High Priest Haruspex, like his predecessor, was a slender grey-skinned man from Hohenzollern’s priest clan. And, also like his predecessor, he could never bring himself to commit that final step in the ritual of killing the babies. In order to keep this secret, he asked the retinue of slaves traveling with him to remain behind, explaining that they were not permitted to view this most holy of rituals. When he arrived at the site, crying babies in tow, he saw that, as usual, no remains were present from the previous sacrifice. His kingdom never fell to ruin, so he reasoned that their gods were happy and the bargain was intact. Perhaps the gods had simply been imprecise in laying out the minutiae of the ritual.
Haruspex took the babies one at a time, each with its own deformity that had marked it as cursed and sentenced to death, and placed them in a hollowed-out pit. Then, something caught his eye in the distance. He tried to peer through the gusts of snow but could make out nothing for certain. He could hear something quiet and distant, but only after holding his breath and focusing on the sound could he make it out. It sounded like the dimmed notes from the playing of a distant lyre, but for someone to come here to play, of all places to play, was impossible. He realized he was distracting himself from his task and he returned to it.
He knew that by not killing the babies they were no better off, but he also knew that the imprint they left on his mind would be that much lighter. He grabbed a baby: she had strong hooved feet but her curled horns had not formed properly, caving around a cleave in the skull that would never mend. As she whined and kicked in his hands the sound of the lyre returned, this time louder and unmistakable. He whipped around, still carrying the baby, and looked wildly for the source of the music. He tried to get closer to where it emanated, but no matter which way he marched the music grew no louder nor quieter. He stamped all the way back to where the slaves waited to see if they had somehow impossibly snuck an instrument onto the trip, but they simply stood waiting.
“Do you hear that?” asked Haruspex.
The slaves looked at him and then at the wailing baby, clearly not understanding his meaning and, knowing that obedient silence was always preferable to angering their cruel masters with the wrong words, they gave no response. Haruspex became convinced that, despite the clear resounding notes, it was only he who heard the music. His mind swirled as he turned over possibilities. With none wholly making sense he set himself to completing his task, hoping that it would simply subside. But as he returned to the altar he noticed that something was different in the cries of the babies. He looked down at the soft crying face of the one he held and realized that its wailing was melding with the melody of lyre. The song pulled at his attention in a manner that he found inescapable and within it he felt not just the suffering of the baby in his arms but of all of those he had left out here in the cold in years past—then the memory of one little grey face struck him in particular. He placed the baby down on the altar and covered his ears to mute the song but it did no good. He ran from the site, leaving the rest of the babies in the trolley they had been carried up in, telling himself that it surely made no difference whether they were placed on the altar or merely left nearby it. He desperately trampled through the tall snow, urging the slaves to follow him back down.
He forced a march down the snowy path at a mad pace, but as the hours passed the song still played on. As night came on he insisted that they keep going with only torchlight and a pale moon to guide them. Through two hellish nights on that mountain he forced them onwards without a moment of rest. They made little progress, often losing the trail and falling and suffering through the cold.
Besides the unending intrusion of the song, Haruspex also felt as though he was being watched during the whole journey down. Did the Gods of the Mountain leer at him? Had they finally judged him for his repeated derelictions. Had his weakness doomed their kingdom? He could no longer tell whether the lyre still played its haunted tune, or if this was simply what silence sounded like now.
Finally, in the early morning light, Hohenzollern was in sight. They had lost time.
* * * * *
Haruspex made his way through a field of aged and impaled corpses of the defeated foes of Hohenzollern. Through a low-hanging fog he could see that the gates of Hohenzollern were opening. A crowd poured out, and despite the distance, the presence of Mityr Valgar was unmistakable. Valgar was a monstrosity with enough height and girth enough to make those around him look like children, and others of his clan were nearly as large. It was clear to Haruspex from the hurried movement of the crowd and shouting that something was not right, and as he got closer, he realized that two most powerful military clans had gathered, Mityr on one side, and Thull on the other.
In between the two clans, Haruspex saw that King Zaif, too, was present and in jolly spirits. He was stocky, thick-necked, and rippling with muscle. His curly black mane bounced with his raucous shouting and laughter. With a glint from his sharp fangs one could see why he was known as the Pale Lion of Hohenzollern. Standing next to the king was a tall grey man named Pontiff Varus, cousin of Haruspex. Haruspex eventually found his place by the two of them.
“You’re late,” the king said, eyeing Haruspex’s disheveled appearance.
“A week together and they’re already at each other’s throats,” commented Varus.
The king was too excited at the current events to press Haruspex over his tardiness.
Although the two groups of people were evenly split, it was almost comical how much larger the Mityr side appeared. Valgar stepped forward. Like all in his clan his head held a pair of heavy curved black horns, a flat face, a broad nose, shoulders wide enough to seat a regular man, and long powerful legs ending in cloven hooves. The Mityr were the fastest rising power in the kingdom and they believed, perhaps rightly, that any victory achieved while they were on the battlefield was owed solely to them. Holding the centre alone, he stared down the opposing clan. They were the Thulls: winged giants whose warrior clan had been the longest-standing and closest allies to the king. Valgar flexed his bulbous muscles, and let out a mighty roar. In response one Thull stepped forward, calmly and without fear. She was Meteora, the matriarch of the clan. Even before the creature towering above her, she held all the pride and beauty of a masterwork sculpture of a granite goddess. Her wings fluttered subtly on her back. She carried the sword of her clan and held it high in the air to the sound of their cheers. Valgar carried no weapon.
“Is it wise to let this go on?” asked Varus.
“It is not wise,” said Haruspex. It was his honest opinion, but more than anything he wished it would end so he could return to his chambers and rest in the short amount of time that he had.
“Begin!” yelled the king, not caring what the others said.
And so they fought. Meteora’s assault never seemed to end. Valgar did well to block her rapid blows with the massive iron bracers that he wore, but a blocked attack never fully stopped Meteora’s momentum. She always managed to glance off and whirl gracefully into her next attack. It dawned on Valgar that he was never going to have a free moment to grab her and rip her apart as he so wished to do. He resolved to allow himself to take some hits in order to create an opening, but even in doing this, Meteora had no problem ducking under the clumsy lunges he launched while weaving in clean scoring strikes of her own. Boastfully she stopped attacking altogether and began to dance around his attacks, making a mockery of him. In his frustration he lost balance and found himself tumbling forward with a massive thud. He landed near the Thull clan who laughed and taunted him, and his hatred for them grew. He eyed his opponent viciously and yanked at one of the nearby slaves belonging to the Thull clan. He held the screaming body like a cob of corn, bit into his chest and ribs ferociously and tore away his flesh. He then took the slave’s heart from his opened chest and crushed it between his thumb and index finger, pouring its juices into his mouth. The Thull clan members shouted in protest. The king ordered them to do nothing, as he wanted to see the duel through. Being Thulls, they complied.
Mityr Valgar began to twitch and shimmy. It was quite a sight to behold one of Hohenzollern’s berserkers in their rage, but to see a Mityr was a matter unto itself. His eyes became bloodshot red and his massive shoulders heaved as he huffed and puffed and his muscles engorged. He unleashed a thick, deep, bestial cry. He felt an urgency to unleash the overflowing power he felt, so he turned to a nearby oak tree and began pounding it with his fists, cracking it, splintering it, and finally toppling it.
Meteora knew the power and danger of the force she faced, as she had fought alongside it many times on the battlefield. Still, she was irate at her stable being pilfered, so she unfurled her wings and ascended high into the sky where she prepared to unleash her deadly signature diving strike. The king’s eyes were fixed on Meteora, and his only desire was to see what would happen next.
“Sire,” Varus said, trying to get the king’s attention. But the king’s attention was locked.
Gradually, the shouting from the crowds quietened. Meteora saw that they were no longer watching her, so she spun in the air to look down at what had captured their attention. Finally, the king looked too.
A stranger had appeared on the horizon: a sad-looking hunched over creature, garbed in a tattered brown cloak who moved slowly towards Hohenzollern Castle. And, quite oddly, he wore a full metal facemask. Complete silence had taken over, save for the sounds of the Mityr berserker huffing. With his labored, uneven gait, he walked into the clearing that had been made for the two fighting clans and stood to face the king. He did not speak.
“Stranger. How do you find yourself in these grounds, past all patrols, checkpoints, and walls?” asked the king.
“When the sun hangs low, at such an angle, it dances in men’s eyes and plays tricks upon them,” answered the voice behind the mask.
“Or perhaps the guards were asleep at their posts,” muttered the king. “But never mind that. A holy day is upon us and we admit no guests, invited or otherwise. Turn back.”
“It is for the holy day that I have come. I have been sent here to observe your ceremonies, to learn about your people, and to judge if you are worthy to be considered our equals.”
The absurdity of the little man’s statement drew reactions of perplexed joviality from the crowd, but they stifled their laughter at the sight of their king’s unchanging placid expression. Perhaps only Thull Meteora, flying in the sky, knew the king well enough to know what was going in his mind at this moment. In the bold words of this stranger, the king had seen a game.
“What of my duel?” the angered and berserking Mityr Valgar shouted, unhappy that the king’s attention was so easily stolen.
“The duel is off,” answered the king, not even turning to face Valgar.
Valgar shouted in his berserking rage and picked up the tree he previously knocked down. With his immense strength, he threw it to the skies in an attempt to strike down Meteora, but even his strength had its bounds and it did not reach her. He then huffed loudly and stomped away, returning to the castle. Meteora, on the other hand, rejoined her king and made no protest. Valgar’s outburst didn’t bother the king. If anything, he enjoyed having his warriors riled up and on edge. He felt it a shame not to see the end of the duel, but he had seen enough to know how it would end, and besides, he had a new distraction.
“Who are you, then?” the king asked of the stranger.
“I am Grimony, emissary to the people beyond the Mountain.”
“What’s that now?” Something in Grimony’s answer seemed to have already angered the king. “There are no people beyond the Mountain,” he continued.
“I assure you there are,” said the intruder.
The king moved to tower over the crippled man and spoke: “We have conquered the nomads who roam the North and we have conquered the Southern settlers, we have conquered the marauders in the Valley and we have conquered the impenetrable bastions on the Hills, we have conquered the Rivers near and across the Seas far. The only place we have not conquered is the land beyond the Mountain, for it is known that there are no people beyond the Mountain.” The king, so angered, had trouble restraining himself, but he thought that it would not be very sporting to decapitate the man in a fury.
Grimony made no comment in reply to the king’s outburst. The king knew he had lost the opening move in this game, but that only made it that much more interesting. He would find out what this man’s true intentions were.
“So you’re here to judge our worthiness, is that right?” the king asked, recovering his composure. “Very well, show our guest to his quarters, and ready him for tonight’s spectacle,” the king said to his guard. To the stranger he continued, “You will witness tonight’s ceremony, as requested, then, once you have seen our might firsthand, we shall settle the question of the worthiness of Hohenzollern.” He felt satisfied with his response to the challenge that was offered. Grimony, too, seemed satisfied.
The king’s guard moved to search Grimony before escorting him into the castle, but the king interjected saying, “There’s no need for that. What harm could one person do our mighty kingdom, no matter what he hid under his cloak?”
The crowd burst out in mirthful laughter. The king was quite right, and after all, the stranger possessed no sword, nor daggers, nor assassin’s poison, but only the most peculiar of lyres.
* * * * *
Zaza Puss lay in bed dreading in equal parts what had been and what would be. There were sounds of angered shouting and loud crashes coming from outside. She dragged herself to her balcony, reeling from the daylight, and observed the scene below her.
“There he is: my torturer, my jailer, my father. He grows impatient, fidgets, plays with his toy soldiers, and now another life is lost at the hands of the abomination, Valgar. There is much ado, but not for the loss of life, only for the insult of the ‘theft’.
“But who is this crippled stranger with a metal mask that approaches? Turn back, you will find no refuge here. Can the fool not see what he is walking into? How casually he hobbles in between the two most destructive forces of my kingdom. His purpose seems to be in seeking the king’s attention, and, well, now he has it. One could almost say he deserves his fate, but that doesn’t quell the terror inside of me.
“And yet he isn’t slain. Instead he is escorted into the castle under royal guard, in breach of the secrecy and sanctity of the holy day. What incantation did he place on my father to forestall his death? Who is this man that he was allowed entry into my people’s holy ceremony? Could he be a valley lord, come to beg mercy for his people? But no, such a supplicant would surely have had their entrails removed before they had finished speaking their request. There’s only one thing he could have done that would have stayed my stupid father’s murderous hand, and that is to have issued some form of challenge. For this alone, my father would have permitted him entry.
“And now that a new game has taken his fancy, look how easily he has bored of his soldiers. And never will he spare a second thought for the flared tempers that he stoked. Never will he remember the life that was lost here. He is of that lineage that holds no value in a life save for the satisfaction of conquering it. That same lineage that I, by some cruel twist, have come to be the last member of.
“What a joke the gods have played upon me. I have been formed to find no joy in the excessive killing by my people, and yet, despite my position, I hold no power to stop it. If I am powerless to alter my fate, why can I not be dull to the killing and suffering? If I am to see the value in a life, why can I save none? No matter how I protest, no matter what tantrums I throw, no matter what political alliances or schemes I hatch, there is never the faintest hint that another way is possible. So I am left in agony. There is always one way sure out, and from this balcony, I see it with absolute clarity. It rests there, always waiting for me. But that would stop only my own suffering, and so guilt paralyses me each time I think to climb the bannister. Will there ever be another way out? Perhaps one day, but it will not be today. Never today. Today is ever the day for patience, for compromise.
“But I will find tomorrow barren of possibility if I do not plant the seeds today. Though I play the role of the gardener in a sun-scorched desert, praying for rain that will never come, what good does it do for me to wallow. My tears serve as poor substitute. I will save my people from their errant ways or I will not, but I will resolve to enjoy my life from time to time, no matter the weight placed upon me. I will gaze upon the lacerated flesh of this land and smile. I will believe all can be saved no matter how pathetic my meagre attempts. In this vein I will allow myself to imagine that this stranger will be the key to bringing about the change that I envision. Somehow, a seed will take root.”
Though she found a path to hope, there was still an uncomfortable self-awareness in the back of her mind for she had traversed the same psychic passageways too often to not see the patterns. Trapped between hope and certain knowledge that her hope was foolish, she sought a familiar comfort. From her dresser drawer, she removed an aged collection of hand-bound pages. She opened the first page and ran her fingers along the elegant and heavily stylized signature of her mother, Za’Bdiel, the late Queen of Hohenzollern. She then flipped to the end to read her favorite passage:
I stand before the woman I must kill.
At long last, after a lifetime of pursuit, she has slipped and I have found victory on the battlefield. I will finally have revenge against she who stole my father’s kingdom. Next would be her brother, mother, aunts, uncles, nephews, and finally her children. I will track them down one by one, annihilating any armies they muster, and bathe in the rivers of blood that spill from their bodies as their whole tainted line is excised from this plane. This is my destiny.
The vultures hover low, the ground is soft and easily parted. My hand is heavy with the axe I carry. I begin carrying out the motions so familiar. I read her crimes, her sentence, and finally her rites. I make the signs and entreat the gods. There is but one act remaining and her bowed neck awaits.
Something is wrong. I scan the landscape which somehow emits an eerie character. It is as though I am seeing this landscape, which is well known to me, for the first time. I cannot look away, and so I continue to look on even as my eyes sting. Every moment I delay feels as though swimming into a strong current, but I must continue until I understand. There is a dark mantle on me, weighing me down, seeping into my muscles and threatening paralysis. I think, and I keep on thinking until, finally, the world blinks before I do. The mantle lifts, and I feel as though I have somehow called someone’s bluff.
In this profound clarity, I find myself questioning my actions. There must be a cosmic law that demands blood answers blood, for it is a law I have never seen bent or broken and it is a law that has been commanding me. If the Lords of Law had their way, the story would already be told and there would be nothing left to say. And yet to throw their plans awry is like trying to gaze into one’s own eye.
Can I simply refuse to play the role that I am cast into? Is there no other path? One would think that to break free of their schemes would be a matter of simply doing the other thing. Now that I have found this moment, it is striking how easy it would be. I see it all differently now. A distance has grown between me and my body, and all that rage and bloodlust now seemed like an object before me, not a part of me. I am not the observer that wears the hand that holds this axe. I am the actor, the decider. The invisible hand of the gods has slipped away and the twin agents mind and will are free from their taint. The world is but a reflection, and now I see the mirror.
I throw my axe to the ground and surrender.
Puss put down the pages. It was an odd passage, but in it she saw the message that mercy is always possible, and that killing can end. She didn’t fully understand how the turn came about in the passage or what the meaning of the analogy of the mirror was, but what she did know is that it somehow captured a feeling that she knew was important, and that the arrival of the masked stranger had evinced the same feeling. With hope in her heart she readied herself for the upcoming ceremonies.
When she was done Zaza Puss wore a long silk black dress that flowed with luxurious material ending in a halo around her feet. The front of her torso was bare save for two gold bursts of fabric, like splayed wings of a bird clinging to her bust. At her shoulders the wings joined to the back of the dress, above which rested a long cape of the same black material. She was decorated in jewels of her mother: dark, clouded, and imperfect.
A retinue of priests came to lead Zaza Puss through the hallways of Hohenzollern and up a large white staircase that cut through the black castle up to its roof. Though they were hesitant to speak, Zaza Puss did her best to pry information from them about the masked stranger as they ascended the long staircase.
There, on the roof of Hohenzollern castle was its most sacred site. The open-air temple consisted of large white pillars holding up a steepled roof. It was said that the obsidian table, which ran the length of the temple, was the first thing carved from Mount Hohenzollern and that the castle itself was subsequently carved and constructed beneath it. At the far end of the table was a dais flanked by two large red banners with the symbol of her house. Beyond the dais, far past the temple, was the Tower of Despair: a large ziggurat which was now teeming with slaves and priests who were preparing the day’s ultimate event.
The sun hung high in the sky, and a strong breeze blew through the temple. The tinge of rot was strong on the gusts.
The table was surrounded by chairs appropriately-sized to the guests who were the most prominent figures of Hohenzollern’s major clans. All wore black save for Grimony, who, ignoring pleas of the priests, chose to keep his brown garb. He sat awkwardly in one of the oversized chairs near the head of the table by the dais. Though many wished to ask questions of him, decorum required solemn silence in preparation for the ceremony, so the curious Hohenzollern nobility waited respectfully.
Grimony was eager to see the ceremony through, but, in truth, it was was irrelevant to his judgment of Hohenzollern. He already knew all he needed to, and his judgment was this: they were not worthy. Nevertheless he was grateful for the brief tour of the castle he had been given prior to being brought here. It was clear from the experience that only the most transient of pleasures would satisfy the opulent tastes of Hohenzollern. He had seen the slave painters and sculptors working under close supervision of the priests who decided which traditional scene they would paint, or which figure they would sculpt, and then once it was completed, the work was destroyed. The fruits of the artists’ labor were never enjoyed and their toil never ceased. The halls had also been lined with complex floral arrangements of the most exotic and particular breeds of flower, and again, it was the never-ending work of the slaves to remove the dying and bring in the newly blooming. In the kitchens he saw slaves preparing the dinner that would be served after the ceremonies were finished. The priests described with gleeful yearning the tentacled sea monsters that would be eaten live, exotic creatures that would be paralysed and carved open so one could see their hearts still beating while their meats were enjoyed, and the careful preparation of the fetuses of some mountain beasts which were being extracted as they arrived. Grimony had no intention of partaking in that meal. There was one more thing that stood out above all else: the rats and insects that infested the castle and the smell of the rot. Even now, in their supposed holy temple, he saw cockroaches darting in and out of the cracks between the stones.
Grimony’s contemplation was disrupted when a woman, clearly belonging to Hohenzollern royalty, took her seat across from him.
“They say you come from across the Mountain,” she asked loudly, seemingly in contravention of the expected silence.
“It is so,” replied Grimony.
“And what is your name?”
“Grimony.”
Pontiff Varus looked to Harusex in the hope that he would correct this breach in decorum. The silence of the ceremony was a well-honored tradition. Haruspex seemed lost in thought, completely unaware of what was taking place. This worried Varus, but it was not his place to speak.
“I am Zaza Puss, Princess of Hohenzollern.” Grimony made no acknowledgement, but Zaza Puss continued anyway: “It is odd, isn’t it, to think that your people could live so close without us ever being made aware.”
“Would you not agree, Princess, that it is wise for one to remain unknown to you?”
“Then you must be quite the fool to willingly walk into the lion’s den and tell us where your people reside.”
“Perhaps it is better to face the lion on your own terms, at a chosen time, rather than await discovery.”
“You know of our conquests, you have seen the heart of our strongest fortress, you have seen our mightiest warriors engaged in battle. And yet you told my father that you are here to weigh whether we are worthy of being considered your equals. In what manner can you be considered the equals of Hohenzollern?”
Grimony wondered at the significance of the princess’s questions. If she were sure he was a liar, like her father, why not simply allow the king to play out whatever trick he surely had planned. Was she simply so petulant that she had to make her disapproval clear? Finally, he responded, “Our castles cannot match the splendor of yours, for we have none. We could not stand before the tenth part of your army—“
“Then what do you have?” interrupted Zaza Puss, growing impatient.
“What does a gentle breeze have that a hurricane does not?”
There was a sudden eruption as Mityr Valgar decided that he could take no more. He violently shoved his stone chair back and stood to speak, but found he was too flustered. He released his anger on the table, smashing it with his massive fists. The table did not crack. He began his tirade: “Who bloody cares? These ’people of the Mountain’ do not exist, nor is it cause for concern if they do. If there is so much as a hint of unconquered life on the Mountain, the Mityr will level the whole thing, grind the worms to dust, and pummel the lava to stone.” Valgar was breathing heavily and his tempers were still running. He looked around the room for support at his outburst but found only a great silence.
Zaza Puss was greatly annoyed by Valgar’s interruption. She had only barely begun to scratch the surface. On the other hand, she had no intention of trying to quell the anger of the Mityr that her father had fomented, so she stayed silent. There would yet be more chances to probe Grimony.
The silence was finally interrupted by Meteora, who sat between Mityr Valgar and the stranger: “He said, ‘beyond the Mountain’, not ‘of the Mountain’.”
“Stay out of this, Thull. The stranger’s presence in this hall is an insult. Especially on today of all days. Permitting this rotten liar to sit among us and taunt us is a mistake. The humor in this charade is quickly fading and I care not for its aftertaste. I think I’ll snap him in half now.”
With an impressive speed, the mountain that was Valgar began to stride across the temple floor towards the stranger. In an instant, Meteora was standing with her sword at Valgar’s throat. No matter how many times Valgar thought he had the measure of Meteora’s speed, he was never quite right.
“You speak of the sacred, and yet you move to spill blood,” said Meteora.
“The gods would welcome it.”
“There must not be bloodshed here,” cried Pontiff Varus. His eyes darted nervously between the two warriors on the verge of combat and Haruspex, who had seemingly fallen deeper into catatonia. He searched desperately for the words that would halt this madness. “Grimony is guest to the king himself.”
Meteora felt pity for the panicking shrew-like man. “Mityr Valgar,” she began, “who keeps grizzlies like puppies, who can single-handedly level a Valley province vanguard, who holds enough power in one finger to best ten men, why not let the little thing live until our king has finished with him. You can kill him then.” She spoke in sweet cloying tones which threw Valgar off.
The fuming giant slowly regained composure. “For now,” was all he said, and then he returned to his seat. As he sat, he discreetly glanced at the table where his fists had earlier struck to search for signs of damage. He found none.
With sweat dripping down his collar, Pontiff Varus let out a sigh of relief as this conflict seemed to resolve. Even with weapons being drawn, Haruspex had shown no sign of concern, and this worried Varus greatly. Zaza Puss, too, noticed the strange stillness in Haruspex.
Silence returned to the temple, and it was in this long silence that Grimony spoke. “What are these flowers?” he asked, turning in his seat to observe a slow wave of blooming that had begun on the flowers that encircled the pillars of the temple hall.
Varus answered proudly: “When there is a queen, the flowers are called Queen of the Night, but as there is now a princess,” he said, indicating Princess Zaza Puss, “they are called Princess of the Night. The flowers are grown by the priesthood. So finely tuned is our craft, that we can ascertain the precise moment a Princess of the Night will bloom. Thus, we can create elaborate displays such as that which surrounds you now.”
“If the flower is called ‘Princess of the Night’, why does it bloom in day?” asked Grimony.
“They were stubborn, but we eventually broke them,” answered Varus.
“The practice disgusts me,” Meteora scoffed.
“You who have crushed so many into absolute submission give pause when it comes to the treatment of a flower?” asked Varus, incredulously.
“It is the way you study and needle and prod and manipulate. It is unnatural and an affront to the cosmic balance. To throw one’s life at the mercy of the gods and win or die in battle is the ultimate honor one can do both Law and Chaos.” It did not chafe Meteora at all to butt heads with the priest. She knew her gods well, and there was no one who could tell her otherwise.
“Chaos creates itself ever and again. It is Law that must be cultivated and preserved to ensure balance,” replied Pontiff Varus.
“Your practice is not an act of balance nor is it an act in service of either Law or Chaos. It is a subversion of the gods and an insult,” replied Meteora.
Varus thought the discussion, although not conducive to silence, was a welcome distraction from the violent tensions between Thull and Mityr. He was well-accustomed to Meteora’s stubbornness, so he thought he’d try to bring someone else into the discussion. “What do you think, Grimony?”.
Grimony wished he had time to pick their minds and unravel their twisted philosophy. Instead, he decided to reply with a platitude common to his people: “If the Lords of Law had their way, the story would already be told and there would be nothing left to say.”
Zaza Puss immediately perked up, recognizing the passage from her mother’s pages. Questions sprang forth to her mind, but Puss could not ask them in front of the others. Instead, she chose to provide the matching couplet: “And yet to throw their plans awry is like trying to gaze into one’s own eye.”
Grimony turned to face Zaza Puss, feeling caught off guard for the first time in his visit. That she knew the phrase was surprising enough on its own, but for her to link the two phrases together suggested that she must have read the source texts.
“What good is the individual’s will if Chaos tears apart the world in which they wish to act? It is through service of Law that the balance is achieved,” said Varus.
Grimony couldn’t help but be roped into the discussion. “Law can seep in and petrify life as easily as chaos can rip it apart. Once Law has taken hold, it becomes impossible to act against it. On the other hand, such a rigid structure is brittle and will inevitably fall apart by just the right touch. Balance is inevitable. It does not need nurturing.”
“Then what is the point?” asked Zaza Puss.
“Suffering and sacrifice,” Haruspex interjected. He stood from his seat, haggard and unsteady, but something seemed to have gotten into him. He looked down his nose at Grimony. “Those are the concerns one should worry themselves with. To say one serves Law or Chaos means nothing. To say one serves Balance is vain and folly, for you cannot see where the balance lies. One cannot take it upon themselves to correct the cosmic forces. All one, or even a kingdom, may do is to offer one’s own pain to the gods and allow them to place your offering where they may. None has embraced this simple fact more than Hohenzollern. None has suffered more. None has sacrificed more. That is why we have earned their favor. That is why we have earned the protection of the Mountain Gods. We have become the balance, and so it is natural and good that their glories have been bestowed upon us. In return, we do not forget, we do not grow complacent. We continue to suffer and we continue to sacrifice. We honor the gods and make every effort to capture their magnificence through unending work and dedication.”
Pontiff Varus felt pride and great relief at hearing this speech from Haruspex. He was reminded of the many formal dictatum he had seen his mentor deliver in the past. In his smug mood, he decided to prod Grimony. “And you, Grimony, what do your ‘people beyond the Mountain’ offer the gods?”
Grimony parted his cloak and reached for something hidden within. “From time to time, a humble song,” he said, drawing out his lyre.
Haruspex suddenly felt the collapse of the brief clarity of mind he had only just found. His legs weakened and he fell to his seat. His throat was dry and he could not take his eyes off of the lyre.
The crowd was silent, but their curious looks served as invitation, so Grimony began to play.
Haruspex braced himself, anticipating a renewed onslaught of the haunting cries and voices that had plagued him since his trip to the mountain. He peeked out from his arms in which he cradled himself and realized that no mystical reverberations issued forth from the lyre, only the sweet and gentle notes from a master playing his instrument.
Zaza Puss felt moved by the expression of Grimony’s playing. She had heard music from skilled players before, but all song in Hohenzollern was under strict control of the priests, and only a certain collection of songs were played. When Grimony played, it was as if each successive note was delivered straight from his soul. Puss’s enchantment was interrupted when her father burst into the room.
Everyone in the room snapped to attention and stood up. The king, coming from the inner sanctum, was holding a large glass flagon. The insides of the glass were stained with a dark opaque grime.
“Haruspex!” the king shouted. Haruspex quickly walked over.
“Yes, my lord?”
“Start the fucking ceremony.” And he jammed the flagon into Haruspex’s chest.
Haruspex was sweating profusely from the ordeal with the lyre. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand. He knew the king well enough to understand that the king immediately understood that he was suffering in some manner, but that he had no patience to deal with the problem. In fact, he was angered that Haruspex had even let him become aware that there was a problem. Haruspex resolved to fulfill his duties. He cleared his throat and looked at the flagon. He swirled it and felt the thick liquid sloshing inside. Gripping it firmly with one hand under its base and the other around its thick neck, he began to mutter an incantation. In an instant all remembered why they were here, and all were paying attention. Haruspex closed his eyes and deepened his trance. To achieve the task before him, his mind had to remain in a specific psychic state without fluttering or failing, a task that was difficult enough without the extra challenge of resisting the urge to succumb to the unconsciousness his body so desperately sought. Suddenly a dim light emerged within the dark glass. The opaque coating inside of it started to flake and melt and fall into the pool at the bottom. The glass became clear revealing a bright red liquid as its contents.
“Worthy warriors, rise,” said Haruspex. He uncorked the flagon, Pontiff Varus came to his side carrying a dull silver chalice. A number of warriors present rose. Tradition dictated that the strongest warriors would receive the blessing of a drink from the flagon, but there was no defined selection process. Those that felt they had earned their right on the battlefield rose. There were rarely disagreements.
“The patrilineal line traces directly from King Zaif to the Father of Darkness, progenitor of our species. This line created us, lives among us, and nourishes us to this day. If you are worthy step forth, imbibe of the blood, and let the Father course through you.”
Meteora stepped forward. The cup was filled. She drank. The blood, though ancient, was not congealed or rancid, but instead resembled the blood of a freshly exsanguinated body. She braced herself, for she had drank of the flagon many times before and she knew what was coming. Meteora felt as though something had entered her blood vessels and was wiggling around like fingers in a tight glove. She writhed and fought and gasped and clutched, but she did not fall or cry out. Within the pain, she felt new power.
To withstand the drink was a test that any who would claim it must pass, and each of those that followed after Meteora passed it as well.
It was customary that the mightiest warrior drank last, and so, finally, only Valgar remained. He stood before Haruspex, twitching with excitement that filled him. He would become stronger yet.
“Wait,” said the king. He snatched the flagon out of Haruspex’s hands. The king was surprised by the extent to which the effort of the ritual had affected Haruspex, but he ignored this and continued on with his intended purpose. He held the flagon up for all to see and announced: “There is but one drink left.”
There was a hushed panic in the room, as nobody knew quite what the significance of this was. They wondered if there really was no other flagon in the inner sanctum. The idea that the blood could run out was not a concern they had troubled themselves over before. What would become of their ceremony? And if there was only one drink left, who would get it? Would the king demand it, and fight Valgar for it?
“I was delayed,” began the king, “for I was studying the old texts, searching for a prophecy. I found it. When our destiny was first forged, the Father of Darkness sacrificed his body so that its strength would sustain and give power to his line. On that day, it was prophesied that by the time the final drink of the flagon was taken we would have conquered the world.” The king paused, letting the importance of his words sink in before he continued. “Therefore, liar," he said, wheeling on Grimony and locking a challenging gaze onto his metal mask, "it would be fitting for you to take the final drink. You must be a liar, for with this final drink, the blood will run out and the prophecy will be fulfilled. As promised, we have conquered the world, and your claim of a people beyond the Mountain must be a lie. You will remove your mask, drink of the flagon, and tell us where you truly come from."
Valgar, who by all accounts was robbed of his battleright, grinned now. The loss was a worthy price to pay in order to see the screws turned on the masked stranger. And once he was finished confessing, Valgar would smash him and eat the stomach that the blood of the Father rested in. Grimony made no move to remove his mask. The king grabbed the silver cup out of Varus’s hands and angrily poured the remainder of flagon into it. The cup ran over and blood spilled onto the floor. He slammed the cup on the table in front of Grimony.
“What would happen if he drank?” someone muttered. “Nothing, he is not of The Blood,” another answered.
“I am not a liar,” said Grimony, finally.
“You will drink,” said the king.
Grimony coolly grabbed the dinner napkin in front of him and brought it to his face. In one motion, he minutely lifted his mask and brought the napkin to cover his neck and chin. With the other hand, he took the cup and drank the entirety of its contents. He replaced his mask and brought the napkin away.
“See, not of the blood,” said the voice in the audience.
But Zaza Puss, having a direct view of the man and wishing to see what was under that mask, noticed that as he drank the liquid his chin and neck, grey of color, tensed and spasmed harshly.
“Remove your mask and tell us where you truly hail from!” commanded the king.
There was a loud thud behind him. Haruspex had fainted. The king stormed over and lifted the priest by his scruff and shouted degradations in his face. To fail in his duties on this day, at this time, was unacceptable. Moreover, the priest’s responsibilities were not yet finished.
Zaza Puss joined her father in looking over the collapsed man. She suspected she knew the cause of his ailment, and so she felt concern and pity for the man. “He has been beyond his limit since returning this morning. The Mountain is too much for any one man to bear. Let him rest,” said Zaza Puss.
“There isn’t any time to rest. The moment is upon us!” the king said, pointing to the celestial bodies in the sky.
“There is time. If we tend to him now.” She was right, for there was time as long as they did not tarry with distractions. Still, her true intentions in speaking rested in her desire to free Grimony from the confrontation facing him.
The king looked over his shoulder at the rest of the room who watched him, waiting for his command. His rage at Haruspex for spoiling his game, just when he had the upper hand, was immense. It would bring him no satisfaction to march across the room and rip Grimony’s mask off in a tantrum and torture the truth out of him. There was no game to be had while his priest lay unconscious on the floor. The ceremony was the priority and all else could wait. He spoke: “Very well. The rest of you will ready yourselves. The princess and I will tend to Haruspex.”
The group rose and began to move past the dais, out of the temple, into the open air and towards the Tower of Despair. Mityr Valgar did not move with the rest.
“First my duel is interrupted, then my drink denied. The willingness of the Mityr to pretend that we cannot simply take what we desire is wearing thin.”
“First we will see to the gods, then we will worry about the Mityr,” replied the king.
“We shall see.” And Valgar walked off.
“Varus, prepare in Haruspex’s place,” the king said to the lingering priest. “We will do our best to resuscitate him.” Varus nodded and departed. “And you,” the king said, looking to Grimony who had not moved from his chair, “I have not finished with you.”
* * * * *
The king suspected that Haruspex was suffering from exhaustion and heat stroke and so he carried him out of the sun and into the inner sanctum. He laid Haruspex down on a table. With luck the short rest would be what he needed to snap out of this and conduct the ritual as he always had.
The small room was lined with shelves filled with ancient scrolls and artifacts. One such scroll was splayed open on the table, and Zaza Puss noted that its title read, ‘A Treatise On Entreating the Gods of Law.’ The king promptly rolled it up and shoved it away in one of the shelves. He shifted his attention back to the unconscious priest and tried shaking him, but it had no effect.
“Water!” shouted the king. “I need water!”
Nobody stirred. Slaves were not permitted in the temple, so none heard his calls. The king rose and left the room, mumbling to himself.
Grimony quietly looked over the contents of the shelves.
“How did you come to know that line about the Lords of Law?” asked Zaza Puss.
Grimony had not come to Hohenzollern for the princess, and this conversation was not part of his mission. He did, however, believe in nurturing beauty wherever it was found, so he decided he would answer earnest curiosity with honesty: “It comes from what could be considered a holy text of my people, not unlike the documents you hold in this room.”
“A holy text? It reads more like a story.”
"Supposedly, a great sorcerer wrote it to pass down vital lessons which could only possibly be explained through analogies and fictions.”
“‘Supposedly?’ So you don't believe in its importance?”
“Nobody knows the truth of its past. It’s studied, and some claim a special affinity to it. That’s all I can say.”
“The story in my pages ends abruptly. What happens after the king surrenders to the woman who he was going to execute?”
“Nothing. That is the ending of that story anyway. There are others.”
“Well then what is the point? What does the analogy of the mirror mean, and what lessons did the sorcerer wish to tell through the story?”
“It is customary among my people not to discuss their interpretation. If the lessons could be extracted and told plainly, then the analogies and fictions could be done away with. We could form strictures and start a priesthood and ensure that all follow. But of course, we would again find ourselves all dancing to the tune of Law. But how can it be escaped? Even to say that one should avoid dogmatic interpretation is itself an insidious germ of Law. This problem I cannot say I have the answer to, but I can say this: dissection kills the beast. What can be said in words is understood, and what is understood is dead.”
“You explain one analogy with another. If you cannot tell me the meaning of the story, then perhaps you can tell me how it could have come to be in my mother’s possession, given the secrecy of your people.”
“In all likelihood, your people looted it from someone they killed and your mother took a liking to it.”
“And how would they have gotten it?”
“Perhaps one day you will find yourself in the lands beyond the Mountain, and you might find the answers you seek. For now, I’ll answer as best I can. Long ago our people maintained a small amount of contact with others across the lands. For literature to be exchanged between our kingdom and another would have been a normal occurrence. It was later that those ties were severed, and total secrecy was sought.”
“I suppose the advent of Hohenzollern is what changed that for your people." Grimony didn’t answer, but Zaza Puss was beginning to learn the trick of reading his eyes, so she knew it was true. She continued, “I’m sure you hate us. Good. I hate us too. I hate our domineering priests who have made it impossible to find a shred of human expression that doesn’t bear the stain of their redaction. I hate the wanton sadism of the Mityr. I hate the zealous righteousness of the Thull. I hate the way my father laughs in the face of suffering. I hate the manner in which we snuff out all of life’s intricacies and beauties. Most of all, I hate myself. I hate my complicity, my impotence, and my cowardice. But despite the intolerable circumstance I find myself, I cannot give up until I find the way that I seek. As the story suggests, there must be an ‘other’ path. Perhaps it is the role of your kingdom right the errors of mine. If your kingdom is as great and your history as rich as you claim, its influence and example can breathe new life into Hohenzollern.”
Grimony paused for a great length, taking in the desperate words of Princess Zaza Puss. Finally, he spoke: “What is dead cannot be brought to life, and what is rotten should long since have been buried.”
Zaza Puss recoiled in fear at the words. She thought he must have misunderstood her request and taken offence in some way. She resolved to not let this deter her, as she would not be satisfied until she had brought him around. There must be a way.
The king came bustling through the door with a pitcher of water. “Give him here, this will rouse him,” he said, approaching Haruspex. Then he paused, looking around. “Where did the stranger go?” he asked.
Zaza Puss looked to her side. Grimony had vanished. She felt a profound loss.
“Never mind him,” said the king. “The prophecy is still secure,” he muttered. He then dumped the pitcher on Haruspex’s face, who woke in a confused state, covering his face and cowering. The king grabbed the smaller man by the back of the neck with one hand and, with the other, poured the rest of the pitcher of water down his mouth. Haruspex began coughing and flailing in protest.
“Father!” cried Zaza Puss.
But her father ignored her and focused on Haruspex. He grabbed his collar and brought his face in close. The man was still getting his wits about him, but the king paid this no mind, saying, “You are an embarrassment. You have the briefest moment to get your wits about you and conduct the ceremony. I haven’t the patience to deal with you now. I will leave you in my daughter’s gentler hands.”
And with that, the king departed leaving only Zaza Puss and the disturbed priest in the room.
Haruspex wiped the water off his face and did his best to compose himself, but he was a dreadful sight.
“Well then,” he said, “I must conduct my duties.”
“Why not leave it to Pontiff Varus? You’re in no shape.”
“I’m fine. I seem to have been afflicted with a passing case of Mountain Sickness, but it’s sorting itself out,” the priest said, struggling to sit up and keep his balance.
“Mountain Sickness? There’s no such thing. I know what truly ails you, for it is a condition that has nestled itself deeply within me too: guilt.”
“Guilt? What would I possibly have to feel guilty about?”
“Those you have killed.”
Haruspex stood on wobbling legs and stared her down and spoke as if lecturing an indolent child: “To bear responsibility for our very pact with the gods is my greatest honor. You’ve always enjoyed a certain ability to speak your mind because of your position, but your attitude and childishness are a weakness all of your own. You would do well to remember that.”
“I know what guilt looks like. I know what it feels like. I know how it feels to see those babies enter the world and to feed them and swaddle them and protect them and make them feel safe and warm. The others may turn their backs and avoid looking, but you are involved from their birth up until the death you give them. I’ve seen the look on your face when they come out too deformed and you know what will come.” Zaza Puss herself was crying now, and she walked forward to hold Haruspex’s arm, desperate to just connect with someone over the lonely pain she felt. “Then you have to gather them up, feed them, bathe them, and watch over them, until the day finally comes when you must take them up that mountain and kill them. Don’t call it an honor. Gods be damned if that is their price.”
Haruspex was silent and stunned by the princess’s forthright nature, and, in this moment, he couldn’t help but see that she told no lie. The wound was tender from the memories that bombarded him since his trip to the mountain and the princess’s touch was like a warm salve soothing the icy pain. His throat was tight and he had trouble speaking. “I didn’t kill them,” he finally managed to say.
“What do you mean?”
“Nobody’s ever killed them, at least not as far back as I’ve been involved. We just leave them, and let the gods do what they will. But each time I’ve returned, I’ve found no trace of those that were there before.”
Zaza Puss knew that to leave them in the cold alone was not any better, but it showed clear guilt, and she didn’t want to force him to turn away from that by confronting him. “Is there no way to put an end to it?” she asked?
“It wasn’t always like this, at least not—” he drifted off into memory. “At least not in the way the elders described it to me. There was once direct communion with the gods, now we just have a memory of a pact. If we lived in that world, we could ask, and then if the gods willed it, we could change. But what can be done in this world, where we are on our own?”
“Perhaps it is our very actions that have so turned away the gods. Perhaps we will find our way back to them if we take the first step.”
“Or perhaps it would be our doom. I have already done too much to risk spoiling the pact. Without direct guidance, we cannot afford to change.”
“Then you yearn for a world you yourself are unwilling to create. That is the epitome of cowardice.” She regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth. It was an impossible balance—always doomed to failure—to both treat him seriously and also brush past his abject failings. His changing face spoke of the rationalization taking place in his mind at that moment.
A gong sounded outside, marking the final movements of the celestial bodies. The sound was a clarion call taking Haruspex’s mind back to who he was, or at least who he pretended to be.
Haruspex stepped back from Zaza Puss before speaking: “The truth of it is you caught me off guard in a moment of delirium. I have not been myself and your beauty has made your weakness contagious. The fact is you have lived a spoiled life, and you have never understood the truth of our way of life. You are doomed to live as an outsider, even at the top of our people. Now, I have duties I must attend to. Goodbye.”
Zaza Puss begged him to stay, to reconsider, but he was resolute. He departed and Zaza Puss was left alone in the inner sanctum.
“So I have failed again. Whatever the cost may be to save a single soul, I have not yet found it, for if I found it I would gladly pay it. Perhaps I will never find it, and instead I shall be forever trapped in the repetition of allowing myself to see possibilities where there are none, imagining worlds that cannot be, and tricking myself into believing that I can bring them about. My failures mount and make a mockery of optimism that I always knew to be feigned. Could Haruspex truly be made to see what I see? No. Not today. Never today. I am Zaza Puss, princess to the mightiest empire the world will ever see. I am the Princess of Hell. Now, as the final strike of the gong nears, I shall go forth and witness my dominion.”
So Zaza Puss left the temple. She walked along the short path to the Tower of Despair which was lined with red-garbed priests. It was quiet and serene, but a powerful stench pervaded the air that made her skin crawl and her insides twist and churn.
The nobility of Hohenzollern, all dressed in black, stood ready to observe. Meanwhile, priests were corralling hundreds of naked prisoners around the base of the tower. Columns of priests and prisoners lined the steps of the tower. At the top, stood Haruspex, carrying the Felling Sword, a large reinforced black obsidian sword that had been used for generations to separate sacrifices’ heads from their bodies. Once he brought the sword down upon the first sacrifice, their body would be thrown to his left, where a gigantic statue of the Wise Owl of Law waited, so that it might have another minion. The head would be thrown to the right, so that the Five-Legged Pig of Chaos might capture their mind forever in his endless maze. Once these gods had their fill, channels built into the tower would carry the viscera past other minor gods of Law and Chaos. Dozens of other priests carried similar weapons. They waited on the various stages of the Tower, waiting for Haruspex’s signal. After remains of the sacrifices flowed past the lowest of the gods, they would finally run off the edge of the castle roof and fall to the bedrock on which Hohenzollern was built. This was the source of the foul stench, for the rot had seeped into the very foundation of the castle. All manner of carrion-eating bird and insect swarmed the area, and it was not uncommon for one up here to find a flesh-eating maggot nibbling at their ankle.
Though it was mid-day, and the skies were clear, the scene was dimming, for above the tower, one could see that the Moon was beginning to pass in front of the Sun. Zaza Puss felt as though the last of her hope hung on by a mere thread. She knew that the Felling Sword would sever that thread. The pattern of fantastical elevation and whimsical hope followed by utter annihilation was the most constant theme in her life, but with this, it would finally end. She embraced it.
The gong sounded again.
Haruspex gripped the Felling Sword and readied himself to kill the woman before him. He had killed many times before, and he told himself that it was now as nothing to him. The conversation with Zaza Puss had only been a strange slip. Once he swung his sword and severed the head from the body, the rest of the priests would follow in his example. They looked up at him, awaiting his move.
Something gently crept at the edge of Haruspex’s mind—the hint of a sound—but he pushed it away. “The Moon dons its mad crown. What will we offer it to abate its desires?” Haruspex shouted over the intrusion in his mind, but it was no good. The mysterious sound immediately resolved as the steady repeated plucking of lyre, and it bored in his mind, bringing him back to the mountain, the numerous trips he made there, and the helpless children he had left for a cruel, cold death. He wanted to ask the nearby priests if they heard what he heard, but their impassive faces already gave the answer. He looked at the slave woman and saw only a baby. Something inside him shattered.
Zaza Puss, the entirety of Hohenzollern nobility, every priest, and a thousand slaves watched Haruspex.
The Moon covered the Sun. The final gong sounded.
Zaza Puss’s eyes followed the columns of candles that ascended and illuminated the priests in the darkness of the eclipse. But at the top of the Tower of Despair Haruspex still did not swing his sword. The air grew tense. All waited for him. Still he didn’t move and the nervousness of the crowd became palpable as nobles shifted and snuck glances at the king for some kind of answer, but the king was just as confused. He ground his teeth and stared at Haruspex, willing him to do his job and wishing he had just smothered him in his sleep in the temple’s inner sanctum.
From behind the Moon, the Sun began to emerge and shine once more. The moment had passed and Zaza Puss wondered if her conversation with Haruspex had in fact forced him to see the truth of the conflict within his heart.
Pontiff Varus, who had been waiting on the stage beneath Haruspex, climbed up to wrestle the sword out of Haurspex’s hands. He wrenched it free and held it in the air, about to kill the slave.
“Stop!” came the booming voice of Mityr Valgar. “The Sun has freed itself of its own devices. What need is there then of the ceremony? In fact, I say it was a sham all along. Explain yourself, king.”
“Watch your treacherous tongue, worm,” hissed Meteora.
The two were at each other once again and an uncomfortable stirring spread among the nobles. Varus was waiting for the king’s command, but the king issued no order. He only muttered, "Haruspex, you buffoon," before stomping back towards the temple, uncaring for the conflict between Mityr and Thull. Zaza Puss followed him.
Haruspex wasn’t sure why Varus had grabbed the sword from his hands. Slowly awareness returned to him and the reality of what had transpired became clear. He jerked the sword back out of Varus’s hands, which threw the other man off balance. He kicked Varus who then tumbled down the steps of the Tower. Varus caught himself, but not before being gravely wounded from the fall. Much of the crowd had followed the king, shouting questions and demands at him. Meanwhile, Haruspex looked over the crowd that remained at the tower. He suddenly felt completely cool. The song was gone. The guilt was gone. He knew that everything would be fine because he now understood what had happened to him. He addressed those that remained with a deranged sharpness to his voice: “The ceremony was corrupted by the heretical warlock, Grimony. Find him and bring him to me at once! The fate of the kingdom depends on it.”
And so, grateful for some version of events that allowed them to cling to normalcy, the remaining crowd followed his command and moved towards the temple to begin the search.
Zaza Puss caught up to her father as he entered the inner sanctum. She grabbed his arm, but he pulled it away sharply, hurting her. She was confused, but she resolved that she must reach him. “Father! Don’t you see what this means?” she pleaded. “The ceremony was unnecessary. The gods don’t care about our sacrifices. The gods do not care when Haruspex does not kill the children on the mountain. The gods have other designs for us that we are completely ignorant of. There is a different way, and Haruspex just proved it. He told me that long ago, we communed directly with the gods. We can find another way.”
But her father ignored her and instead rifled through the scrolls on the shelf. “Where is it? I had it earlier, a treatise written from my great grandfather... Aha!” The king said, removing the scroll he had earlier shoved away in the shelf. He then moved to leave the room. Zaza Puss planted herself firmly in the doorway.
“Are you listening to nothing I say? Why do you always refuse to talk to me? I see, always, that you know there is sense in what I say, yet you always brush me off with a chuckle or a joke.”
“Daughter, now is not the time,” the king said, smiling lightly as though this were another of his games.
“Now is the only time. I demand to know why you have always chosen to both ignore my pleas while also allowing me to continue to openly protest this kingdom’s actions. Why have you never punished me, or forced me to be like you, or even tried?”
All mirth left the king’s face as he stood before his daughter, and he decided he would answer her. “Little Zaza, you don’t need to rule as I ruled. You only need to be strong enough that you rule however you see fit. Your heart is ripping itself apart as you must continually be a party to what you find intolerable. Good, for that is what it takes to rule these creatures. What you shall do once it is your turn, I cannot say, but I can say that I have never shielded you or stunted you and prevented you from becoming what you must. Yes, perhaps it would be easier if certain appetites had come more naturally to you, but I’ve longed since realized that there was no forcing you to change. You are you, and so be it.”
She allowed her father to pass, and in his wake she felt emptiness, though she did not know why. She was reminded of how, as a child, she would feel so much hatred toward her father for what he did while also feeling such warmth and fatherly love. She now vividly recalled battles long since fought and forgotten. His answer did her no good.
When the king arrived in the temple proper holding the scroll, a large group was bustling about. They were organized, fanning out, and speaking with hatred for the outsider who, through some foreign witchcraft, had spoiled their sacred ceremony. Through the crowd, the king spied Haruspex issuing instructions and directing the irate searchers. “Never mind all that, priest,” the king shouted, “cast this spell and you will be redeemed." The king spread the scroll over the table and waited for Haruspex to come.
But Haruspex did not come. He was practically frothing and dead set on his new mission. “I must find Grimony, he has placed some kind of ether on me. I will split him open and drink of his heart, then I shall be cleansed.” Haruspex began throwing over shelves and stabbing into bushes, anxious to take any action at all.
The king was about to grab a hold of Haruspex and make him do his bidding when Pontiff Varus, bloodied and limping, hobbled through the crowd and said, “I shall cast the spell.” However, as soon as Varus read over the scroll a dreadful aspect came over him. “Are you sure, my lord?”
“Do as you are told and no more,” said the king. He still stared hatred at Haruspex, but told himself he would deal with him later. This would soon be over.
Varus began studying the outlines of the spell and prepared himself. His focus was interrupted by a great rushing stampede that broke through the crowd, throwing bodies this way and that. From the melee, Mityr Valgar emerged. The search was paused as all who valued their lives cleared away and gave him space in the centre of the temple. He stared down the king.
“No more, Pale Lion. Hohenzollern will no longer follow a fraud.” He stomped his hoof. The king bared his fangs and gleefully braced himself. He was almost relieved that there was nothing left to say and felt eager for a fight he had long waited for.
But just as they were about to launch themselves at one another, the red drapes from behind the dais flung aside, and from behind it emerged the crippled figure of Grimony, holding his lyre. The king and Valgar both paused to observe this strange intrusion, unsure of what to make of it. The searchers in the room quickly remembered their quarry and reached for him.
Grimony calmly plucked the strings and at once the whole mad crowd stopped and listened. It was as if the notes held the answer to a question they had always been wondering. All were entranced. All, except for Haruspex, who had already broken free of the spell once. Seeing the object of his hatred, he scrambled up the dais and yanked the lyre out of Grimony’s hands, smashing it and stomping it over and over.
“The instrument of your power is destroyed. Now you will die, warlock.” Those coming out of their trances could now see that Haruspex had told the truth. “Your talk of judging our worthiness was merely a ploy—the trick of a powerful warlock who had been sent to destroy us through twisted magic. You will not succeed, and what’s more, your people will be conquered, as all others have been conquered before you, as is prophesied.”
“You will not conquer us, though it will not be because of our magic.” Saying this, Grimony removed his mask to reveal a twisted, misshapen, grey face. “Which kingdom is mightier, that which discards its children, or that which takes in the discarded children of its neighbor? It is not my judgment that will doom your kingdom. It is your own, as your gaze is finally forced to turn on itself and see its own madness.”
There were those in the audience who showed shame or revulsion, but Haruspex, who had discarded such weaknesses, showed neither.
A powerful bellowing laugh erupted in the silence. “A Thull and the priest. Even as a boy I recall hearing talk of your renowned infidelity, Meteora, but this truly tops all expectations. Now your runt’s come back for mommy’s teat after all these years. The king fails his strongest warriors, the priest denies all duty, and the once great noble houses tarnish their own purity. No matter. The Mityr will clean up this mess and restore Hohenzollern.”
The king pounced at Valgar and the two titans became locked in battle. The Mityr clan, who were scattered, rallied behind their leader and fought their way into the temple. It was the Mityr versus all, but the Mityr truly believed they could take on the whole world if need be.
Haruspex now stared upon the flesh of his son, who, many years ago, he had left for dead on the Mountain. Perhaps if Grimony had revealed himself sooner, there might have been a way for Haruspex to come to terms with it. But now Haruspex had thoroughly sealed himself off to any form of compromise whatsoever. In Grimony, all Haruspex saw was the physical manifestation of all his past failings, and he hated him for it. He bludgeoned his son with his fists, knocking him down, and then stomped him.
Meteora, for once, did not throw herself at Mityr Valgar. Ever since Grimony had removed his mask, she had been transfixed, and now, she slowly walked towards the son she didn’t know she still had. Her former lover was stomping on him, and his little weak body was sure to break. With a slicing motion of her bare hand, she decapitated Haruspex. She looked down at the cowering boy laying next to the headless corpse of the priest and bent down to take his hand. She lifted him to his feet and placed a hand on his cheek. “There’s my boy,” she said. Grimony closed his eyes and accepted the warmth of his mother’s touch. “When I birthed you,” she continued, “you were so small and insignificant. Your heart was barely beating and you struggled for your first breath. And once that was through, you never stopped crying and begging for a mother that would never come as Haruspex took you away. Well my boy, let me show you how a real Thull flies before you meet the destiny the priest failed to deliver you to.” She had not killed Haruspex to save Grimony, she had only killed him because she saw him as a failure. She snatched Grimony up and, with all her agility she dashed through the crowd until she reached open air, then spread her wings and flew.
Zaza Puss shouted and gave chase, but they quickly flew past the Tower of Despair and over the cliff’s edge. She reached the edge and could do nothing but watch.
The Hohenzollern roof was becoming littered with the bodies of warriors, priests, and slaves whose hearts were being ripped out and consumed by berserking warriors. The full might of the war machine had turned on itself. At the centre of the battlefield, the king wrestled with Mityr Valgar. The stocky king relished in his lust for bloodshed and matched the goliath warrior strength for strength. Not only that, but he was finding openings to sink his long fangs into the Mityr’s thick meaty body. Slowly, the king was rending sinew and sapping his strength. Valgar darted towards the tower where droves of slaves remained chained, seeking to consume their essence. The king took the opening to pounce and tear a chunk of flesh out of the back of his leg, at which the giant warrior failed to support his own weight and toppled over. Maimed though he was, he swatted his giant hand into a group of slaves, gather three in one arm. In one motion, he wrung out their bodies and showered himself in their blood. Berserking, he let out a guttural howl. More of the Mityr clan ran over to aid their wounded leader. The king spat out the chunk of Ugo’s flesh and welcomed the new challengers.
Pontiff Varus worked his way through the battle desperately following the king. He now understood the spell. This was not a spell of finding some latent power forgotten in the crevices of the world to rejuvenate an old bottle of blood. This spell was a direct plea to the Gods of Law themselves. Only if they willed it would the spell succeed. While the king struggled to fight off three Mityr, Varus began the incantation.
Mityr Valgar did not care about honor and it did not bother him at all that it would take several of his clan to slay the wily king. A mighty warrior the king may be, but he had let weakness grow around him and that had been his undoing. Now was the time of the Mityr. His kin had managed to restrain the king, and now he would give the killing blow. He stepped forward, but as he did so the wound on his leg suddenly erupted violently. He darted his gaze around him to find the attacker, expecting to find Meteora but seeing no one. The wound agonized him and he looked down to see a thin stream of blood flowing out of his leg and floating in the air. He let out a cry of anguish and tried desperately to cover the wound, but the powerful gushing intensified and could not be stopped. To see such a mighty creature taken over by bald fear felt unnatural and sickening. The tendrils of blood wormed their way directly to the king’s chest. With a sudden burst of strength, the king threw off his assailants. They recovered, but paused. Once they saw what was happening, they could only stare on in horror. The stream pouring out of Valgar thickened once again and within moments he was completely drained, leaving only a pale husk. The king wasted no time, leaping forward and eviscerating each of the Mityr before him. Their essences, too, swirled and found their way to the king’s heart.
The spell did not stop there. The trickling streams seemed to spawn near and far, in friend, foe, priest, and slave. The king did not care, he was lost in the power flowing into him. Varus had long since stopped his incantation. The spell’s workings were now beyond him.
“Join me, little daughter, let us take it all for ourselves, then we can make whatever world you want!”
But Zaza Puss ignored her father, for her attention remained on Grimony, still being carried by Meteora far in the distance. Why did he not act? Had he gained some kind of power in the ceremony when he drank the blood? What final act of magic did he have planned?
But Grimony had no final act of magic. And as for the blood of the Father of Darkness: he did feel its power stirring and swelling within him. Just as he was grateful to see and learn of Hohenzollern Castle for himself, he was also grateful for the chance to look directly into this ancient evil. It offered him great power, but he denied it completely. He had accepted a fitting death at the hands of his mother. He closed his eyes and the moment came.
Zaza Puss watched Grimony’s body fall unceremoniously to its destruction beneath the cliff and she felt as though a shadow had crossed her heart.
She turned to see the death and carnage that was taking place behind her, and her father in the center of it all. The shadow on her heart became an oily black ichor whose spreading corruption seized her insides and threatened to suffocate her. She thought she had prepared herself for annihilation, but nothing could have prepared her for the terror she felt. She doubled over in sickness. Yet gripped by fear as she was, she knew she had to look.
She saw the streams of life that were being ripped from their victims before congealing and spiraling to flow into her father. She felt as though she were seeing her kingdom through the eyes of a stranger, and suddenly every madness that she had slowly acquiesced to was thrown up at once. She knew that the horror before her was not the result of an alien power that had overtaken her father. This is simply who he was. And she also knew that this was indeed the will of their gods. The world she had dreamed so desperately of saving was long dead. Grimony had been right. Such sobering truths have a way of creating a distance between oneself and the world. From her new vantage, she could see the mirror: the analogy that became more real the more one stared at it. In it she saw with profound clarity that there was indeed an ‘other’ thing. A true decision: here, today, now. If she could only make her body act, the future could be hers. Near the base of the Tower of Despair, she picked up the Felling Sword. She sunk it deep in her father’s back, killing him.
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