse of the Necor growing within him. Do you not see it? Denounce him here and now before my face and prove your worth to this court."

Korel shuddered in utter disbelief. He had never been accused of harboring the Necor, much less of having their curse. Surely this was a lie, a political ploy, but for what? Should he be convicted, he knew he would almost certainly be summarily executed, here and now before all.

Soren shifted his weight and licked his bone-dry lips. He appeared physically ill and his face was ashen. He began tentatively, "Surely you do not mean to suggest this young man has discredited this throne or in some way impugned his service before your will. He has never—"

"Perhaps he is serviceable or perhaps he is not. The point is that I desire him denounced. Therefore . . . denounce him now," Toresten said mildly.

Soren began again, "Surely your word is the pinnacle of wisdom in these matters, but in keeping my own counsel—"

Then, as Soren spoke, the king seemed to melt, his face sliding down his skull and dripping from his chin, his scalp splitting in two to reveal a blackened, charred head with crude, rudimentary eyes glowing with lava that trickled down from deep inset sockets. His whole body became suddenly fluid, only to swell in an instant, exploding in all directions, giving way to a huge torso with massive limbs, all of blackened rock and tar, steam rising slowly from every aspect, small rivulets of lava flowing from his sides, a thing strong and horribly powerful.

Soren sat dumbfounded, speechless at last before the thing that had appeared before him. He watched without moving, rooted to the spot, as a huge maw dropped open from the charcoal face. And almost as the tongue of a chameleon, the whole head of the beast sprang forward with lightning speed,, the neck extending, the maw expanding to an impossible breadth. In one fluid motion, Soren was swept up and consumed as a few brief but horrible sounds of crunching bone and burning flesh filled the court.

In moments the beast melted into a man-sized lump of liquid tar that cooled in seconds to reveal the good King Toresten, seemingly no worse for wear. Except for the fading aroma of burning flesh and the conspicuous absence of Lord Soren, nothing within the court seemed out of the ordinary.

The numbness that had taken hold of Korel's brain slowly gave way to a cold fury. This was a fury fueled not so much by the brutality of the act he had just witnessed but by the twinkle of suppressed mirth he saw gleaming in the king's eye. What of this could he tell Arinnea?

"My good Korel," intoned the king, "I do hope you realize I was having a bit of sport with you and my good friend the late Lord Soren. Perhaps one day you and I may have the chance to play again, and perhaps you may entertain better than our former council did. Please give my regards to his daughter Arinnea. You are dismissed, Korel."

Korel moved through the corridors aimlessly, pondering the implications of what had happened. "Why does Toresten play with me so? Where has he cause to denounce me? Lord Soren seemingly spoke but what he knew of truth, and why should such honesty be repaid as his was? Were there other implications meant in . . ." And so his stricken mind wandered. But as the moments passed, his pace quickened, and he found himself before the quarters of Lord Soren and his daughter. Many quarters were lent to courtesans during seasons of war or negotiation, but since Toresten's ascent, this practice now seemed more a royal whim than practical necessity.

Korel softly knocked, and when the chamber lady came to the door she blushed politely, fully aware of the proprieties of mingling the common and noble born, especially with regard to subtleties of gender. She murmured, "Milady is alone and the Lord is not here."

Korel announced in urgent tones, "I come bearing news of her ladyship's father. It is of extreme importance."

A voice called from deeper within, "Let him in."

He entered the apartments to see standing before him Arinnea, more beautiful than he had ever seen her. She was radiant before his eyes and her aspect seemed infinite, her hand multiplying the reflected rays of the morning sun coming through a side window, the light seeming to shine from herfingertips to manifest the power of creation as though all that she touched would come alive and rejoice at the caress; a lock of hair hung next to her eye, revealing a gaze that could know the potential of all things and that would cause an undying yearning in all that fell under it to be and become the vision of possibility spied within, a form so simple yet elegant in its ease of movement that all things first envied and then rejoiced in its aspect. All of this flooded into his mind, and in its wake Korel reflected momentarily about the absurdity of this revelation, how his vision of her had been so altered from one moment to the next. "I don't even know her," he mused. Yet his new awareness of Arinnea could not be denied, and Korel knew he loved her.

His new love mixed strangely with the profound sorrow he felt for Soren, both amplifying and tempering its bitterness. The feeling gripped him as he forced himself to say the terrible thing that must be said. "Lady Arinnea, I bring news of a terrible tragedy. Your father, Lord Soren, is dead."

Arinnea swayed on her feet and all the light in her being seemed to wink out, as if all of creation suddenly wept and then ceased to be. She cried for several minutes as silent tears fell from her downturned face. Korel explained the circumstances of her father's death as a mounting look of horror bent her features, yet she showed no surprise when at last he fell silent.

"An ill fate has arisen against my family. For many months I have been courted by a few powerful nobles, many of whom have strong ties to Toresten. I have not sought these attentions; they are a curious thing in that my suitors are above my station in almost every respect, and what object they seek to obtain through my betrothal I know not. Certainly love for me seems ever further from their minds. My father respected my desire to be free of betrothal as a lever for gaining station alone, for we have long believed in things greater than power. I have needed my father's protection in this matter because, although it is little known, my mother was not of noble birth. She passed away many years ago and my father and I have lived alone since. But now, with my father's passing, I will have little protection from a betrothal not of my choice." Silent tears began once again in a slow descent down her cheeks. Korel reached out and took her hand. The simple sensation of her hand in his was sublime, despite her sorrow, and he began a slow and tender study of it.

"Tell me of this ring on your hand. It is of very curious workmanship."

"My mother, as I said, was not of noble birth but did keep this heirloom, which has passed down the generations. I was told it is of great value," replied Arinnea. "She gave it to me before her passing."

"This ring appears to be Quenivorian," Korel mused in a pensive voice. The ring was braided, with two large sapphires inlayed upon it.

"I have never heard such. All I know is that it helps keep the memory of my mother alive. It's the only real thing of value I possess," Arinnea whispered softly.

In the silence that stretched between them, the sorrow for Arinnea that had loitered on the edges of his awareness suddenly expanded, welling up painfully to fill the entire confines of Korel's chest. His was a sorrow born of his own isolation from family as well as his newly developing feelings for Arinnea, and the sweet bitterness swirling inside his mind threatened to overwhelm him. Small, hot tears came to his own eyes and he fought to contain them. Yet he drew Arinnea to him, and through the drops clinging to his face he kissed her gently. She did not seem surprised, as if being kissed under devastating emotional conditions was a part of her, well within her constitution to govern.

"Perhaps there is a way to avoid this unhappy betrothal," Korel ventured at last.

Arinnea answered, "Lord Kelvan has been chief among my suitors. His station is well advanced of my own, and certainly any would call me a fool to reject his offer." Lord Kelvan, Korel knew, was part of the king's personal guard and held high rank in the royal cavalry, certainly a man who knew how to fight and had seen good success in endeavors of war. Also, he was personally connected to the king. This was a man who would not be put off easily.

Korel spoke, a thoughtfulness running through his tone, "There is a noble, a man of letters and the law, who has honor and an eye for the nobility in men that is otherwise hid by circumstance. He may have enough influence to help you. I could take you to him, and my introduction should be enough to secure his help." Targor had cunning and resources and was loyal to both his friends and the innocent.

"I will take any advantage and as soon as I may," said Arinnea. "When news of my father's death reaches the ears of the full court, Lord Kelvan will press his advantage immediately. I would go now, if you are able."

Korel felt her urgency and assented. He carefully opened the door of the apartment and found the passage deserted. He took Arinnea by the hand and led her quickly down the corridor until they came to the edge of the inner courtyard where Korel had battled Thoren some years earlier. Old pillars of unnamed rock stood in each corner of the courtyard like accusing fingers pointing toward an uncaring sky, but too tired and worn to convey any real bitterness.

As they hurried across the courtyard, Lord Kelvan and four lieutenants appeared from behind the nearest pillar to block their passage.

"Well, what have we here," Kelvan sneered. "Mistress Arinnea and a secret peasant consort. Surely, Lady, you realize that such an offense is punishable by death, both yours and that of your concubine. But perhaps I could be persuaded to protect your good name if you could find a way to gratify my desire to give you aid and succor in this troublesome matter."

With this last pronouncement Kelvan threw himself at Arinnea while the lieutenants grappled with Korel. Korel escaped the men easily, but as he turned toward Kelvan, he saw that the lord had taken Arinnea by the throat, holding her close, keeping her between himself and Korel. Kelvin smirked at him. "You must realize you've become your own judge and executioner. I would pity you, were there any such insipid weakness within me, but alas, for your fate I care not."

A faint sound began to rise all around, voices almost whispering, crescendoing quickly now. A snicker came from the corner, a giggle from the wall, then the whole courtyard erupted in laughter as the curtains obscuring the surrounding balconies drew back to reveal hundreds of lords and ladies, royals of the court all laughing uproariously at Korel and the scene unfolding before them. King Toresten, being foremost upon the balcony, called down to him.

"I was hoping we would have the courtesy of your entertainment. My only regret is that this performance must be your last. You have proven yourself a most delightful talent, and I will miss your comedy. Unfortunately the law must be fulfilled, and so . . ."

Toresten gestured almost imperceptibly with his hand. The slow gravity of time accentuated in the midst of the surreal laughter and applause (the slow drift of Arinnea as Kelvin pulled her closer, a drop of sweat falling from Korel's brow to softly moisten the dust under foot, a high laugh briefly standing out above the underlying strains of mirth and then suddenly sucked back into the endless sea of droning voices) now began to accelerate rapidly, almost impossibly fast. Ten royal guardsmen appeared at each courtyard entrance and began running full stride toward Korel. Arinnea's eyes widened in a silent plea as Kelvin's grip tightened on her neck, his hands roughly pulling her behind an ancient pillar, his face alight with desire; the chorus of the surrounding mob rose to a pitch of frenzy, howls of laughter transforming into bellows for lust and blood, a pillar of sound soaring into the sky and churning the tired clouds into a cyclonic rage that swirled overhead, lightning flashing in torrents of angry spite.

A shriek sprang from Arinnea's throat, her form obscured by the pillar, a cry of fear, pain, but mostly rage, the pillar vibrating slightly with its peal. As the guards reached Korel, a deafening clap tore through the sky above, a blindingly white scar searing the air, coming to touch upon the top edge of the pillar, blowing rock in all directions, and melting its topmost remnants, then continuing down along its descending edge to the ground, turning all it touched to clear liquid glass. Men fell to the earth and did not move.

Shouts arose from the mob in the balconies as people fled in all directions, the tempest overhead continuing to rage, and over all the deep bellowing laughter of Toresten presided as a voyeuristic witness to the carnage below.

Korel ran. How many broken limbs and body parts had he left in his wake as he fled the thirsty mob? He could not remember. He found himself running through the last outskirts of the city, ascending into the first foothills that made up the base of the Mount of Instructure. In a glen partway up the mountainside he collapsed as exhaustion took him and awareness left him.

He gradually awakened to find the sun setting in the distant west, a west that seemed much more distant than when the day first began. Then he remembered how he had left Arinnea to her fate and a nauseous heat erupted in his belly, a burning akin to a coal dying from red to gray ash. And he wept. Tears fell to the glen floor, raising small bursts of dust. The thirsty ground eagerly drank the drops falling from his cheeks, and soon no trace of his sorrow remained.

Anger and bitterness swept through him again, the dying ember flaring red-white hot. The ember whitened to a near hatred of Toresten and an even greater hatred of himself. As the heat eased but a little, Korel remembered the old histories taught to him in the catacombs of the record keepers, part of his initiatory training in the instruction of the Quenivorian. It was rumored in the histories that a sleeping power dwelt in the East, a power as old as creation, passing almost out of knowledge all but forgotten, alone, hidden from the eyes of men.