The Passing Years (4k)

Chapter 33: The Passing Years (4k)

"Too long had passed since I last wrote a new story. For a moment, I did not even know how to begin. Even this inscription I now write filled me with hesitation, as though I held a pen of iron and stone weighing a thousand jun, wavering over the shape and structure of every letter."

"I will spend my days completing this new fable, seeking not to spread its name far across this land, but merely to make a rough record of the affairs of the world."

"A child—a child fallen from the heavens, made by man, one of a kind—came to this distant world, long lost to night and savagery, carrying all his arrogance, cowardice, hatred, and attachment, and collided with all things beneath heaven. He was destined never to remain unknown."

"He was the blade of silver, the bullet of a gun, the armor of iron. His strength would shake high mountains and deep lakes. But would his sharp edges sever an age-long bloodshed, or pierce the throats of mortals? Would his heart melt into molten iron and gilded broth, or be reforged in the blazing heat of a new furnace?"

"I saw towers collapse, arches fall, rivers dry up, deep seas surge..."

Someone suddenly hammered a fist violently against Mors's door. A droplet of ink, trembling on the verge of falling from his pen tip, immediately splashed onto the smooth paper scroll, spreading through its fibers into a blot of ink.

Mors took a deep breath. The instant Peturabo pushed open the door and entered, the edge of the thick, soft rug on the floor curled upward in an uncanny fashion, trapping the boy's sandal soles beneath it and his toes above it.

A moment later, a loud crash rang out as Peturabo and the rug he had overturned rolled across the floor in a lively tangle.

The papers in the boy's arms flew outward in the turbulent air, then mysteriously turned in midair and landed in the palm of a hand extended from behind a wicker chair.

While Peturabo struggled to free himself from the rug's trap, Mors read the new documents.

His brows furrowed, then relaxed, until his face gradually became a blank slate. "You had better explain why you added gears, hinges, and serrated saws to this basin meant for washing one's fingers before a meal."

"The blueprint was incomplete..." Peturabo finally got to his feet. Rather than asking what sinister curse had been placed upon the murderous rug, he was more concerned with his design. "I believe this object was originally intended to be an automatic household meat grinder, used to process meat that could not be dealt with by a machete in daily domestic life."

Mors turned over that blueprint. The drawing on the next sheet was exceedingly complex; even he needed some time to discern the form of the finished product. Peturabo leaned over eagerly at his side until Mors rolled up the sheet and lightly tapped him on the shoulder.

"Humans need toy birds, not miniature storm aircraft disguised as toy birds."

"Really?" Peturabo asked skeptically. "That was not what the army's list of requirements said."

"Always thinking about your army." Mors switched to the next drawing. "Then what about this? A landing platform for military helicopter aircraft?"

"That is only an open-air theater," Peturabo said. "I plan to build it between the marketplace and the royal palace."

Mors gathered and neatly stacked the papers in his hand, then placed them in Peturabo's arms. "Fine. Goodbye. I am busy."

"Busy with what?" Peturabo poked his head forward.

"Private matters. Do not disturb me."

After sending the boy away, Mors resumed his struggle with the unfamiliar pen.

He propped up his cheek with one hand and gazed into the distance, taking in the countless sights of the city.

People toiled beneath the sunlight. The sun rose, the sun set, coming from its source and returning again, shining upon the land.

Night departed, and night came again. Day passed, and day came once more.

He watched rivers flow toward their destination, yet that destination was never filled. Rain clouds rose into the sky; winds went high and low. The shadows of dark clouds covered the parched earth, and water fell from the heavens back to the rivers' source.

He watched people build houses and gardens, dig pools, and plant flowers and fruit trees within and beyond the city. Those spreading designs came both from the future and from the past, settled through Peturabo's deliberations.

He saw herds of cattle and sheep in the villages, growing trees, living creatures, and all things. Those who built went into the villages; he saw houses rise, irrigation repaired, roads opened, and people carve passable paths through the mountains.

"The boy held hammer and axe, opening up new places. His joy brought joy to those who rejoiced in him; his labor brought wisdom, gladness, and conscience. His work gave accomplishment to things, and what he gathered and piled up would gradually pass into the hands of those who labored beside him."

"He broke blades in the furnace, then drew plows from it."

"He brought farming and cattle and sheep ever more fully into this land, and set gladness within the hearts of its citizens. People would remember his name as they remembered the rising of the sun and the falling of rain, and he remembered it himself. He rejoiced in the work he managed; this, too, was his duty."

"Lokos and his blueprints had drawn close together, and the work he managed was becoming reality. The multitudes he governed had become his countless citizens."

"His stature had increased. Through food and drink, he had left behind his lowly frame. I saw him grow, as I saw the sun rise and rain fall."

Mors set the pen aside on its wooden rest for the moment and held the fresh paper up to the light to dry.

Rivers, sun, and moon turned without rest, while the shadow of the sundial moved across its face, ending and beginning anew. Cracks had appeared upon the desk where he bent to write, the work of sun and wind together.

In certain rare years, Olympia's ice and snow swept down from its highest peaks and blew into the house through the diamond lattice of the window before him. At such times, if Peturabo was in the capital, he might come to his side.

Mors did not care about the cold. He only lit some firewood for Peturabo. The firelight flickered with a vivid red glow as Peturabo told him about his latest work.

He especially enjoyed boasting about the theater he had newly built. From its acoustics and seating arrangement to the structure backstage and its overall form, Peturabo would tell him every detail, and Mors would refute them one by one, finding every possible fault until the growing youth argued with him until both his cheeks burned.

Peturabo's hair was cut short, then grown long again, eventually settling at a medium length. His black hair swelled like algae, setting off his increasingly profound ice-blue irises.

"Mors?" Peturabo pushed open the door, with Andos following behind him. That was not common, though it happened occasionally. "Andos and I are holding another contest, with a demonstration for the craftsmen. Will you set the challenge?"

The Prince smiled simply and greeted Mors.

The passing years had gradually added to his age, but because his worries were not deep, he did not appear especially old.

Harkon was the one truly aging. For every day the eldest Prince could not take the tyrant's iron crown, another wrinkle appeared upon him.

"What sort of contest?" Mors asked.

"You ought to know more about matters beyond this room," Peturabo said. "Lokos Palace is about to be rebuilt, and Lokos's craftsmen have come at the invitation. Andos and I will give them a demonstration. So we will compare ourselves again."

"You still intend to defeat the Prince?" Mors sorted through the papers on his desk. Some scrolls were new, some old. Peturabo had said he wanted to recreate the electronic data tablets once used by humanity, and Mors sincerely doubted his ability to solder chips by hand.

Peturabo answered frankly, "Naturally. Andos's rate of improvement is astonishing."

Mors's hand paused for a brief instant in surprise. He looked at Andos, his manner growing gentler. "You agreed to compete with my apprentice again?"

Andos nodded. "My sister has already begun making arrangements for our contest... I never imagined I could improve so quickly."

Mors waved them both out of his room. "I will set a challenge for you later. Either of you can come collect it."

This gave him a bit of a headache. Their endless contest had nearly exhausted all the subjects he considered suitable.

Mors let out a soft breath and took up his pen again.

Even if Peturabo truly made a data-slate with his bare hands, he would not use it. He did not believe that information entered into a tool Peturabo made would not eventually be transmitted to that young man's terminal.

As the years turned, even the plainest pen had grown familiar with his hand, and his hand with it.

In the old nights, he made ink from carbon black. Or he coated wooden boards with wax, inscribed words upon the wax tablets with the hard fine point of a stylus, then used its flat side to smooth away mistakes before writing anew.

Later, he used parchment paper, wooden paper, quill pens, ballpoint pens. Now, as he recorded stories, after circling round and round, he had returned to the days when the oldest methods were practiced.

His pen passed over the paper, and so the sun and moon rolled onward once more.

"He wished the righteous to have righteousness, and the upright to have uprightness. The righteous must not perish for doing good, nor the wicked enjoy long years for doing evil."

"He established new laws; his words were words the citizens were to hear."

"He sometimes cursed men, again and again calling for snares upon the guilty. Only I heard his curses; those words rang in my ears, yet brought joy to my heart."

"I told him that I had not seen those who often did good and never sinned, nor those who were often upright and never foolish. In all things, he must not follow the whims of the moment, or he would bury himself along with them."

"Their halls were built, yet citizens passing by needed not watch their steps. They let their approaching footsteps ring out and spoke freely beneath those splendid buildings. I saw goods increase within the city, gold and silver increase, traveling men and women increase, and foreigners increase, as well as wealthy foreigners."

"They heard of the young man's gifts and came in droves to examine his abilities. Thus wise men came from foreign lands, princes came from foreign lands, and priests came from foreign lands."

"Wisdom surpassed strength, yet strength could not be lacking."

"He wished foreigners to eat and use, to rejoice in equal labor. He wished goodness and truth to travel into foreign lands and distant places, and to settle all matters properly. Thus he built fortresses, chariots, and weapons. He made the earth behold might."

Mors flexed his fingers. He was not yet satisfied with the present manuscript; perhaps he would rewrite it again later. Fortunately, he did not lack for a little time.

Water dripped steadily from the water clock, moving endlessly alongside the sand in the hourglass. The gnomon of the sundial had long since snapped, its face chipped and blackened by fire. He had told Peturabo long ago not to test firearms in his room.

The diamond-latticed windows had been replaced with gridded ones. Pulling a cord could close the shutters and block the light. Lately, pull-down shutters had become fashionable in Lokos, and countless citizens repeatedly played with the mechanism until it broke.

Peturabo was preparing to introduce new glass. The double-layered construction was unnecessary, but certainly novel.

Someone came knocking on his door again. Mors could not understand why they always had to come converse with him whenever he was writing scrolls.

Calipha entered first, followed by the taller Peturabo. The young man stood half a forehead taller than his sister. Lokos's grain had made him grow quickly, like wheat in the fields and seedlings in the earth.

His hair had grown long again. With his light armor and the circlet upon his brow, he resembled even more closely the divine offspring of Olympia's many myths. Mors would not say so to his face, or the big young man would sulk in secret for several days and nights.

"My army is training," Peturabo said without preamble. "Though it is based on ancient texts and my own deductions, would you be willing to come watch?"

Mors tossed down his pen. The slender cylinder rolled silently across the tabletop before finally catching in a nearby corner.

He leaned back in his wicker chair. "You want me to offer you my opinion?"

"Precisely," Peturabo said.

"I am a craftsman, child. I am not a man who can do everything. When have you ever seen me hold a weapon or stain myself with blood? I do not know the principles of war."

Peturabo did not press the matter. "Then come see my theatre, Mors. I built it beautifully."

"Your theatre gets renovated every year. Lokos does not mind you making such a fuss." Mors smiled, picking up his pen again and rolling it between his fingers. "What am I to do at your theatre? Do you want to watch me sing a hymn onstage in a high voice?"

Calipha joined the conversation at the right moment, her eyes still calm and clear. "Peturabo's naming ceremony will be held next year, Mors. This is Lokos's traditional coming-of-age rite. Since he is our Lord of the Legion, he must belong to Lokos along with us."

"A naming ceremony?" Mors savored the phrase. Since Peturabo had come before him, the young man had surely already agreed to take part. And as for the location, naturally it would be next year's Peturabo Grand Theatre.

He turned his pen with interest. "Are you going to rename yourself?"

"No. I will formally establish my name. Peturabo," the young man said.

Mors looked fixedly at him. Years ago, the young man had declared in the great hall that he would make his name meaningful. Would he accomplish it?

He moved his head slightly, the motion indistinct between a shake and a nod. "A rite of naming bestowed by Goddess Hefoni—I will go see it next year. As for now, let me preserve a little freshness. I have seen your grand theatre hundreds upon thousands of times."

Then he suddenly thought of something. "Who will carve the goddess's statue? It will not be Andos again, will it?"

Calipha nodded. "My brother is very willing to offer his blessing once more."

Peturabo took over. "I will also field my troops then," he declared.

"A naming ceremony, and a military parade?" Mors murmured. "Right—has Harkon not yet succeeded to the throne?"

"Dameks said Harkon wants to win military merit beneath my banner." Peturabo lifted his head, the iron ornament on his brow gleaming. Then he showed a trace of disdain. "I will not let him die."

"That is well. It is a good thing."

Mors looked out the window, knowing that the sound of cannons would soon echo through the mountains. His pen fell upon the scroll, and black ink left its mark.

"The wise may not obtain fruit, the understanding may not gain victory, and those who command armies may not find joy."

"Yet a nation must rise, just as the wind carries wheat seeds and clouds carry raindrops. Light is good, night is good, blessings are good; therefore he must forget sorrow, overcome evil, and do what is fair and good."

"Again I saw time pass and all things turn. Again I saw birds, saw weapons, saw the earth."

Mors paused his pen. Outside the window, ceremonial music celebrating Peturabo's coming of age and naming ceremony had already begun to sound from every direction.

He listened to the flutes, harps, and reed pipes, waiting for Peturabo to knock upon his door. His long hair and black robes became clean of their own accord.

Turning the pages of the scroll, he saw the years flow like water.