Nemesis, Page 2

  Rashidi is right. It will not be long now. “What will I tell Sethos?” Tarik whispers. His younger brother, Sethos, just turned fifteen years and is, by far, the most precious object of their father’s affections. A son after his father, Sethos is. King Knosi was a great warrior, and so Sethos will be. And so Sethos already is. He studies his craft at the Lyceum with the other Majai Favored Ones. His tutors are pleased with his progress. Father is pleased with his progress. Father will not like missing out on his youngest son.

  It is time Tarik summoned Sethos home. He will want to be present when their father dies. It has been difficult enough keeping him away this long. But Father had insisted he continue on at the Lyceum. Father never imagined this sickness would progress so quickly.

  Rashidi bows his head. “I will call for him, Highness.” A slight pause. Then, “Will you tell the people what took him?”

  On this Tarik is torn. It is something he’s given a great deal of thought to, and guiltily so. For if he was worried what he would tell the people, he was more certain than he cared to admit of his father’s death. All he really knew, though, was that he could not shrug the thought from his shoulders.

  “I fear it will cause a panic,” he says finally. After all, the kingdom sees his father as the epitome of strength and power, as they should their pharaoh. They may reason that if King Knosi can perish from such a disease, they cannot protect themselves from it. Yet, is that not the truth? If the illness has such far-reaching fingers, surely no one is safe. “On the other hand, if I don’t tell them, I fear they won’t give this the proper attention it deserves. They will carry on their lives as if he perished from some common illness. What if this new sickness spreads?” His father had just returned from the southern kingdom of Wachuk to negotiate the continued mining of turquoise there. It would be an easy thing to make the people assume he’d contracted something from that place. Wachuk’s methods of medicine are primitive at best, and disease is rife there, a fact well-known among the citizens of Theoria.

  But the Healers have ruled out any foreign infection. His father has something new, something they’ve never seen before. Still, if he instructs them, they will speak nothing of it.

  “The people need not give it attention so much as the Healers do,” Rashidi says. “It would be unwise to circulate news of a plague that our Healers do not have under control just yet.”

  Just yet. “And if the people begin to present symptoms?” They’d only had a handful of cases and all had been inside the palace walls, easy enough to contain. Easy enough, that is, until his father contracted it. Tarik remembers the day his father suffered his first nosebleed. The king had waved it off, dismissed it as if it were a soldier or a servant, as if such a thing could be controlled with a command. “It’s nothing but an inconvenience,” he’d said. “Fetch my Healer at once and tell him to put a stop to it.” It had taken the Healer two frustrating hours to stop the bleeding. That night, his father had awakened with blood pooling in his ears. From that point on, he’d grown fatigued but refused food to help his energy because he could do nothing but wretch up even the smallest of bread crumbs. Within a week, a sturdy beast of a man who’d personally trained his own guard had wilted into something that resembled a weed with bones.

  Tarik swallows.

  “By then, the Healers will have found the cure. They always do, Highness.”

  But it doesn’t sit well with him. Hiding something from his people, especially something so lethal, does not seem like the best way to begin his reign as their new king. Not to mention, the Lingots will know something is amiss. There are always ways to bend truths, but they will sense deception coming from the palace. And what message will that send?

  “What else do you require from me this evening, Highness?” Rashidi seems aware he is not going to convince Tarik of anything at this moment. He is often shrewd in that way, to know when his usefulness has met its threshold and when to excuse himself. It is obvious now that King Knosi will not be waking up again to do the formal bidding of his most loyal adviser.

  Tarik sighs in resignation. “A miracle.”

  Rashidi leaves him then, alone with his thoughts and worries. Alone with his father for the last time.

  3

  SEPORA

  The thorns pull and tear at my servants’ dress (Mother had known it wouldn’t do to escape dressed as royalty) as I make my way through the Valley of the Tenantless. The path is beaten enough for me to conclude that something roams these parts, though not often, because the tracks are just holes puncturing the sand in some places. No, this trail hasn’t been used in quite some time. Which is neither here nor there; if I came across trouble, I could defend myself. Mother gave me a dagger and a sword, and I’ve been trained in all the delicacies of fighting off a man. In fact, all Serubelan women are trained to wield a sword at the age of thirteen. Aldon says the other kingdoms think it barbarous to expect our females to fight, but Father insists it’s a Serubelan tradition, and one that he’ll not do away with, in view of the unsturdy times. I suppose if I could protect myself against a man, I could protect myself against a dumb beast that has no sense of what my next move will be. Besides, I’m not so concerned with staying on the trail as I am with keeping alongside the River Nefari. I could find Theoria without a map, just keeping that river to my right at all times. The trail simply makes it easier to navigate the thistles until I hit desert, until I hit the boundary of Theoria.

  Theoria. I’ve been wandering through the Tenantless thinking of my new home, trying to imagine all the things Aldon, my tutor, tried to instill in me during our history lessons. It goes something like this, I think:

  Untold ages ago, the Serubelan king at the time and his highest councillor had a falling out. The councillor (whose name survived generation after generation of being written in the copyist’s scrolls, only to elude my own limited memory at the moment) broke away from his king and led nearly one third of the Serubelan people beyond the Valley of the Tenantless and into the desert. He set out to prove that even under the harsh living conditions, he and his followers, who named themselves Theorians because of their willingness to try many theories on how to execute efficient rulership, could still provide citizens with a kingdom superior to Serubel in every way. Many of the great thinkers of Serubel joined the high councillor, including none other than the princess of Serubel. Indeed, she actually married the high councillor—oh yes, Vokor was his name—and remained at his side while he established his kingdom. But the bliss of marriage and rulership did not last long; she died within months of becoming his wife.

  When the king of Serubel caught wind of the demise of his daughter, he blamed Vokor for tickling her ear and persuading her to leave the safety of her home. The king immediately set out for the desert in pursuit of war with Vokor. But somehow Vokor’s fledgling army prevailed; rumor holds that he used unscrupulous trickery and dark magic to win. Aldon, who is not given to belief in magic or trickery, suspects that Vokor simply was expecting the king, and having been on the war council, knew the king’s most likely moves and countered them with vigor. Vokor captured nearly one half of the Serubelan army and immediately pronounced them slaves, setting them to work on the great pyramids of the city of Anyar and beyond. (It is said that Vokor believed his precious Healers could find a cure for death, and so he made pyramids and kept the dead there, including his beloved princess, until one day they could rise again. As of my last history lesson with Aldon, that had not yet occurred.)

  The defeat left a bitter taste in the mouths of my Serubelan ancestors, and Serubel has considered Theoria its enemy ever since. Though the actual fighting had come to an end, and trading eventually did open up again, it was with a cold and polite unease that we’ve traded spectorium for the splendor of Theoria’s riches. It was even rumored that King Knosi had released the Serubelan slaves and invited them to return to Serubel, and while Aldon believes it to be true, my father is vehement that the decree, too, was some sort of trickery, because why
else would slaves remain in Theoria instead of returning to their home kingdom?

  It’s a question I intend to answer, as it is to the Baseborn Quarters I flee now, where the freed ancestors of the Serubelan slaves live and work and die. Slaves to their lot in life, Aldon suspects, instead of to any master.

  It is not lost on me that I do not have to live as my brethren in Theoria. I am a Forger of spectorium, the last Forger, and I could produce enough of this valuable element to make me very rich in that kingdom. But with wealth comes more than fine clothing and nicely appointed chariots; with it comes attention and even scrutiny. And under scrutiny, my ability becomes a danger to all.

  Aldon used to say that my Forging makes me powerful. Perhaps that is true, but in light of the circumstances, it is nothing more than a lonely burden. No one can know that I alone possess the capacity to Forge. In fact, no one can know that a mere person possesses the capacity to Forge at all; the world must continue to think spectorium is mined from deep caverns in the Underneath in a secret location in Serubel.

  And as I am the last Forger, no one can share with me the responsibility of keeping spectorium safe from those with ill intentions. I’m a Forger of spectorium. And I have become its last protector.

  Soon, trading for spectorium will come to a halt. Father will run out of it without me there to make it for him. Leaving will stop the war, but it will also stop the trading. How will Serubel survive without trading? But how will Serubel survive if I stay and Forge enough for a mighty war? My father is ravenous with the need for power; he would stop at nothing to get what he wants. Theoria would be razed, its citizens bowing at his feet. And who knows if the war would stop there? Perhaps Father would extend his power to all the five kingdoms. People would die. Father would kill them, and I would give him the means to.

  And so I continue on with my escape.

  Churning the history lesson over and over in my head, I kneel to the ground. The Tenantless sun beats down upon me while I dig a hole in the sand with my bare hands. It has been mere hours since I last Forged and though I still have many more hours before I’ll become faint and weak with the power building up inside me, I want to expel as much as possible while I’m alone in the valley and can hide my gift. Besides, stopping to Forge and bury the evidence is a good excuse to rest. The heat is more taxing than I’d supposed it would be, especially in the long, modest servants’ attire Mother had given me, and I’ve not even stepped foot upon the Theorian desert. Sweat trickles from my temples, down my throat, down my back. If the Theorians are as clever as their reputation, they’d have picked a more hospitable place to live. If it gets much hotter, I will think them foolish indeed.

  Father always did say they were too proud to admit folly. Perhaps Father was right about some things.

  The increasing heat is enough to make me miss my Serubel even more. The cool mountains and faces of rocks devoured by vines full of wild orchids and broom brush and campion flowers so vivid in color they could be made of spectorium itself. The smell of the ravines; the air gravid with the aroma of a blossoming spring. I miss running across the rope bridges swinging precariously between the mountains, the fleeting sensation of flying when my feet lift from the safety of the boards. What could there be in uppity Theoria, among their sophisticated machines and complicated inventions, that is more beautiful than a simple, vibrant gully? For the smartest kingdom among us, they seem to overlook a great deal in the wake of their search for knowledge.

  I dismiss the thought of Theoria and its haughty ways as I summon the liquid element deep inside me and direct it toward my palms. The spectorium seeps out in beads, as sweat on a forehead, building and collecting in a pool in my hand, an accumulation of all the colors in a rainbow with the indiscernible colors in between, glowing brilliant white and metallic at the same time. It feels refreshing to release, a cool rush of energy that opens my pores and slides out as though I were a faucet at the well. Because spectorium attracts spectorium, it amasses the static energy it creates, allowing it to float between my hands. I spin it into a ball and poke at it, trying to decide if I will just deposit it into the ground or if I shall make something. Before I know it, I’m structuring a figurine of Nuna in flight. I stretch and smooth the runny spectorium before it solidifies. With my thumbs, I press and prod the element into a replica no longer than my arm. The wings are the most difficult to shape and I make them as thin as possible, blowing on them to cool quickly.

  She really is beautiful, my miniature glowing Nuna. I decide to keep her, this small statue, to bring her with me on my journey. It goes against Mother’s instructions and really, against my better judgment, but as soon as I set the eyes, I know she can be a substitute companion for me. I place her aside in the sand to cool as I expel more liquid spectorium into the small, deep pit I’ve dug. In the Tenantless heat, the puddle takes longer to cool, but gradually it begins to congeal at the bottom and solidify fully as I fill the trench with bright molten energy.

  Energy that I must hide from the world for the rest of my life.

  Yet, I cannot be entirely sorry for it. There was a time when spectorium was not understood, and the kingdoms survived without it. Serubel, because of the shelter and defense that our mountains naturally provide. Theoria, because of its advances in science and numbers and architecture. Hemut, because of brief moments of ingenuity and scads of time and experience gathered in the aptitude of simple survival in a land covered in ice. Wachuk, because of a primitive nature requiring only the barest of necessities, and because of its citizens’ peaceable beliefs. And Pelusia, because of the ocean at its fingertips, which carries with it fish and trade by sea to the Foreign Kingdoms. I rarely count Pelusia as part of our five kingdoms, because it is so far north and it chooses to seclude itself entirely from the rest of us. Even when spectorium became recognized as a source of great power, Pelusia never bothered to trade for it.

  All the kingdoms survived before spectorium, I remind myself. They will all survive again.

  After the element has completely solidified, I cover the hole and spread around the remaining dirt, taking care to walk on it, leaving footprints in the direction I’ll be heading. The blustering desert wind will soon smooth over any evidence that the area had been disturbed at all, making ripples in the sand like natural steps ascending toward a peak. I take a sip from my water jug and consult my map of Theoria once more, hoping perhaps this time something will have changed, that I’ll be closer to Anyar than I’d originally thought. But if I’m still in the Valley of the Tenantless, I have much, much farther to go. For a brief moment, I am homesick, for I’m closer to the comfort of my castle and Nuna than I am to my new home in the Baseborn Quarters of Theoria.

  But the only comfort I can take now is that I’m no longer within my father’s reach. As Mother said, he’ll never suspect that I’ve headed in the direction of Theoria, his greatest nemesis, the kingdom that fuels his hate. He’ll never think to look for me in the Baseborn Quarters, where the freed slaves of the old war still reside. And he’ll never suspect that Mother helped. To my father, Mother is a waif, a servant with a title. She does as she’s told. No, Mother would not defy Father. I’d be a fool to think that she helped me flee out of some sort of maternal affection; the fate of Serubel is her concern. Father will think I’ve flung myself into the Nefari far below my cell, which opened over a steep cliff. Father will think me dead.

  Oh, if only he hadn’t been so greedy. If only he’d been content with his own kingdom instead of conquering others. If only he’d been reasonable. Then I would not be on this wretched journey to begin with.

  4

  TARIK

  Tarik grips the ledge of the royal chariot and looks up at the small gathering of clouds overhead. They’ll not actually erupt into rain, he knows, for it never rains in Theoria, but even the skies seem to acknowledge the kingdom’s great loss in the death of King Knosi.

  Beside him, Sethos stands stiff, his jaw locked. It has been a long time since his brother
was required to wear the ceremonial gold and silver body paint of the royal family. In fact, it was at their mother’s funeral that he last wore it, and being only a boy, he’d smudged it before even leaving the palace for the procession to the pyramids. “You are sure you called in only the best embalmers?” Sethos whispers. The horses meet a bump in the pathway, and Sethos is forced to grip the ledge, too.

  Tarik fixes his gaze on the elaborate gold-plated cart ahead of them. The cart that bears the king’s body to its final destination in the Canyon of Royals. “He will be well preserved for many years,” Tarik says softly, knowing his brother needs reassurance but unsure of how much he’ll actually accept. “Surely long enough to find the cure for death.”

  Sethos nods, as though this is what he’d been truly meaning to ask. If anyone in the five kingdoms could undo death, their Healers could. No other realm has come even close to the advanced knowledge of the healing sciences that the Lyceum has gathered over the centuries. And as soon as his father drew his last breath, Tarik had already doubled the resources designated to the Lyceum to perform its research—all the resources he could divert from the living, that is.

  But this new illness has left the walls of the palace and now creeps through the Superior class, Rashidi reports. Some perish sooner than the King had; some last a few days longer. All suffer greatly. All waste away, losing blood and vitality before their families’ eyes.

  Yet, it does not appear contagious; the servants attending their masters and those closest to the sick are not falling ill.

  “Curious,” Tarik says more to himself than to Sethos.

  His brother looks at him sideways; to be having a conversation during the funeral procession would be disrespectful. Tarik bows his head against the hypocrisy—his brother had, after all, spoken not a minute before—careful to keep the rest of his thoughts to himself. Sethos’s body language seems to beg for privacy and silence. He is not taking the death of their father well; he would not appreciate an accounting of symptoms their father suffered before he died, and how some in the kingdom seem to be immune.