The Book of the Blessed

Five

Saith Ambrose, who was rightwise Bishop of all Ynkurando, “Wilt though solemnly promise and swear to govern thy people according to their respective laws and customs? Wilt thou to the best of thy power cause Law and Justice, in Mercy, to be executed in all thy judgments?”

Then saith Athelstan King, “All this, I solemnly promise so to do.”

-From:An Ecclesiastical History of Westrial

Anson

When Anson slept, he dreamed fitfully of the past, and when he woke up, he blinked in the dark grey light. He must have only slept a few hours. He got up to relieve himself and remember that the window seat where he slept was in Ash’s chambers. Heavy with sleep, worn out by the night before, he stuck his head in Ash’s room and saw the form of the sleeping man curled in a ball. He seemed so small, almost vulnerable. But no, even in sleep, there was an almost scowl.

Ash, Anson wondered, no matter what you said, no matter how free you told me to be… have I betrayed you?

Turning from Ash to go back to his pallet in the window seat of the anteroom to Ash’s apartments, he thought, I could so easily return to my rooms.

But no, he wanted to be here, near Ash. He climbed back into the window seat and pulled the blanket about him, but he did not sleep. He remembered…

Into the tavern came a Royan, or at least, he had more Royan than Sendic blood. The Royan called themselves the First, and to the the Ayl they were. They had lived on this island long before the the Ayl and their cousins the Hale had come. But Anson, the soldier in question, had schooled with a Royan who said they themselves had come to this island in waves which was why some were dark as night, some brown as chocolate, and still others a varying shade of gold and dusk or so fair they could not be told from the Ayl.

This Royan in question was, when he pulled his hood from his face was golden brown, luscious lipped with limpid brown eyes, and now he sat down at the table and, after a time, pulled out what seemed playing cards, and fanned them out the way Traveling People did. But this was no Traveler. Therefore there must be real magic in these cards. This must be one of the famed Royan sorcerers, those who possessed the true gift.

Anson did not go near. But he did watch as men and women came. The Royan picked the first one. Exhaling cigarette smoke through his nose, Anson watched the Royan instruct the woman in the reading of her cards. He knew that the Royan would not charge as the travelers did, and unlike the travelers, his reading would be true. The Royan worshiped the oldest of gods and it was said that from them came the great magic.

Anson had seen such magic once, from his own Royan mother. She had stood up and prophecied one night in their home until her sister demanded she stop. When she began, “In the name of the Hanged God—” his aunt stood up, slammed the table and said, “Do not mention his name. Do not mention his name.”

Now all in Westrial followed the One Faith, and they turned for council to the White Monks and to the Black. In the north it was the Grey Monks, and they read the holy books, and there were temples to some gods, but others of the ancient gods were hidden away or no longer talked about. Long ago all this land had been Royan, but then the Ayl came and, after years of war, the white Ayl and the brown and gold and black Royan, had made peace and sealed it in marriage, and so Westrial and the other five kingdoms of the south had emerged.

This land was not old enough to the Ayl for their old gods to be remembered in stone. Wode, the God of Woe, the One Eyed, the Hanging God, Tyr the one handed Lord of Justice who had become one with the god Inushi. Tunyr, Lord of the Storm from whom the word thunder came, who was replaced or rather made one with Yawata to the Dauman people. The gods the Royan worshiped, Anson could not say, but as the woman went away weeping and insisted on offering coin to the magician, Anson thought those gods must not be short on power.

He had let the cigarette go out in his hand and didn’t really wish to relight it.

And then, as happens sometimes, and always embarrasses, Anson was caught looking. The wizard looked directly at him and gave a side smile, like a predator. He did not release Anson from his gaze until someone else sat by the table, and the wizard turned from the soldier to attend to this new visitor.

Here, in Kingsboro, so far east of the homeland of the Royan most of the people were Ayl, and a Royan sorcerer was a rare thing to see. The people in the tavern for the most part were tired, weary and dark haired, some wheat haired, and Anson had done a little roughening to himself, a little dirtying of his tawny hair before he had come to this place. He felt strange, and a little drunk and a trifle humble after the wizard’s gaze, and sat looking at the rest of his amber colored drink before he finished it and signaled for more. When it had come, and he lit another cigarette, when his mouth was numb with whiskey and ashes, he realized the sensation in him was simple nerves. Nerves like he’d never had on a battlefield—at least not till the end—or in the simple work of wielding his sword. His eyes lifted to see what the wizard was doing, but this time, pacifically, the wizard’s eyes were resting on him.

Get up, get up, you fool.

And so Anson did, moving through the room, feeling the liquor in the unsureness of his step as he weaved through this crowded place, lifting his cigarette into the air where it burned no one, watching the ceiling fan chug slow and ineffective.

“If you’re interested why don’t you sit?” the magician said.

“You saw me?”

“Of course I saw you,” he spread out his long hands, “one as pretty as yourself in a dark place like this.”

“I am a soldier. I am a king’s man,” Anson said, “this is the first time I have been called pretty. Like a maid.”

“That is a lie,” the wizard sat flatly, but still smiling, “for you are pretty like a maid, with your golden hair—that you are hiding—and your bright blue eyes, which you cannot hide—which is why you became a soldier no doubt. But you cannot hide it. You do not hide it.”

Anson sat down, and decided if this mage was going to be like this, he might as well just reach across the table and take his cigarette lighter, which he did, and shielding the light from the breeze, he lit the cigarette, inhaled, exhaled like a dragon and said, eyes twinkling through smoke, “What else do you know about me?”

“Careful, soldier,” the dark man said. He had very fine, very full lips and a gold glint in his brown eyes. “I may tell you more than you want anyone to know.”

Anson took another drag on his cigarette and exhaled, waving his cigarette in a dismissive hand.

“Surprise me.”

“If I tell you that you were born far higher than you are telling even me, and though you come from high places you wish to be in the lowest, because where you come from you know you do not belong, that is simply reading the obvious. If I tell you that the love you wish for from the ones you wish to have is never going to come, and that now that acceptable love is gone you come here seeking, not forbidden love, but anything, that too is a simple reading. As simple as knowing, like I said, that you took bark through your hair to disguise the color.”

“What else do you know?”

“That is enough.”

“Tell me more,” Anson said.

“Of yourself?”

“Yes.”

“You already know about yourself, and I am no Traveler to play magic tricks with. Ask me a question now.”

“What is your name?”

“It is Ash Errison.”

“What do you do this far east, Ash Errison?”

“I am always this far east. Do I not have the right to walk where I will?”

“It is rare to see a Royan in Kingsboro.”

“Every time you look in the mirror you see a Royan in Kingsboro.”

Anson blinked at him.

“Your father is Ayl, but your mother is Royan,” Ash said. “That is why your eyes seem so blue, because your skin is forever tanned, kissed by the sun as some Ayl are, but that darkness of your skin is Royan blood. It is why the rest of your family does not care for you. Fears you.”

“I think I’ve had enough of your powers,” Anson said, sitting up. “I see what you mean. I will stop now.”

“Wise,” Ash said. “I only know what you want me to know. I could never invade your mind. At least not with ease. But what is your next question?”

“Uh,” the man looked absent, and then shook his head and said, “but of course. I am so…. Well, I’m nervous, Lord,” he pounded a fist into an open palm. He spoke so fiercely the man he was speaking to wondered how true this could be. He opened up a silver case and handed a cigarette to the man, who took it, but did nothing with it. The dark man from the south, however, lit his, and the smoke of the cigarette touched the soldier’s nostrils.

“My mind is not at ease,” he said. “They say in the south, and in the east, among your people, there are ways. They say your wizards have ways to put the mind at ease.”

“Well, the easiest mind is a dead one,” the enchanter said. Then, at the surprise in the man’s eyes, “but foolishness aside, tell me what you want me to do for you, and I will do it.”

“I want to stop being troubled all the time,” the soldier said. “I went to war, and since I came back it is as if I am always at war. As if this whole country is and the bodies are still on the field. I am afraid for no reason. I tremble for no reason. I drink until I can’t stand, and wake up and begin to be a mess all over again.”

“It does seem,” the wizard said, “like the life of a soldier.”

“Then I don’t want to be one,” the man said. “Or rather, I don’t want to be mad. I feel I’m going to go mad. Everyone in my troop died when we went to fight the Daumans, and I was left alive. But only half alive.

“There are those creatures in the fairy tales who take away your soul, half of it so they can command you, and leave you with the other half. This is how I feel every day. And it is worse because… because people applaud me,” he scratched his rough jaw. “Because… I fought at Mount Catlyn.”

“I don’t even know your name,” the man said.

“Cole,” Anson said. It was not totally a lie. He’s used it and been known by it his first year as a soldier. But it felt like a lie. The man looked at him, cockingh is head, and Anson wondered if he knew this was a lie.

“Soldiering is what you people do. Soldiering is the highest call of the Sendic.”

“Are you testing me, Wizard?”

“That’s what wizards do. We test.”

“When we first came to this land. When we were like our cousins across the sea, maybe so. Our epics tell of the great warriors of our people. The old epics from across the sea. But the new poems are of farmers and…My heart…”

“My ancestors were not weak like me. My father, when he fought, was not weak like me.”

The wizard did not speak.

“That is the worst part of it,” Anson attested. “I feel weak, for I know that I am. A weak man and no warrior, not as a prince should be. Not as a Sendic prince should be.”

“There are some,” the wizard said, “who believe the task of a prince is to rule in peace, not always be leading men in war.”

“I do not even know what peace is,” Anson said. “Unless I know it’s what I do not have. Unless it be the end to nightmares and madness.”

“Soldier,” the wizard said, “I can listen to you all night if you want me to. I can have a pot of coffee sent out and you can say all you have to say. But is that why you came?”

“You are a man of magic?” Anson said.

“Among other things.”

“I want you to see into my future. I want you to see if I will always be as I am right now.”

“Are you sure?”

“I…” Anson began, “I feel so lonely and so solitary I could die. If you were not who you were, and in truth, if you were not headed back the day after tomorrow, then I would not be telling you this, for I have told no one. Every day I think of taking my life. Every day is a great battle, and I feel, when I awake the next day, that none of it was worth it. If it is always to be like this, then why wake up? Why do anything? And all these things are disgraceful to my people, to even think of them, And yet, our old poems, for our people are now mixed with your people, speak of these feelings, these sadnesses. I thought maybe you would understand them and, perhaps, by your magic, help me.”

“I can do it,” Ash said, “but not tonight. Magic is not a waving of a wand, and I do not have the strength to look into the future right now. Will you give me till tomorrow night? Around this time.”

Prince Anson looked very sad and he nodded.

“What choice do I have?”

As Anson rose, the Royan said, “Stay here tonight?”

Anson looked at him.

“Stay,” Ash said.

Anson shook his head as one waking.

“You think I’ll harm myself,” he said.

“You would not be the first,” the wizard said. “You are not the first soldier to have this battle sickness, not even among your people no matter what the tales say. Why do you think those men in your tales were so eager to die young, to never live past thirty? They had lost their taste for life as well. The reason you feel it, the reason your people feel it now is because now you live too long. Too long not to feel.”

Anson smiled almost painfully. Gods, what a handsome man he was, and so young. It was he who touched the Royan this time.

“I promise you, I will not harm myself between now and next time I see you. I can’t,” he said. “I feel hope right now, and I haven’t felt that in some time.”

“Will you smoke with me?” Anson said.

Ash held out his hand for a cigarette and said, “If you will drink with me?”

“Shall we kill a bottle?” Anson asked as he lit Ash’s cigarette.

“Half of a bottle,” Ash agreed.

“I have an uncle who says if you don’t remember the night before it was a good one.”

“I have common sense that says that is foolish,” Ash replied and Anson chuckled low in his throat as the jug of whiskey approached.

Anson turned to see a well dressed man, in the old shirt of a rich merchant’s son, his hair still perfectly combed and scented, face so freshly washed it was nearly pink, move through the crowds. A boy who had been sitting on various stools for some hours, too well dressed and too well quoffed to be anything but a punk—a boy whore—turned to him. They talked a bit. Anson noticed Stephen, a young and friendly punk he’d gone off with a few times, who saluted him as if tipping his hat. Anson was not ashamed. He grinned wolfishly back at him.

“They say men come here to find all sorts of things,” Anson said, conversationally to Ash who had something like a longsuffering smile on his face as he pulled his cards together and placed them somewhere in his cloak.

“I come here to find all sorts of men,” Ash said.

“And did you find them?”

“I found one,” Ash said.

And then Anson said, simply, “Stay with me tonight.”

“You should have just asked when you sat down.”

“When I sat down I didn’t know I was going to.”

“I keep a room in a much more pleasant inn than this.”

“Show me.”