151. In Castles Inter Lucus and Pulchra Mane
Therefore,
dearly loved sisters and brothers, stand firm!
Don’t be dislodged by anything.
Always devote yourselves fully to the work of the Lord, because you know
that your labor in the Lord is not in vain.
Alone on the gods’ roof of Inter Lucus, seated on a simple wooden
bench, Marty watched the first rays of sunlight, slanting from the northeast on
this late spring morning. His watch read
5:32. Not much change from yesterday.
It’ll be equinox soon—a few days more.
A year ago, more or less, a Trappist novice stepped through a wormhole
into a world as strange in its own way as Wonderland was for Alice.
He looked down again at the Book of
God lying on his lap. A copy of 1 Corinthians—made by Whitney Ablendan,
he felt sure; her firm, clear handwriting was as good as a signature—lay open
in his hands. “Therefore…” He wondered how the apostle’s encouragement for
ancient Christians might apply to him. Father
Stephen, he was sure, would say that the “work of the Lord” included all sorts
of activities, including works of mercy and justice. God
willing, that’s what I’m trying to do.
Marty unfolded another piece of
writing and laid it on top of the Book of God.
It was a list of Latin words and phrases copied during the alien
video. He had not succeeded in summoning
the alien message a second time; after many attempts he felt certain that
Isen’s makeshift fiber optic repair had failed permanently. Students checked the violet hexagon every
day, and none of them reported seeing any pulses of light between the upper and
lower blocks. Until a new repair should
succeed, the notes taken by Whitney, Caelin, and Elfric were the best clues he
would have about the video.
Accusatio
nostro iure est simplex
Infans mortuus
Nostri autem perdiderit millions obsido
inritus exit genus retrorsum
exculpationem
intercedendo development naturae
nos dignitatem modeste secum omni tempore
conabamur adiuvaret
Humans sint stupidi, non potest docere
The list was Caelin’s. Elfric and Whitney’s pages added other bits
of the video’s Latin captioning. Marty
felt confident about some of the words: infans
mortuus had to refer to the dead baby in the video; accusatio reinforced his belief that he had seen some kind of trial
or legal hearing; but most of his guesses were tentative. Humans
sint stupidi—humans are stupid?
Marty’s ignorance of Latin vocabulary was only part of the problem;
isolated words or phrases needed context, and unless he could view the video
again to match up phrases with the action on the screen the copied words lacked
context.
His
morning’s musings were interrupted. A
head popped through the invisible rain barrier at the top of the stairs and saw
him. In seconds, Tayte Graham and Alf
Saeric stood before him.
Even now, at this hour, on this
perfectly peaceful morning, an interruption.
For a moment, Marty resented the intrusion. Can’t
it wait? Alf’s blue eyes were wide,
his expression solemn. Reading the boy’s
face, Marty’s irritation evaporated.
Tayte
Graham brushed away tears. “Lord
Martin. Something has happened to the
CPU.”
“Something?”
“Alf
said not to touch it, and we didn’t.”
Tayte looked sideways at the boy and then met Marty’s eyes. “We didn’t.”
She clasped her arms across her stomach, and her tears streamed. Her breath came in gasps. “We didn’t touch it.”
Still
seated, Marty folded Tayte into his arms.
She buried her face in his shoulder.
Behind the girl, seeing Marty comfort the girl, Alf’s face registered a
kind of longing, a distant yearning for a parent long lost. Marty freed his left arm and beckoned him. Alf stepped into Marty’s embrace. For some seconds Marty held the children
close, without words.
Gently:
“Tayte, I know you didn’t touch it. Now
tell me. What has happened?”
Tayte
sniffed and rubbed her nose on Marty’s shirt.
Alf replied. “I saw the CPU in a
dream, the violet block, the one Isen repaired.
So I told Tayte to come with me to see.”
“Tell
me about the dream first.”
The
boy slipped back a step to look Marty in the face. “In my dream it glowed brightly—very brightly, like a noon sun. I thought it might be working again. I wanted to show it to you, but I thought I
should see it first, to see if it really happened. Then I thought it would be good if someone
else saw it, before we bothered you.”
“Alf,
when you dream about Inter Lucus, you
should always tell me. Always—as soon as
you can. Okay? So, the two of you went to the CPU. Did you see this bright light?”
“No. We saw no light at all. The fiber optic cable is broken.” Now, Alf’s eyes
brimmed with tears. Marty quickly pulled
the boy back into his arms.
Marty
squeezed both children. “It’s going to
be okay. Let’s go look.”
Other
Inter Lucus residents noticed Marty,
Tayte, and Alf on the way downstairs. By
the time Marty reached the CPU room he was leading a troop of ten, including
Caelin Bycwine, Isen Poorman and Ora Wooddaughter. They circled around the hexagon blocks nearest
the door, heading for the violet block near the south wall. Light pulsed intermittently between the lower
and upper portions of the various hexagons, which made the condition of the
violet block all the more striking.
“There’s
a piece of it all the way over here.”
Caelin pointed to a fragment of glass near the base of another
hexagon. “It must have exploded.”
“Or
melted.” Isen stood close to the violet
hexagon, careful not to touch it. “There’s
a bit of the linen still hanging here, and the glass has fused with it. It must have been very hot.”
Marty
walked around the violet block, examining the broken connection from every
angle. “You’re probably both right. The glass strings are melted together and the
linen outer covering, what’s left of it anyway, is coated with glass. But very little remains. I expect the rest is spread around the room,
thrown by an explosion. Let’s look
carefully and find the pieces.”
Students
began inspecting the area close to the violet hexagon and soon went to hands
and knees to search more carefully. They
brought tiny blobs of glass and linen, more than thirty of them, to Marty. Many of the fragments were hardly more than
flecks. On Earth, Marty would have
dismissed the bits as extraneous dust, but in Inter Lucus dust disappeared.
Nanotechnology removed it within minutes. Only in the CPU had he ever seen debris that
lasted, and that had been the broken pieces of what he believed was the
original alien fiber optic connection for the violet blocks.
In
a few minutes Marty’s palm held the remains of Isen’s fiber optic cable, except
for the bit that still hung from the upper hexagon. He gestured at the remaining cable. “I think, Isen, that we shouldn’t try to
break that off. We’ll bring a hot tool
to cut it off smoothly.”
“Aye,
my lord. Then we try again?”
“That’s
my thought. Aye. Your first cable worked, at least to a
degree. Perhaps your second will be
better.” Marty handed the broken bits to
Ora, who stood close to Isen. “I greatly
appreciate what you accomplished with this.
I want you to know that.”
Castle Pulchra Mane
Claennis
the Nan paused outside Elfgiva Red’s room.
Yesterday she had forgotten to announce herself and had interrupted
Elfgiva and Bayan, busily trying to make another baby. Claennis smiled at memory of Bayan’s
embarrassment. Naturally, the young man
was eager to return to lovemaking after baby Glytha’s arrival. But how many young couples had ever been in
Bayan and Elfgiva’s situation? Invited—no,
commanded—to move from their tiny house on Sestia Street into the luxury of a
room in Pulchra Mane. If that weren’t enough, their room held not one,
but two little beds, and in one of them slept a future king.
Claennis
knocked, and then called out.
“Giva! Bayan! May I enter?”
The
door swished open immediately. Bayan was
already dressed. Elfgiva was sitting up
in bed, a baby at each breast.
“Fair
morning, Mistress Claennis.” Bayan made
a welcoming bow. “As you can see, the
babies are well, and Giva is busy. I
also ought to be about my work.” Bayan
stepped around Claennis and headed for the stairs up to the great hall.
When
he was gone, Claennis raised an eyebrow at Elfgiva. “Will he forgive me for yesterday?” Both women laughed. “Any problems in the night?”
“No. But it’s a good thing Glytha’s so
little.” Elfgiva wiggled her back
against pillows. “Prince Eudes is two
weeks younger, but he eats more than his share.
And he’s very demanding. I make
him wait until Glytha is hungry too.”
Claennis
nodded. “Sensible girl. With two babes, if you feed them whenever
they want, you’ll get no rest at all.”
She leaned close to examine Elfgiva’s face and color. “And it’s important that you rest, that you
stay well. For your sake, for Glytha,
and for all of us.” She touched the boy’s
head.
A
tremulous smile. “Is Queen Mariel no
better?”
“She
is no worse. But even if she were to
wake today, I think we would discover it is too late for Mariel to feed our
young prince. Breasts dry if they are
not used, even royal ones. The task you
have taken on will last until … until the boy is weaned.”
Claennis’s
hesitation caught Elfgiva’s attention.
“What is the trouble?” Elfgiva
began transferring Glytha from nipple to a burping cloth.
“I
can do that.” Claennis took the baby
girl, held her against her shoulder and began rubbing small circles in her
back.
Elfgiva
pursued her question. “I heard trouble in
your voice, Claennis. What is wrong?”
The
older woman lowered her voice, though the walls of Pulchra Mane made it impossible that anyone would hear them. “Merlin Torr reports to Aweirgan every day. He has all the sheriffs going about in small
companies and carrying swords. And they
are drafting strong young men—boys, really—to be new sheriffs. Aweirgan fears the lords of Calles Vinum, Rubrum Vulpes, and Beatus Valle.”
Elfgiva
looked confused. “Would Mariel’s lords
rebel against her? Are they not loyal?”
Such naiveté!
But Claennis did not roll her eyes.
Elfgiva was unfamiliar with castles, nobles, and politics. Truth be told, Claennis herself didn’t pay
much attention to such things, but it was hard to ignore the rumors flying
around the castle.
“Ah,
aye, girl. There are powerful men who
would like nothing more than to put a knife into our Prince Eudes. After killing Mariel, of course.”
The
young mother’s eyes went wide. Her arms
trembled, and Eudes lost the nipple. He
whimpered. Elfgiva quickly
adjusted. “They would attack Pulchra Mane?” She looked at the door. “They would come here?”
“Merlin
Torr commands hundreds of sheriffs.”
Claennis spoke calmly, exaggerating the number. “They will defend the city, the castle, and
more than anything else, that boy.”
“What
about Queen Mariel?”
“If
she recovers, of course, all is well.
She would command the castle defenses and destroy any attackers.”
“And
if she doesn’t recover?”
“Well,
as long as you hold the prince, you will be the most protected woman in Pulchra Mane.”
Elfgiva
looked down at Eudes, who had quit sucking.
His blue eyes seemed to be watching her face.
“Ah!”
said Claennis. “Now we trade.” She gave Glytha to her mother and received
Eudes. “I will take the little prince to
the Queen. The midwife says having the
baby close by might help Mariel wake.”
Aweirgan
Unes saw Claennis in the great hall as she came up the stairs. “Taking the boy to his mother,” she
said. The scribe nodded and returned his
attention to something he was writing.
Bestauden
Winter sat guard outside the Queen’s room.
He stood to greet Claennis. “Fair
morning. How is little Eudes?”
“Full
of milk.” Claennis stopped and
sniffed. “And shit.”
Bestauden
laughed and tilted his head toward the door.
“Blythe is inside with the Queen.”
“So? You think I’ve forgotten how to change a baby
cloth? I won’t need Blythe to do my
work.” Claennis stepped to the door and
it swished open.
Inside
the bedroom, on the far side of Mariel’s bed, Blythe wore a startled
expression.
“It’s
just me,” said Claennis. “And a young
prince who needs a bath.” Claennis
headed for the adjacent bathroom, with its tub and hot water. The serving girl gave no indication of
hearing her.
“Blythe? Is something wrong?”
Blythe
might have been a statue, or a creature in a children’s tale, turned to stone
by some magic word.
“Blythe?”
Then
Claennis saw Mariel’s face. Blue eyes
were open—and watching, looking at the boy in Claennis’s arms.
Copyright © 2015 by Philip D. Smith.
All rights reserved. International copyright secured.
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