[Sir Gaviel]
Elite, sixty-four of us.
We started three hundred in number. At the age of five to seven. Trained in rigorous and bone wrenching conditions. Senses – instinct hammered and honed, forged and molded. Weaknesses smothered off. Emotions ironed out. Mercy replaced for immorality. Innocence for blood.
Until only sixty–four remained.
We are branded for loyalty. Pledged in fidelity. A death squadron for a conqueror.
Aeon's finest.
From my vantage point, a dais on Elites' training field, I see the four units and fifteen men each as solid as any structure that lasted for centuries. Grim faces in steep contrast to the glint of their silver-plated body armors. Dark, finely interlaced thigh length chainmail is worn underneath, renowned to be impenetrable. Arms and legs in greaves.
The leaf shaped, double-edged swords placed in leather scabbards hang on their left precisely at thirty degrees. Quivers full of arrows on their right. Bows and small oval shields on their backs. Sallet helmet on their heads, russet leather boots complete the uniform.
Despite dressing exactly the same, I do not feel like one of them.
I shift as hot air blows pressing on our faces, rustling our scarlet capes. Sweat runs from my scalp to my back, my neck also sodden of it. Our sallet can only do much to protect us in the sweltering heat of noon.
And we are just getting started.
With a lance in hand, the units below march, molding from initial fighting formation to two paralleled human walls. Bucklers snap together like bricks. The sixty bodies unified into one. A knee low and a foot behind, they brace, muscles clenched awaiting judgement.
Ixas Sabardin, the captain of Unit III, a giant with body chiseled like a bull removes himself from my side and jumps down the dais. After stretching himself he rams the human wall head first as test for impregnability.
Dust scatters blinding us in a minute. As it clears not an inch is moved earning approving nods from the captains. Captain Ixas shakes his head in a daze as he steps back. He kicks one shield then another, satisfying it would not budge. His lips tip up, the closest to a grin of menace.
"Battle formation!" The Elite captain of Unit I, Erasmus Rema Ischtius, orders.
Then they break the human wall and reform into three rectangles seamlessly, backs inside compressing until their bucklers interlock. Cunningly silent and ruthless, they stab out their lances as a final touch. A whistle and they transform from battle formation to battle formation.
I play my part well. Nodding in agreement, divulging comments to other captains. All the while I loathe myself for doing it.
Thoughts of the girl have made it hard to trump down whatever sense of decorum I have left. She vanished right before my eyes as if being a breathing Vanuyan is not surprise enough. Han ran mad, shouting she was a ghost out to hunt those who have massacred her tribe.
That was two days ago. But I could not grasp what happened. I stood there stupidly blinking at the empty space she was at, as flashes of memories came flooding me.
And she spoke… in perfect Aeonnite tongue. How could she know how to speak Aeonnite? Schools have long been extinguished outside Freobel. The ones inside the King's jurisdiction have adamant orders not to teach the language to the little brown people. It is another mystery she left me grappling with and turning up with nothing.
How? How is she alive?
My hands, I help end them with my own hands. Before, the word impossible was a thing I believe to exist only on textbooks, on myths.
But that girl… embodies possibility.
The training exercise ends with feet slamming down the ground dragging my wits back to the present. Just in time at that. In one swift motion, spines snap and figures firm, they stump fists on the armor twice at the heart as a salute to the conqueror. The three other captains and I do exactly the same.
"At ease!" a brazen voice bellows. Everyone loosens their hands to the sides, necks crane to see Erasmus.
"The King appreciates all your efforts. You have shown dexterity, skills, courage. You are all capable men. You have exceeded expectations. You are worthy. You are powerful. You are strong. You are the King's mightiest elite! In the King's name, in his honor, what do you do?"
"Conquer. Dominate. Victory!" they shout back, proud, flaunting.
"What for?"
"Beloved King. Beloved Aeon. Beloved home."
We repeat it for three times over like a mantra. Our duty requires us to do so. I close my eyes detaching from what I say – as if the world would melt away, as if everything would.
I clear my mind, reaching for a small measure of peace… and it is there, thin as a thread. I hold onto it, fiercely. My mother's smiling face, her laughter chimes like music and then my sister's bravery. The memories burn behind my eyelids. Their warmth flows to every part of me, every vein and I feel replenish, determined.
I know why I am here.
"Where are you?" I hear Dunn's whisper on my left before I open my eyes. I assume his question rhetorical.
The clamor has stopped. The units breaking and retreating into small clusters as they went to rest. Ixas have already gone to commend his men for the successful show of savagery.
Meanwhile, arms on chest, Erasmus watches me stone cold, arrogant, challenging. His skin darkened by exposure to the sun matches his sallow shaggy hair. His angular face with cheeks too high, nose too sharp and thin multiplies the ferocity of his demeanor. I did not mind what my behavior would imply but the way he regards me with his deep grassy eyes says it all.
Treacherous. Hypocrite.
I keep my face deadpan as I look at the ragged scar on his right brow spanning closely to his eye towards his ear. He used to challenge me all the time but he ceased after I put that scar on his face. He sneers as he passes by as if a hunter with a catch.
"I recommend Madame Sim's women. They ease off troubles like scratching an itch," Dunn says after Erasmus has gone, a warning in his eyes.
"Have you seen yourself lately?" I say. "You could use one yourself."
Dunn Loticuss looks older than twenty-one as if he carries all misfortunes. Forehead lined with creases, his eyes of bright green is murky. The steady vigor of his blond hair that others envy lost its liveliness. Dunn should only be an inch short of my height of six four but he seems smaller. I should be the one looking at him wearily.
We step down the dais heading directly to our quarters half mile west of the field when my lieutenant joins us.
Lieutenant Hughes Vertii.
"Something is bothering you." He says. Dunn has just been dragged away by his own lieutenant.
"There is always something to be bothered of. Natives, order, and this bleeding training exercise."
"I rarely hear you complain." Lieutenant Hughes does not quibble over small matters, which is why there is an implication hidden on that sentence.
"It would benefit you to be direct, lieutenant." I spat, patience already slipping.
"I have been your second in command for three years," he answers. "I still do not know you."
"You wish to know me?" I face him, eyebrow rising. "You sound like a whore." I see him fight the urge to roll his eyes with the stiffness of his shoulders.
"Evasion does not suit you, captain."
"Neither does being nosy in you." I say. He falls back into step and I follow him.
"No sharper weapon than words."
He looks at me from the corner of his eyes recognizing a line our previous captain once told us. "No deadlier enemy than ignorance." Hughes finishes, catching my meaning.
Here at the base, learning is when to seal your mouth and when to say what superiors want to hear. Learn fast or otherwise. For King Cirrhinus is paranoid, obsessed with his men's loyalty. He is convinced the prophesied end of his reign is coming true and he needs men he can trust. Men that would live and breathe for him.
There is no place for one's emotions or priorities. Even love.
What Hughes has besides his loyalty is curiosity. It is what made him an errand boy for the barracks, pushed him to survive and be drafted in the Elite. I see that on his eyes now.
A quality that benefits and harms.
"Curiosity kills the cat, is it not how it ends?"
"After discovering it has nine lives."
"You do not."
"But the pull is overwhelming," he mocks. Hughes is older by two years and he is acting like an idiot.
"I dare you to a spar, captain."
I am about to tell him how much he is going to regret offering that but a light-boned, fair skinned man approaches us. He is in a long blue satin tunic with embroidered patterns on the hem of neck and cuffs. From what he is wearing I can tell he is a messenger of the king.
"The King summons Sir Dunn Loticuss and Sir Gaviel Remenniah," he says, mellow, with a bow.
What does he want now?
I give the messenger a hard look which does not bother him being used to take looks like mine.
I nod to Hughes. Needing nothing more to say he makes himself scarce and retreats. His ruby cape waves caught in the wind, his back slumps.
I find myself sighing as I head to the citadel.
* * *
Aeon's citadel of earth and stone extends six floors up and two floors higher in the middle. It stands as commanding as the man sitting on top with a crown on his head. The military base is located behind this citadel structured meters away, separated only by a small forest. Since it has our base close, King Cirrhinus refused to call his home the palace.
Inside, pompous carpets are laid on the floor. Tapestries hang on walls pertaining the successful colonization of Aeon in Freobel. Immaculate pillars loom on both sides like giants scrutinizing my being. Hallways are lined with the king's and palace's sentries, only the stairs are without guards. Despite of that it feels haunted as the catacombs. And it smells like scented oil and burned candles.
The messenger left me and Dunn with the instructions to proceed on our own. We reach the topmost floor feeling burned. Here, the sentries are doubled. Their black armor like blotched ink on walls. Halfway to one of the king's private throne room, we hear crumbs of conversation.
"…was not able to bring forth the Lur's heir," says the king, languid but vexed.
Dunn and I exchanges glances. Sanim of Lur. The girl mentioned she saved him. He is not dead. Then the Anagolay betrayed the king.
Why?
My father used to tell lore about the Anagolay, about the time he was a noble one. Could it be… What could possibly happen that it must have changed his mind. No. He works for hire. Someone else must have paid him a higher bounty.
"The Anagolay sire?" an astounded voice asks. I recognize Galahad, the seeker. His men are the majesty's trackers; they can find anyone as good as the Anagolay can.
"Yes."
"Pardon me your Majesty but the Anagolay is almost impossible to track." Galahad replies, bravely.
"Then make it possible…"
We arrive at the open door's huge arch lingering as they talk. The king sat on throne, a polished stone with high back and wide seat at the middle of three balconies in purview of Aeon. Two balconies on each side face East and West and one looks North at the back of the throne. A map of Freobel is engraved on the floor, colored with landmarks and legends. Great chandelier hangs above the domed-shaped roof full of unlit beeswax candles.
Three members of the king's council, with their extravagant satin and dyed garments with precious stone jewelries is on the king's left side. While his majesty's personal attendants are on a far corner, pretending to be invisible.
A man closely standing beside the king has his right lower leg as metal. He immediately notices our arrival with his cool, pale, blue eyes. As he focuses on us, hate and anger boil within me I dare yet entertain.
A man who killed far too many it was hard to tally but would still remember how he killed every single one. He was responsible for that tribe's genocide. He made it as an initiation for the Elites. An act of loyalty. Proof that we were willing to do anything for the kingdom. It was to strengthen our bond, our teamwork. To fight and watch each other's back. We were ten, eleven, then. Kids. We were nothing but boys. Innocence teared to shreds, we awoke the next morning as killers.
His greying hair and wrinkled skin did not dull his abilities as the king's iron fist; great strategist of divide and conquer. Aeon's Minister of War.
General Elricht Villan Orieus.
Dunn rolls his shoulders slightly, feeling another set of emotions towards him.
"Bring the Anagolay and the boy." King Cirrhinus orders, waving his hand goodbye.
Galahad and his men, I counted eight, despite being passive exchanges disturbed glances upon hearing what they have to do. They saluted him and we enter as they meekly gone out.
"Ah, the two of my youngest and finest warriors, at ease! At ease!" The king says as we salute to him.
We cross the space, nearing the throne when I caught the shy fluttering of a cloth outside the confines of my field of vision. I slow, thunderstruck which Dunn notices and he stops along with me.
The girl.
What in the name of a kapre–
It took a lot of willpower not to look than I expected as if her presence pulls my spine towards her. She is standing on the balcony on my left wearing a scarf of hood, pasted on the blind side of General Elricht.
No one else seem to notice her.
I channel my focus on the king. It was a distance well enough not to rouse suspicion however General Elricht knows his soldiers like his favorite poem, every single telltale committed to memory. He peers at me with the subtle eyes of a predator. Allowing my surprise to surface or any emotions for that matter, would have cost me ten lashes if he was still a captain and I, his underling.
"You wanted to see us your majesty?" Dunn speaks in my accordance. I am still bewildered to speak.
Come on Gaviel, focus.
"I want to congratulate you. I was not able to do it with the festival but, well done." He claps his hands as he says it.
The king's square face is deceptively kind. Eyes blue as the summer sky, lips that curls endearingly and shoulder length hair of bronze seem to light up with his mood. Yellow and red satin garments encrusted with jewels and robe of royal purple are vibrant against his olive skin. The crown – golden as my eyes, glimmers on his head.
"Man, it is hot," he jests, moving to yank his robe free. "I do not know why they insist I put it on. Freobel is nothing but sun and rain all year long."
One of his attendants receive the robe.
"So, here we are."
"At your service always, your majesty," I say, recovering.
"Well, speaking of service, I need you two in our southern borders, the fort in Horr. Trouble with the natives – " he spoke the word natives as if they were scraps of food stuck between his teeth.
" – I do not know which, there is too many of them out there."
He manages a small laugh, flashing straight teeth. His council members mumble their agreement. Contrary to his sanguinity, riots have exploded more frequently than before. The tribes cannot fight back, hammered down. Leaving Thraine guerrillas abhorred by what we had done on Lur and retaliate. They always do at the closest fort they can attack.
"Six tribes, your highness." Dunn answers, careful to exclude the Vanuyan, that would have counted as seven. "The tribe in the south is Horrit."
"Yes, right. Saddle up your horses and your men. Some usurpers tried to take the watch tower. It is just a small ruckus that I want to end, quickly," he says, as simply as wanting a drink.
We are his good tools– Dunn and I and so we follow orders and salute to him. "Yes, your majesty."
But we also understand he means to kill everyone. Sending two Elite captains would do the job. He does not have interest in prisoners unless he has something to gain from them. I turn my back, start to gain five steps eager to get away.
I have to ask that girl. I need to –
"I have not seen you at the feast Gaviel. Where were you?" the king says, abruptly. One line and I went rigid.
The day Lur was sieged and we arrived back on our own city, a feast was thrown in our honor. A feast lasting for two days. I only had enough time to came back from the tunnels then pretending to be on a drinking spree. Dunn eyes me but continues to walk out. I face the throne.
"Out drunk, your majesty." I say the most natural thing a soldier would do. "I preferred Madame Sim's liquor. Here it tastes like piss and my men consumes it before I can have seconds."
Which is not entirely a lie. I drank one flagon of coconut alcohol, waited until all of my men along with the Elites nearby are drunk, otherwise engaged before sneaking out.
King Cirrhinus smiles while General Elricht, ever suspicious narrows his eyes.
"You could have had a drink with me," the king says standing on his throne walking steadily towards me. The satin hem flowing flawlessly behind him.
"You robbed me of the opportunity to gloat you over my ministers."
"I am certain they are already out of words to describe your greatness."
"Nonsense! I will not be here without you or the Elites and my soldiers. I will have you known, your skills, far and wide." He grips my shoulders tightly like a small child in need of a counsel even as I am far taller than he.
"Of what the boy from the streets have repaid me. I think of you as a brother Gaviel! Ever since I rescued you…"
I almost beheaded him that instant.
Whatever the king said, it was drowned out. "– I guess I have to commend your teacher," king Cirrhinus regards General Elricht who bows.
Indeed.
I know how I look from the king's perspective. Unusually calm face almost bored, glazed over eyes as if I no longer care for anything. Every impulse, every small tick of the eyebrows, clenched jaw or finger tapping. Anything unnecessary. Any tells that would cost you your thoughts, was rigorously removed, courtesy of General Elricht.
For a sickening second, we lock eyes.
I know your trick, boy.
I can almost hear him say that.
"Well then, I have to dismiss you."
Inclining my head, I say "My liege." When I finally got out, my feet seem to fly across long hallways. Down grand staircases, I curl my fists to a tight ball.
Right at the intersection of the third floor, before the stairs, I see a head poking out to look in my direction. There is a gasp. Whatever reason she was there I do not care. Half a breath passes and I run towards her as quick as a second passing.
I caught her wrist, push her back on the wall before she can even react. The scarf falls with the force revealing her features.
Her free hand goes to my arm pressing a dagger to her neck. I close the distance between us. Our foreheads nearly touching.
"What are you?" I say, slowly, my words hissing. Her body shakes, breathing frantic. She opens her mouth to speak but her lips tremble, she had to purse them back.
"I…I," is all she can manage.
A trickle of blood runs my blade. She whimpers closing her eyes and I allow myself to look – to really look at her.
The girl is about my age, slim and small. Her hair is damp, in the same state the last time I saw her. Her rigid body screams of fear. Face contorted in an ugly streak of real terror. Not much muscles, nothing to fight with. She had no training. She is ordinary. Disappearing right before me hardly is ordinary, still…
I am aware, on that moonlit sky, that I have become a monster I feared most. I followed orders just to survive. But I also knew then the Vanuyans were innocent.
I release my grip on her in a trance. She slides to the floor immediately as if without strength. With a touch on her neck she shudders at the sight of blood. The immense horror on her eyes as she gazes up at me stirs the guilt I struggled to hide in the pit of my soul.
"I'm bleeding," she mumbles. "How can I be bleeding?"
The girl looks at her bloodied hand contemplating intensely. As I hunker down, she cowers and it twists my stomach.
I hear footfalls on the hallway. Three soldiers are coming.
"They will not hesitate to kill you once they find you here." I say, more to myself than to her. She blinks fast, unfocused before she sees me. I hold her gaze and her eyes wander inside mine.
Searching.
"Come with me." I offer, surprising myself.
I recognize what it is she is digging for. Trust. And as though she finds it, she nods. Using the wall, she struggles to stand, her knees buckling.
Laughter hits our ears and she startles out of her skin, about to bolt down the stairs. I put a steady hand on her shoulder.
Nothing good ever happens when you panic.
We ease our way, past the stairs and on the next floor. Our steps calm but hurried. On the ground floor, a courtyard opens to the small forest of sycamore, mahogany, fig and acacia – the ones separating the citadel and the base. We went straight through it. A shortcut towards our quarters.
After the boundary of trees is a clearing laden with carabao grasses, dandelions and untrimmed wildflowers. I see the Elites' barracks and the well a hundred yards away. Next to it is the quarters of the captains.
We half trot towards the side moving past the well when I sense a lookout coming our way. I shove the girl behind my back. Leaning against the wall, I pretend to be in idle.
At a distance, Elites from all the units exercises the horses on the training field, others are practicing with their arrows and I observe them as an excuse.
Shock takes the lookout off guard when he sees me, but the soldier salutes as he realizes who I am. I nod and he went back to his rounds like nothing is odd about it. I hear the girl's relieved sigh.
Too early to celebrate. When the sentry disappears from view, I wait until I am certain there is no one paying me any attention.
I encircle my arm to her shoulders and shield her with my frame and cape. Should they see us no one would be any wiser.
The third door opens to a rectangular space. Finally closed indoors, it is just then I felt relieved.
Being an Elite captain, we are afforded the privilege of privacy unlike in the barracks. Before me is a table, rolled parchments on top along with a bowed candle, a stool below it. On my right is a connecting room, a curtain hides my bedroom from my office.
Drawing the curtain aside, a solitary cot rests on a corner, another table with a washbasin, a jar of water and a wooden cabinet.
I resent the smell of mold on the walls as if immanent, sweat and bad feet intermingling, clinging stickily to my skin. And it strikes me how I suddenly feel conscious.
Of her.
Of me alone with her.
What am I supposed to say to her? 'I murdered your tribesmen, how are you faring?'
Instead, I gesture for her to sit as I stride to the table, pouring water on the basin. I added vinegar to the water and prepare the strips of bandages.
The girl stands unmoving, staring vacantly at the floor. Blood on her neck snaking to her collarbone.
I am reminded yet again that she is no apparition conceived by my mind because of the guilt I bear.
"You have to stop the bleeding." I hand her a clean cloth but she does not seem to hear me or care. Moving without the sense of doing, she presses the linen to her neck, near the pulsing vein. Where my dagger had been.
"It can't be… I can't be…"
Cannot be what?
"I'm not supposed to be hurt…"
"You are not supposed to be alive."
Her gaze snaps to mine as if she only noticed I am right there at that moment. "You don't understand."
"You are right. I am certain–" I stop. The gist of unspoken words hangs heavily in the air between us. She sinks back to her reverie. I busy my hands on wringing a piece of cloth on the water.
"Is there more of you?" I ask. "Survivors."
The girl shakes her head. I pull a stool and sit across her. Her shoulders tighten at my proximity.
"Your wound. It needs to be cleaned." Warily she allows me. She reeks of the rotting stench of Essius' arena with a hint of vomit. She was in the black market. How and why I rather not know.
"I lost a shoe," she snorts. I glance at her left foot, it is bare and has scratches on them. It must have slipped off unnoticed. Her scarf is missing either.
After cleaning the wound, I wrap it with a bandage. "Thank you," she says as I finish the knot. It caught me unaware, rendering my body still.
"You have nothing to thank me for." I say five breaths later.
A look, direct and true. Straight in the face as if she was never afraid.
"You let me live."
I recoil from her as if what she said burned me. "I did not let you live, you stayed alive on your own."
"You're not trying to kill me, so thank you."
Something feels lifted inside of me. A weight. Small and inconsequential yet I feel it being lifted. I stare at her, confuse and uncertain. I was never given any gratitude for sparing a life. I have always been scorned or respected for brutality or revered in fear. Not gratitude.
I feel I do not deserve it.
"You do," she insists as if she knows my thoughts. I duck from her gaze and went straight for my cabinet.
When I was ten, I always wore a pair of dark leather boots. I grew out of it fast only keeping it in remembrance. It has been gathering dust since. I grab it along with a hooded cloak and a map of the whole military base and the citadel.
"Why are you here?"
"A mistake."
"Why… here? How did you get here?"
I actually have more questions. I dare not ask. The girl seals her lips.
"Is the secret more important than your life?" I realize as I inquire that it is true. She looks away, closing in on herself completely. And that, is the clearest answer I got from her.
"You are going to need this." I give her the cloak, placing the boots by her feet. "Stay low. Hide who you are. For now, you can stay here but leave at the last dog watch of the night. I will try to reduce the number of sentries at that moment. Follow the map I gave you."
Seconds later she slips in the boots, fitting perfectly then she fastens the cloak, the hood hiding her identity. She clutches the map in both hands while I head to the door.
"Do not come back. I cannot help you any longer," my last words to her.
I went out and I did not look back.
* * *
With a soft touch on the screen, the call that jailed Leonard for hours finally ended. He returns to his office and sits on Newt's comfortable executive chair, exhausted.
At least he got to leave for three days. That might be enough. How long would it take them to find Lila's father exactly? He does not know and three days is all he could spare.
He looks up expecting Lila on one of the ladders wedged on a bookshelf. Instead, he is met with silence that doesn't usually happen when she's around.
"Lila," he calls.
No answer. Leonard waits for a few minutes but the house is so still he decided to look for her. A small gut feeling tugs Leonard as he takes a step after step up the stairs.
"Lila?" He asks as if to the walls.
The second-floor creaks of his movement alone. He peeks at his grandfather's room where not even ghost resides. At first glance Leonard only notices the open windows until he saw a box.
There were albums and picture frames all over the floor and being an overly organized type of person, he picks them up arranging them inside the box again. He puts it back right where it belongs on top of the stack, feeling rightly satisfied after.
He then closes the windows, thinking Lila must have gone out. As he strides near the bed his foot bumps a small object.
A black leather journal resting on the floor.
Leonard picks it up recognizing it as the journal his grandfather wrote stories on. Newt always wanted to be an author but being old and an average professor he didn't had much time. Especially when he took over watching Lila after her father disappeared.
Yellowed pages greet Leonard. Crisp are the pages and smells sweet like a strawberry cologne. The first page is blank but the second page reveals a familiar stroke of handwriting blossom its curves on a paragraph.
He skips it. Next page block letters of 'Chapter I' is starting the story. Leonard flips pages to next, casually skimming. This is Newt's story. Not interested enough Leonard closes the book with a thump. He let it stay on the bed. He is about to go when a word sticks out in his head.
He snatches the journal back then turns to the page where he read it over and over and over again, eyebrows burrowing.
"It's Lila," she says right when the dagger hits, scrambling. "My name's Lila."
Is this who I think it is? Leonard thought. Probably just a coincidence. It must be. Just a coincidence.
A mistake. Right?
He reaches for his phone, dial Lila's number which doesn't connect. Leonard, to be sure, skims for a part that would not confirm his suspicion. A description. A mole on the nose or a fat physique.
And then, to his dismay he reads:
… hair the darkest shade of night sky, eyes of deep brown it is almost black and skin of honey.
Every hair on his arms and neck stands up as he shakes his head.
That girl -- She is inside.