Penumbra - Chapter Twenty-Seven

[petrichor11]

Chapter Twenty-Seven

At the provisional camp in the Feneralia, Caffolas was cursing the discomfort of leading from the front. Although he longed to return to the amenities of Aleofane, he felt it necessary to remain where he was for the time being. Otherwise he feared the loss of the improvement in morale he had gained by personally informing his decimated Zealots that they would shortly be augmented by the presence of none less than Anjh the Immortal. He wiped his face and, scowling at the grime on the fine fabric of his handkerchief, demanded, “Where’s that Prydain who says he’s got another top Warrior ready to volunteer to clean out the cave? You did say he was Prydain?”

“Yessir, he’s one of that crew that we admitted just before the last try.”

“Well, send him in.”

The man who entered the command tent was typically Prydain: tall, powerful, dark of hair and eye with the swagger of a Warrior who knows his worth. He did not salute. “I am Acaire, Lamason. You wanted to hear me?”

“You say you have a comrade who is ready to join you in the Zealots?”

“Yes, he’s recently come to the capital and is hunting a position and a cause to serve. I can vouch for his skill and no one questions Prydain courage.”

“Would this be his first mission?”

“More likely his last. He’s a veteran who’ll be turning to Voltefase soon. You’ll be lucky to get his services before he makes the turn.”

“Why would a man want to risk his life when he is on the point of changing it?”

“He’s Prydain,” Acaire said with understated pride.

“So he is; well, I’ll have a message sent to him inviting him to test for the Squad and we’ll see how good he is. What’s his name?”

Acaire drew himself up, “His name is Harad and Prydain don’t test.”

“They do if they want to be a part of my army. Nobody gets a free billet in my forces,” Caffolas stormed. “Adjutant, sent a summons to this... Harad and inform him he may report for testing three days from now. If he’s serious about fighting for me, he’ll make the effort to get here on time and qualify. Acaire, dismissed!”

So there was another willing sacrifice available. Caffolas shook his head in wonderment at the eagerness of Prydain to accept any risk in their search for fulfillment in battle. He was deeply grateful for this trait since without it he would have had to go before his brethren and confess his failure at the task he had undertaken. What with the scarcity of weapons and the steady thinning of the ranks, he needed all the trained and arms bearing troops he could get. He shifted uncomfortably in the canvas chair; soon he could go back to his palace, to cushioned seats and sand-free meals. As soon as the purported Thanamant arrived and dealt with the cave one way or another, he could go home. Only another two weeks and it would be over. Caffolas was very nearly certain that Anjh would kill whatever was in the Pit of Archaos, thus completing the job given the Lamason by the Council. And if he couldn’t, that was all right too. If Anjh couldn’t do it, it wasn’t doable and that was the end of it. The chore could be abandoned, the cave sealed and the entire mess forgotten. He miserably lifted himself from the sparse comfort of his camp chair. Time to make an appearance before his men.

The Feneralia was not a pleasant area. A wide stretch of barren land, pocked with caves and sprinkled with scrub grass, it was useful for nothing but training and fighting. In a way that made it all the more desirable to hold since it spared the more desirable areas of the continent from the devastation that war always brought. Caffolas looked around him at the scruffy corps that lounged negligently in the scanty shade, waiting for something to happen. They were so dirty that it was hard to distinguish them from the ground on which they sprawled and uniforms seemed to be optional. Their leader fastidiously avoided them for fear of fleas or worse.

“Warriors, are you prepared?” The words intended to come out as a clarion call to battle emerged as a strangulated squeak.

Two of the nearer soldiers glanced up contemptuously and silently returned to their dice. Caffolas stuck his swagger stick under his arm and smartly marched off in the direction of the area under siege, followed by his headquarters staff, smirking behind their hands.

The actual Pit of Archaos wasn’t much to look at. It seemed to be only a shallow hollow in a nondescript rock formation. The entrance was rather low and led to a steadily descending trail so far as one could see without actually going inside - which Caffolas had never done and had no intention of ever doing. He knew from the reports in the geographical survey files that the trail did, indeed, go down for a relatively short distance then flattened out into a series of branching tunnels, none of them very long. Sometime in the past five years, something had gotten into this very ordinary cave and begun a most extraordinary career. There were no records since that time of any human entering very far into the cave and coming out under his own power. What was more disturbing, there was no evidence of just what kind of creature lurked in those shallow depths. The deaths that occurred there were from various causes - some intruders killed themselves, some were slain by their compatriots, some bled to death from unexplained wounds and, most alarming, some died for no visible reason at all. Caffolas stared hard at the innocuous hole and tried to appear to be contemplating a personal assault to destroy the mysterious enemy.

His ostensible duty done, the Lamason returned thankfully to his command tent and resumed more pleasant diversions. The cave thing was a riddle and a barrier to his further advancement, but if he could manage to get it eradicated, he would have a base from which to launch his political attack on Naufrage. Caffolas could see himself already as the Victor of the Battle of the Cave - the daring young leader who could take the people of Junonia to triumph over Archaos. The Mazoid would fall before him and he would be named Ombrios by popular acclamation. Best of all, he could return to Aleofane to stay instead of being limited to his current quick trips to pick up necessities and keep up with the newest gossip. The hot dusty tent faded and became the elaborate quarters of the Chief of Council as he abandoned himself to his daydreams.

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They were in the sitting room, the twilight softening their surroundings, the woman leaning against the man, tangling her long fingers in his mane of coarse dark hair as they lazily waited for the evening meal to be served.

The dull gold earring in his left ear was his only jewelry. It was a disk with gracefully flowing symbols in black on a matte surface attached to a post piercing the lobe. Jaithlym had noticed it many times in passing but had never taken the time to examine the details closely. Now as she stood on her knees to get a better look at the item, she could see that it was, in fact, far more intricate than she had thought. The cursive script of the design was in several parts, linked together by thin lines of engraving which were not visible from a short distance. The enameled main elements were hauntingly familiar, like a face one cannot place in memory. She gently traced the shapes with her long forefinger.

“What does all this mean?”

Anjh looked up from the book he held in his lap, the lens of his spectacles flashing in the lamp light. “The earring? It’s a tribal thing. All Prydain wear one. We’re given them when we’re about two - as soon as we can be trusted not to pull them out. They’re kind of like identification bracelets.”

“But what do the signs mean? Are they just decorative and symbolic or do they have a real meaning?” Jaithlym was bored and jealous of his attention to his reading.

With a sigh, he closed the book, after first carefully marking his place, and turned to her. “They have meaning. I told you it was like an identification bracelet. The marks are a code telling from what family each of us comes and into which crèche we were placed. You know we keep careful tabs on our bloodlines so we can weed out any genetic defects and sometimes it’s useful to know the age of an individual without having to ask.”

“So that’s the secret. It’s numbers; I thought they looked familiar in a strange way. I wouldn’t mind having jewelry like this for myself although I’m not sure I’d like everybody I met knowing my age right off.” She continued to fondle the earring.

“You might find their second and more practical use even less appealing,” he responded dryly. “This coded information is principally used to identify a badly damaged body. Not all Prydain die neatly and leave a recognizable corpse. We have the same information tattooed on our bodies when we reach puberty. I used to have the marks on my torso, under my left arm. That’s gone now, of course. Vaporized along with the arm. I won’t have to have it replaced because I’m no longer unidentifiable; the Ordmun have seen to that with all the mechar’ they’ve built into me.”

“Don’t talk like that.” She squirmed and made a face.

“Why not? You wanted to know what the earring was all about. I told you. You’re too squeamish about reality. As a matter of fact, there’s no reason for me to even wear this earring anymore but I’ve grown so accustomed to it that I’d feel incomplete - make that even more incomplete- without it.”

“Must you talk like this? I don’t like to think about death. There’s been too much of that in our lives. You’re safe now and alive and you’re going to stay that way. Don’t remove the earring. It becomes you and now that I understand its meaning, it means you.” Jaithlym laid her palm against his cheek and looked deeply into his eyes. “I’ll draw the design on my linens and have it embroidered in silk. Whenever I see it, I shall think of you.”

He pressed her hand more closely against his skin and answered, “You’re a sentimental creature. Why make such a celebration of a piece of jewelry?”

“Because I’m actually celebrating you and the fact that we’re here together and happy. At least I’m happy ...”

He simply smiled and returned to his book. But she was not done with her questions.

“Tell me about the Voltefase - there’s not much information in the library.” Jaithlym said.

“What do you want to know and why now?” he drawled comfortably, setting the book aside with finality.

“Oh, I had a long talk with Galdine Alcina that day she was here and she was telling me how she chose her second career at the same time as her first. I didn’t think Prydain did it like that.”

Anjh linked his black hand with her white one and admired the contrast, “Alcina is a rarity; most of us don’t have any idea what we’ll end up being.”

“You must have some notion and how does it work? The whole thing seems terribly confusing to me.”

“Only because you’re Lilar. Your bent is toward mathematics and finance; ours is toward learning. After a few years killing and bleeding, most of us are ready to ‘make the turn’ as we call it toward a less destructive, more creative life. So we go home to Ban Khatour and retrain ourselves for what we intend to be our final profession. That’s about it.”

“And that’s the Voltefase?”

“That’s it. Of course, like all traditions, it’s encrusted with ages of custom and ritual but that’s essentially what it’s about.”

Jaithlym sat up straighter, “Alcina said you could choose when to Voltefase on your own, that you didn’t have to wait for some special time or age. When will you do it?”

“Aha! So that’s why you brought this up? The Galdine told you the truth; there is no special age or time to make the turn. However, what she didn’t say is that each of us knows, I suppose instinctively, when that moment has arrived. Also, as the time nears, most of us are drawn toward a particular profession or art which leads to the future. Alcina was never in doubt that she would end up a Healer; not many of us are so certain even much later.”

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“Persistent woman,” Anjh complained off-handedly. “You’re asking something I can’t answer. I’m not through with my Warrior phase, so I don’t know when I’ll make the turn.”

“But when you do, what will you choose to be?”

“It’s been years since I gave it much thought. I read philosophy as a boy and considered that I could do worse than teach the young until I felt ready to enter the government. But that was long ago and I’m no longer sure.”

“Has it ever happened that a Prydain has chosen a second profession on the mainland? You know we Lilar have been known to be priests.”

He laughed, “You aren’t the first to mention this. Have you been talking to someone who put this silly thought in your head? Come now, can you see me as a priest? I’d look like an idiot in those robes and making those silly signs.” He mimicked the wide gesture of an acolyte.

“Why can’t you be a priest?” she pouted. “Don’t tell me it’s because you’re not religious; I don’t know any priests who are - it’s just another profession, a political one if anything.”

“Jaithlym, are you plotting again? Does pregnancy create unusual thoughts in Lilar women the way it gives some strange appetites? Who’s put this line of reasoning in your head?” He didn’t mention the tattle he was certain she had heard.

“Nobody in particular,” she lied with practiced smoothness. “I was just thinking and wishing that there was something here on the mainland to catch your fancy. You know I want you to stay here with me, particularly now. How about if you were Ombrios?”

“Never happen!” He ruffled her gilt hair, “I’m a Prydain Warrior and that’s what I shall remain.”

“Won’t you even consider another life? If not religion or politics, then there are hundreds of other professions that don’t involve killing and danger...”

“Do you think I’m afraid of danger?” He was suddenly coiled and tense, all playful humor gone.

“Not you, me! I’m terrified every time I think of you going off to war... It can’t be good for me, in my condition, to be so scared so much of the time.”

He was unmoved by her plea, “Other women have survived it. No, I’m not ready to change my life. I’ve told you what I was like as a boy but as I grew older, I understood better what I was and it became obvious that I was destined to follow my father and end as a Warrior.”

“What are you saying?” Jaithlym struggled against his confining arm.

“That since I was seventeen and met my father, I have expected to die in battle as he did. So actually making the turn has long ceased to be a reality to me.”

“Don’t say that!” She sprang from the divan, furious tears erupting from her eyes. “You're not going to die again. I won’t let you!” She beat at his chest with ineffectual fists.

“Shhh, shhh,” he quieted her and gently tugged her back to his side. “You’re not foolish and you should have learned better than to insist on answers you don’t want to hear. You’ve known what I am for a long time now.”

“I must be foolish because I thought you would leave off being Thanamant when you became a father. I hoped... ” Her voice trailed off into silence.

Anjh stoked her hair soothingly and said, “I’m not quite a father yet but let’s talk about happier things for a while. Nothing is going to happen right away, so be calm.” He rested the mechart hand on her still-flat belly, “Think about that vessel holding the most valuable treasures in the universe - my two sons.”

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The Meditation room seemed crowded although there were only three men gathered around the desk. Harad spread out the message from Caffolas inviting him to join the Zealots whenever he wished and announced. “I’m in.”

“When are you going then - tomorrow?” asked Rispa. “And what have you told Anjh or have you mentioned it to him?”

“I haven’t told him anything yet; haven’t thought how to say it. I’m afraid that he’ll know immediately what I’m up to and try to stop me. At best, we’ll quarrel about it and I don’t want to fight with him right now. You know, we played our hand too strong when we told him he’d endanger his own men if he tried to go on being a Warrior. It hasn’t diverted him, just made him more stubborn about doing it his own way, by himself, alone. That’s a problem we ought to have anticipated. From the day he took command of the Cadre, he was very concerned about the troops under his care and I’ve never known him to order a soldier to do something that he wouldn’t do himself. Of course, he’s always been inclined toward solo missions anyway but this idea of hurting his own side has made him a lone wolf in truth.”

“Hmmm. It’s a waste of time trying to trick him into doing what we want and it doesn’t take a genius to know that we want him to stay alive. Because of everything that’s happened, he’s edgy and suspicious of everybody’s motives; that’s only to be expected. Still, we must stop him from attempting this mission. There are some new reasons for that which even you don’t know, Harad. For our race and the survival of our people, we can’t let him hunt his death so fiercely, not right now. We must persuade him to make the turn and come back to Ban Khatour. And we must keep him from hearing these tales about becoming a god. I’m not sure how he’d react to them - probably laugh and then curse - but I’m afraid he might take them as an excuse to do something even more outrageous than he’s already planning.” Rispa was more insistent than usual.

“I don’t know what you Prydain're talking about, but I don’t want ‘im dead, either,” Sandro interjected. “Thing is - I’ve known a Thanamant or two and it’s ‘ard to turn ‘em. They’re focused on that and just that. Nothing else makes much difference when they ‘ave it set in their minds.”

“Then we’ll just have to keep trying - the alternative is unthinkable. Harad, you must send word every day about the conditions at the Pit of Archaos and make your plans to be a part of any team Anjh leads when he enters the cave.”

“I’ll send word but I don’t know how far I’ll get becoming a part of a team; from the way he’s talking, Anjh intends to dispense with support and go in single-handed.”

“Persuade Caffolas that the only way the cave can be cleared is if there’s a back-up squad. He knows that his advancement in Council depends on his success in the Feneralia and if he can be convinced that success depends on using a big enough party to finally exterminate whatever's in there, he’ll force Anjh to accept a team approach.” Rispa spoke with the conviction of an old tactician. “I’ll talk to Naufrage again and tell him what we’re doing.”

“I hope Caffolas is more malleable than Anjh has ever been. Sandro, are there any Ordmun in the Zealots?” Harad turned to the technician.

“Just the odd weaponsmaster. We’re not too big on fighting if we can avoid it.” Sandro grinned, “We do all right supplying you soldiers who get your kicks out of it.”

“Well, alert them anyway. I won’t be able to socialize much with non-Prydain once I’m under Caffolas’ observation and it won’t hurt to have as many of the Squad as possible keeping an eye out. The captain can be a sneaky one when he’s set on a course.”

“Right you are!” Sandro sketched a mock salute as the door was flung open.

“Pray, don’t let me interrupt you, gentlemen. From your faces I can tell this is serious business you are conducting. Do you need another voice or would you prefer to keep it private?” Anjh loomed in the entrance, leaning on his cane, looking at the guilty group with almost imperial disdain.

“I thought you were upstairs, captain.” Harad faced his commander with a face held carefully blank.

“I’m sure you did. What’s this all about?” He limped slowly into the room.

“Just routine outlining for training and exercises for the next week. The men are getting fat and lazy and need a heavier hand and some more active experience.”

“That takes all three of you? This looks more like a gathering of conspirators than a simple planning session. You’re all looking guilty as hell. I don’t like being lied to; so stop trying.” The color was rising dangerously in his face.

“Anjh! You forget to whom you are speaking,” Rispa drew himself up in an attempt at dignity.

“And you forget your position. You’re my guest, an Elder, the Brisevant, not a member of my company.”

Harad stepped forward and put a restraining hand on Anjh's arm. “I’ll speak for the three of us, Captain. You’re right - we weren’t telling you the whole of it. I was just coming to talk to you about this - I’ve been accepted into the Zealots and am leaving for the Feneralia tomorrow. We were just deciding how I should tell the rest of the men.”

“You are going into Caffolas’ Suicide Corps? That’s absurd. I won’t have it. I absolutely forbid it. You’re needed here to protect Jaithlym.”

“You can’t forbid me. I’m not under your command anymore; I’m not sworn to your service and her Ladyship has ample protection without me. We’re Prydain, captain, and you can’t stop me. It’s my choice to take this final mission before Voltefase. No one has the right to interfere with this.”

Anjh angrily stumped across to the desk and threw himself into the large chair behind it. “You’re doing this to try to interfere with my plans. Have you been plotting this with Jaithlym since the sand-bear incident? Don’t answer - I know you have. Well, it won’t work! You’re not going to get in my way this time - I warn you. It’s intolerable; I won’t permit it! Stay the hell out of this!” He slashed at the air with his cane.

“My motives are my own, Anjh, and Jaithlym is not involved in any way. But I assure you, I’m going to that camp tomorrow and neither you nor anyone else can stop me... You’ve heard what this campaign at the Pit is all about, how tricky it is. I’ve decided to take it on because I can’t waste the last months of my Warrior time on inactive status. I can sense my Voltefase approaching and I’ve got to find someway to make the turn with honor, some final mission that’s worthy.” He stretched out an imploring hand, “Let’s not part on bad terms. We’ve been together too long, endured too much together.”

Anjh was silent for a considerable time, his eyes fixed unseeingly on the surface of his desk, his black-gloved hand moving aimlessly among the items scattered there. Finally he raised his head and answered, “You’re right. You’re entitled to choose your own last mission, free of any person’s veto, even mine. For my own selfish reasons, I wish you hadn’t chosen this particular assignment but I don’t have any standing in your decision. If you’re determined to go to Caffolas and his Zealots, then you’ll go - if not with my blessing then without my objection.”

He stood up and limped restlessly to the bookcases and, with his back to the three who nervously watched him, continued, “However, I claim that same right for myself. I heard enough as I came in to know you were considering ways to keep me away from the Feneralia. This must stop. I’m a man with a man’s prerogatives. If I choose to hunt death in the Pit of Archaos, that’s my decision. You all know what I am; it has become both unnecessary and absurd to play these childish word games since every man in this room knows me to be Thanamant and I freely, no, eagerly accept the name. I had thought to be done with my life on Mount Nothscar but you’ve seen what happened since I found death there. Now I’m back on the path I chose and I will not again be diverted. You must accept this and stop trying to hinder me. I assure you my reasons are rational and satisfactory to me, which is all that really matters.”

Holding up a hand to prevent any interruptions, Anjh went on, “Believe me, Harad, I can understand your hunger for action after frittering away your talents in this place, tending to my needs. It’s selfish of me to try to keep you here just because I’m now a cripple and have let myself become dependent on your services.”

Harad struggled to speak past the constriction in his throat. “You’ve not held me, captain. I wanted to stay and now, well, now I have to do what I think is the right thing for both of us. And, about the rest - you can’t ask those of us who have served under you and who still value you to stand aside and not at least try to keep you alive.”

“I can and do. If you are set on your decision then we will doubtless meet in the camp at some point and I have no intention of resuming this argument. We’ve been friends for many years and have trusted one another without hesitation. Let’s not destroy all that in these last days. Don’t let me go to my death with you as my enemy.”

“I’ll never be your enemy; I’ll be at your side or defending your back to the end.”

“No, you already know what I intend. You must respect that if I am to have any chance of ending this with a shred of dignity and honor.”

“I can’t promise to do what you want,” his friend choked. “You didn’t come back from death once just to meet it again so soon.”

Anjh smiled faintly, “Then we’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we? I’m all too aware that resurrection carries a certain obligation along with it. I just haven’t decided yet exactly what that obligation is. One thing I do know, I won’t let what was done to me without my consent and participation dictate my most personal choices. It’s unfortunate that Naufrage and the others didn’t know what I was when they conceived their stratagems with Nolex, but that’s in the past and I will not hold myself responsible for their mistakes. I have preserved my blood-line for my race and have, so far as I am able, behaved with decency and courtesy toward those around me during this second life. It is my most ardent belief that I can now make my exit without regrets or recriminations... Now, will the three of you understand that this is called the Meditation Room for a reason; it is my personal place of retreat and contemplation and I would now like to use it for its intended purpose. So, please find another place to conspire among yourselves in your drive to frustrate my wishes.

Rispa and Harad silently moved toward the door, followed by Sandro who sighed, “Guess I might as well go tell the others Harad's going and we’ll be getting a new head trainer pretty soon. They’re not gonna like that.”

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After the three had gone, Anjh moved restlessly about the room. He was dissatisfied with the way the conversation had progressed. It had all seemed to become an immense misunderstanding leaving him looking both villainous and selfish. He limped to the window and pulled back the curtains. Beneath him in the street below was the usual river of people flowing serenely down the walkways and around the occasional floater, people in the robes of the clergy as well as the silks of the well-born and the rags of the less blessed. With somewhat cynical amusement, he watched as the passers-by more often than not slowed their steps as they neared the house and looked furtively or blatantly - as their natures dictated - at the unrevealing facade. What were they thinking, he wondered. Did they suppose that if they dawdled long enough they might get a glimpse of their new deity-in-waiting? Or were they simply curious about the celebrated pair who had made this lofty house their home?

With a tired shrug, he dropped the curtain and the usual twilight returned to the room. So he had his choice - if he wished he could be a god. Wasn’t that wonderful? He could spend his declining years propped up on a mock-up of a celestial throne dispensing supernatural favors to his supplicants. Naufrage had made it perfectly clear. If he chose to accept the offer from the rump Council, he would be enshrined while yet alive in the pantheon of Junonia and receive all the benefits of any other deity in the history of this world. Ah, the benefits - he stood leaning heavily on his cane, facing the covered window with unseeing eyes. If he agreed to let the Lamasoni use him as their tool, he would be assured of privacy for so long as he wished; he and Jaithlym could live in the depths of the palace freed from all restrictions on their private actions so long as they did not pierce the carefully constructed bubble of belief that would be blown about them. Their sons would be left with them, exempted from the Prydain strictures, and they would have the opportunity to create the life Jaithlym had dreamed of. No mundane demands would be visited upon them in that rarified atmosphere. Still rapt in his thoughts, he turned from the window and made his halting way to the desk in the center of the room.

Anjh drew a piece of paper from the top drawer and, taking up a stylus, began to note down the advantages of being a god. Immortality was not one of those he inscribed. However, it was the most troublesome of the ideas that crept into his head. Was it possible that the rumors were more than simple propaganda to seduce the populace from rebelling against the rule of the current administration? Was it possible to be Anjh the authentically Immortal and not be aware of it? He had lived with his inherited cognomen for so many years that he had lost the sense of its meaning. Now, he played with the idea that perhaps there was some truth in the name. After all, he had managed to survive a real death without going insane and without becoming a religious fanatic. Maybe Biyonne might have done the same had he been less completely destroyed physically and had the same level of care at the time of his extinction. Perhaps it was in his blood, not just in his fortune. What were the elements of evidence that pointed toward him being a god?

Anjh sneered at his own thoughts as he tossed the paper down on the desk. What a foolish chain of thought ... but... He took up the paper again and jotted down quickly, before he could stop himself, “Still alive.”