Restitution: A short story

 

Restitution

A short story by Jonah Robson

When first assigned as assistant to an imperial advisor, I was determined not to get my 

fingers cut off. I’d heard stories of young attendants, eager to please, getting assorted digits chopped for insolence such as getting the wrong type of meat from the wet market, or interrupting their master, or even for not making their masters’ corn tea fast enough.

Imagine my terror, then, when I was appointed to no other court advisor but old Sunye, the most hated, enigmatic, and, frankly, depressed looking court advisor in the entire city. I’d seen him only a few times: once I spotted him wordlessly observing a public debate between some high class citizens:my father, and our capital’s Committee of Cultural Order. He stood at the back of the meeting hall, leaning up against a wrought iron pillar, arms crossed, his face displaying weary exasperation. He did not speak at all. 

The second time I saw old Sunye in public, he was being harassed in the street by some priests of Bahar. Surely, I thought, Those priests will get their tongues pulled out with wire cutters by the emperor himself. 

No such thing happened. It appeared that Sunye was only a peripheral court advisor to his holiness, and as such, was not offered any public protection in the slums.

I’m not sure who greenlit my appointment to Sunye’s side, but they were either cruel or wise. Perhaps they meant to damage my(nonexistent)reputation, or knew that there was cunning to be learned from him. I had supposed my father pulled some strings and arranged it, but I never got the chance to ask him. At this point, after the way things went down that night, I don’t really care who pulled the trigger on that one.

The night in question was, by my count, forty years ago. I wasn’t even twenty, and only three months into serving Sunye in his proceedings about the city. He was not a hard man to please. In fact, when addressing me, Sunye was very gentle. 

The real challenge of the job was not Sunye, but his swarm of vocal opponents. Nearly every priest and prophet in the city had it out for him. Every chance they got they would drag his name through the mud. There was not a single temple in the whole of the city - and there were hundreds of them - that didn’t consider Sunye’s name anathema. Sunye was a “dangerous foreigner”, Sunye was a “leech on the Emperor’s - may he live forever - skin”, Sunye was “full of lies and doomsday visions from stem to stern” they would say. And he wasn’t even (publicly) classified as a prophet. He was too principled a man for the city, and his days in the position were numbered since the day he’d been demoted into it.

Sunye’s wisdom was unparalleled, but those who wished him gone did have legitimate ground to attack him on: he didn’t make sacrifices, ever. It was a matter of principle for him; which was some principle! There was no easier way to make enemies of a bunch of jealous priests thanthen to not offer sacrifices. 

At that time, I did my civic duty, and offered sacrifices like everyone else. I wanted the sun to rise, so I gave money to Luz every 6 days. I wanted the crops to grow, so I gave my dues to Du’xi. I, honestly, wanted a healthy body, so of course I’d give to Bahar, Mantion, and Minotaur. I would give extra, as well, for my neighbors, my housemaids, and even my ex-girlfriend at one point.

Sunye didn’t practice this due diligence. The way that the religious leaders of our city turned the commoners against him, then, was easy. You could never find Sunye doing his part to appease the gods at any time of year. Accordingly, he was out of favor with every divine being we held so dear! He would see no blessing of success from Lath, nor would Du’xi enrich his food at every meal. His name was a curse near every temple to Bahar, and priests of Mantion had worked hard to undo any policies he’d supported in the healthcare system. 

I was vexed when I discovered his abstinence of sacrificing(how did his life even work?), but upon observing his work ethic to serve despite these bewildering principles, my frustration turned to curiosity, and we started becoming friends.

Despite the shamings by all manner of public figures, I could not help but appreciate how hard Sunye worked to make informed decisions. In any given civil conflict, be it a fiscal crisis, a law dispute, or a public health disaster, he would know what resources to pull to fix the problem, and often everyone would end up winning. He seemed to know everything there was to know about the capital city’s happenings, yet never went to devious lengths to get the information.

Not only was he clever, but he was decent. He was good at listening, polite when asking questions, and his powers of discernment were unmatched. If not for his status as an immigrant, he merited advising the emperor’s throne every second of every day. 

In fact, and this is getting into things before my career had started, he was Baulan the Great’s most trusted advisor for the latter decades of the emperor’s life. It was only on Baulan the Great’s death, when his son ascended, that Sunye was shot far from any prestigious court.

I started attending Sunye half a year after this imperial shakeup. The new emperor Baulan II recycled his father’s advisors into lower bureaucratic positions, promoting good friends and wartime loverboys to the imperial circle instead. The average age of the imperial court got 30 years younger overnight following the death of Baulan the Great and ascension of Baulan II. Sunye was a casualty of this to be sure, he was forced from him villa in the imperial palace, out of the old quarter, and into a government-subsidized apartment in the adjacent slums. My father, on the other hand, had been promoted in the imperial shakeup, and was on his way up as Sunye was on his way down.

This was the environment in which I was arraigned to Sunye’s side. From his demotion on until that last night I saw him, he really only worked the bureaucratic circle; the lower courts, committees and such, where it was easier for priests and advisors to take potshots at him.

Were it not for one crucial night, the night our farce of an empire came crashing down, Sunye would live in my mind forever as an enigma. But, for a brief glimmer the entire world witnessed him for why he kept going, and it was the most amazing and terrible thing I would ever see.

That crucial night began with me escorting Sunye back to his apartment. The plan was to escort Sunye home and then answer an invitation to my first ever imperial banquet. 

It was a rainy evening, mid-monsoon season, and the slum’s streets had no efficient way of draining all the water that funneled into them. There were no street lamps this far from the palace, and, as always, we made our way by the hundreds of white and neon shop lights. The 

closer to the slums you got, the less and less those lights seemed to work and the more and more they flickered and broke. It was, as always, dingy. 

Hundreds of people were about that night, flooding themselves out of the rain into clothing and department stores. Idle feet could be heard squeaking the tile floors of tattoo parlors and food marts. Words were exchanged on the newest public party to Bahar coming up, or how our nearest bathhouse was just shut down for toxic mold, or how the corn silos were getting new decals painted on them, but they didn’t look too good.

Nobody stated the obvious: supplies from each and every shopfront were getting worse, cheaper, and scarcer. Everyone outside of the palace quarter of the city was on limited corn rations by that point. My umbrella with which I escorted Sunye was the only one which didn’t have holes in it. Of course, it made us stand out.

The military vehicles were new for this part of town. From over a small urban rise, three old humvees suddenly blasted down the street, charging towards us, sending citizens and rickshaws scattering to the sides as fast as possible. Each had a large heavy machine gun situated on top, each manned by a tense man of the imperial volunteers. The trucks passed as pedestrians dove out of the way. A magazine salesman slid into a foot-deep puddle in front of us. Sunye and I stayed moving, stepping over him. Suddenly, a loud wail broke out behind us, rising slow and low like an air-raid siren. Someone had just been run over by one of the humvees. We strove forwards towards the public square, but the pandemonium only increased ahead of us.

A man was being whipped in the public square, right by a great black marble statue of Baulan the Great. The victim was naked and strung into the air by his arms, facing the statue. His knees were chained to the ground. Punishing him was a lone imperial volunteer, a lieutenant. He’d pull back the whip, snap it a couple times, and then lash the man’s back. I was unsure how many stripes the poor, weeping prisoner was on, but by my morbid guess it could’ve been fifteen. 

Sunye was drawn to a small group of soldiers sitting in the corner of the courtyard behind a wall of sandbags under a camouflage tent. They stood out of the rain, assault rifles in hand, circled around a small radio, listening to a report. I caught maybe 15 seconds of it: “Second city ### taken #### outskirts of #### 8th battalion lost.” One of the soldiers, a Major, looked up at us and shooed us away. Sunye did not mention who he was, but it probably wouldn’t have helped. 

Imperial decree #17, issued a couple months ago, stated that all front line news of the war shall not reach the ears of any public official outside of the war department unless the Emperor gives express permission that it may be shared with them. Sunye, though it was technically illegal, did accumulate some information on the war, always in a dignified manner. He rarely shared updates with me, and when he did it was stale news.

Sunye and I shuffled across the courtyard. The whipped man’s screams echoed amongst the multistoried apartments around us. I was anxious about this war we were waging, and though I didn’t normally do so, I dared to ask Sunye a question beyond what I deserved an answer for.

“Sunye,” I said, with a quavering voice, looking down.

“Yes, my son?” He looked straight on and spoke in his usual stoic tone.

“You, you know something about how the military is doing, and I won’t tell anyone you know, but I was curious what - you see, my family, my father and I, I think we should be worried.”

“It’s against Imperial Decree 17 to know or disseminate anything about the war, save the emperor’s express permission.” I heard the tone in his voice, I knew a test when he gave me one.

“Yes, but I am ready to disobey that decree.”

“Are you?” His candor became slightly more amicable.

“I must know what’s happening.” I stated confidently and quietly.

“That you should, my young friend- .” Before Sunye could continue, a great and terrible voice broke out across the courtyard: 

“YOU!”

It was a priest of Bahar; Brother Patricio. He stood on the marble peristyle of the local Bahari temple in the midst of the downpour, draped in his cherry red robes, pointing at us with a long, crooked finger. Brother Patricio was a funny figure; as the high priest of a temple to the god of fertility, you’d expect a more attractive and lustful figure, yet he was neither. He was heavily balding, with a big ring of brown hair stretching around his head from ear to ear. His forehead was tall and wrinkly, and overhung two small eyes and a large sloping nose. He’d wouldn’t look anything at all like an authority figure if it weren’t for his strong, broad chin. He stood on a small ledge in front of the temple’s elegant pillars, which meant that he was several  feet off the ground and in a prime position to accuse pedestrians of whatever he wished.

“Stand and defend yourself! You- you atheist!!”

Sunye stood still. I believe he rarely heard the atheism insult. 

“You are alone, you godless one!” Patricio cried, “You are the last of a foolish race! I know it, the people know it, even your little protégé knows it!”

A crowd had gathered to watch Patricio’s tirade, a common occurrence. Some had come to see the whipping, others were just arriving for the imminent Bahari temple orgy, while others were just passersby taking shelter from the rain. An atheist! The pantheon had been cleansed of them during the reign of Baulan the Great. Atheists were as extinct as Gorillas.

Sunye stood still for a moment and listened to what new vitriol Patricio had cooked up today. Patricio didn’t disappoint.

“You jester! You wretch! Your type thinks you’re so much better than us! So much smarter! So much freer! We all know you don’t worship the gods! We all know you don’t make sacrifices! You wish to incur the corporate wrath of the gods upon us?! You want to incur their wrath upon you? Well, here you have it!”

Sunye began walking again and I followed with the umbrella. Patricio continued.

“May Lath, Oh Lath, our holy god of success, finally make you destitute! May Mantion, our holy god of health, cause your limbs to wither and make your face more hideous than that of a dying widow! May Clockye, holy lord of time, shorten your years! May you even die tonight!”

Patricio continued even as we walked out of the square. I’m not sure if Sunye heard it when Patricio called upon Bahar to shrink his testicles to the size of corn kernels and then pop them off one by one, but if he did, he didn’t change his pace. He only continued, and together we walked down a side-street next to the great temple. Patricio followed around the corner. He suddenly appeared behind us in the shade of the temple overhang, still raised upon the peristyle.

“Oh, old Sunye! I know where you herald from! You poor old exile! You worthless immigrant! Whatever god you worshiped back home, you know he’s dead! Gone! Smitten by pantheon! Torn limb from limb. Your people are scattered! Your home has been destroyed! Your young women violated! Your houses mowed down for fields of corn that I may eat! That we all may eat! A worthwhile sacrifice! And when you die, you sad old man, we shall all eat better! We shall all eat you!”

As we walked away from him, down the street to the left of the temple, we could hear the orgy starting in the temple basement, and see lights flash through the green stained glass basement windows. It started earlier today. 

Sunye was overwhelmed and, stoic as he was, I knew he needed time to release the anguish besetting him. The rain had stopped, but I kept my umbrella open, trying to provide some amount of dignity for him.

The neighborhood by his apartment had become noticeably worse in the last month. It already had been a red light district when he’d been moved in, but as time passed and war refugees poured in from other cities, it got much worse. People, scared people, were looking to lose themselves however they could. It was noisy, hot, and constantly damp. Steam and smoke poured from mysterious alleyways and boarded storefronts. Every other person was looking to sell you some needle or strange pipe. If they got too close, I’d demand to be left alone and they typically would oblige. 

Every night that we got to the apartment without trouble was a good night. We got to the apartment’s front door. As usual, I had to force the door open with a sharp tug, and held it as Sunye sadly shuffled inside. Above, the clouds were clearing, and a pink and gold sunset could be seen through the smog. 

Sunye’s apartment was on the fifth floor and overlooked over a few rooftops, which by this point were covered in refugee tents. I typically kept the shades down and kept a white noise maker running at all times. Sunye, as Sunye did when he was overwhelmed, went straight to his small bedroom, while I stayed in the kitchenette and made corn tea for him. 

What Sunye did behind closed doors was not my business. I would like to say I was never curious what rituals he engaged with back in his tiny room, but of course I was. Whatever the case, he’d go inside, stay in for almost a half-hour, and come out looking reinvigorated, if still somber as always.

I worked to understand his relationship with the divine with shameless curiosity. He was a refugee of the country of Setesia, taken almost sixty years ago when he was a young man. Armed with this knowledge, I dove through the old(and terribly underfunded) imperial library for anything on Setesia, but nothing much came of it. It was a small kingdom, on the very edge of the empire, taken at the very end of Baulan the Great’s first conquest. Notes on Setesian life were ruefully bad. A traveling merchant was recorded as saying it the region was “an unprofitable mess with a backwards backwards virtue system and a comically overblown notion of a god.” This didn’t translate onto anything I knew of Sunye, whether he was atheist or not. 

Typically, the religious section of the library would contain copies of these conquest poems priests of the pantheon would write. Whenever, during a conquest, another state was fully destroyed, priests would write into the pantheonic canon of how exactly the god of the conquered people had been killed by Lath, or Minotaur, or Luz, and such. Setesia had no such poem, yet we did conquer them sixty years ago. It only made sense that Sunye’s boyhood deity was slain, so if he was praying in his room, it could be to no such deity unless out of foolish hope. 

As Sunye took time alone, I daydreamed. I fiddled with a pen and notepad, trying to draw something, but I was too tense. I pulled open the shade again and began gazing over the buildings, towards the mountains beyond. The corn tea tasted terrible as usual, even with the new synthesized flavoring they had rolled out. 

Sunye eventually emerged, somber, but rested and relaxed. As he swung the door open, a glimpse into his room showed it was barren of detail; a small bed, a drawer, another east facing window. There were no altars, or idols, or even candles. There were no pictures of gods; the walls were blank. It was a secular room. (Even the word secular, I remember at that time, was hardly used).

I looked back from the old man to the window again. The sunset was awfully pretty, even though we were at an east facing window. Suddenly, a question slipped out of my mouth as I gazed, and I had no idea where it came from. It was my mouth which said it, but it was so abstract, and frankly, I found it grossly sappy: “Sunye…what drives you?”

“Drives me to what?” He was unexpectedly energetic in his answer to my question.

“Drives you to do such a good job. To be so thorough, so tactful. I’ve seen you at work, you are a hardworking man… despite the fact others… well…”

“Despite the fact that no one likes me.” Sunye said smiling.

“Yes.” I continued (who was this person responding to the old man so surely?) “I was fearful of being assigned to you when I first heard the rumors about you.”

“Well, Cal, my young friend,” Sunye said, wiping tea from his gray beard, “You can now attest to if those rumors are true. It does me no good to know them.”

“Of course it does good to know them!” I exclaimed. I felt a pang of embarrassment. He acted as if nothing was wrong.

“Let's say this.” Sunye proffered, “You were asking me about the war just about an hour ago.”

“Yes?” I leaned forward.

“You must know that something isn’t right. It’s not going well at all. The enemy is drawing closer. Can’t you feel it?”

I thought long and hard before answering him. “I can feel it.” I said.

“Right. It’s in the air. I don’t have to tell you that, for instance, the city’s hydroelectric dam is dangerously exposed, for you to have this innate insecurity about the future of the empire. You don’t need solid proof, you can just feel the danger.”

My eyes widened, “What about the municipal dam?” I asked.

“Don’t get bogged in particulars,” Sunye chided, “but last week I came across a spare field report from some imperial engineer stating that there were serious security risks at our hydroelectric dam positioned right (Sunye pointed towards a small valley in the mountains)...there.”

I looked out the window a third time, trying to find the valley, “you’re saying that that dam is unprotected? It powers the entire city.”

“From the report I found, yes. I can’t disseminate this information, I know, I’ll get the rope.” Sunye mused.

“How long has it been this way?”

“I don’t know. How long has the war been at our doorstep? It’s starting to become not a question of weeks, I fear, but days, hours even.”

“Hold on,” I chuckled, “now you’re suddenly living up to those ‘doomsday prophet’ accusations.”

“My critics are not always wrong. I’ve been trying, Cal, to circulate the bad scraps of news from the war I have collected, but most politicians and advisors and priests are too afraid of violating Decree 17.”

“That’s… That’s absurd!” I cried.

“Absurd to you, son.” Sunye smiled. “It is because you are attentive. In the dark hours, it is the attentive men, such as yourself, who might… withstand.”

“Respectfully, sir, I don’t believe you…about me. I’m foolish and inattentive, obsessive, and impetuous. I’m not wise, I’m not like you, at all!” 

“Son, I’m still foolish, and inattentive, and all those things, but I grew,as you will. When I was your age, I had my world thrown upside down…” Sunye looked towards the east again. He lost his train of thought, and kept staring out, beyond the misty peaks.

“We conquered Setesia.” I said.

“You did.” he concurred, snapping out of it. “Now, though the emperor might not admit it, he, too, will be conquered. There was an old analogy, what was it? Ah, seconds to midnight. Setesia ran down its seconds to midnight, and it was too late to stop itself... Yours and my new emperor, I can tell he’s not slowing down. I don’t see anything stopping him from the end.”

I let this sink in, shivering with no small amount of fear. “Sunye, if you think I can withstand that, you don’t know me. I– I couldn’t live your life. I couldn’t be… captured as you were. Being taken over by a greater force, it’s a terrifying thought.”

That unexpected fire was still in Sunye’s eye: “I was not only taken. There’s a truth to be reached in the heart of all this. I have faith–I try to have faith in that notion.”

I could see the glint in his eye, and knew that he wasn’t being totally literal. My curiosity into his Setesian identity roared in me. This was a hint. I jumped ahead of him, “Are you speaking literally or- or spiritually?” I asked.

“You catch on.” Sunye replied.

I rubbed my head, confused, “So you believe that you’re in this city for a reason?”

“Yes.”

“Well, what?”

“I…” Sunye gasped, “I can speak on many things, but in this, my emotions will get the better where words will utterly fail. Not right now.”

We sat in silence. I corralled my manners to politeness again, but really was seething with frustration. He was afraid. 

Suddenly, over the smog shrouded mountain tops, a small, brief flash of yellow light shone, followed by the most imperceptible boom. Sunye’s face remained stoic but anxiety flashed suddenly.

 “It’s sooner than I thought…” he muttered. He turned to me, making fierce and cold eye contact. “It’s not a good night to side with the emperor. It will never be again. Find your father and stay low. Consider that my doomsday prophecy. Do what’s right, not what’s easy. This is the only proverb my old brain can think of.”

“My father…” I muttered softly, “he’ll be at the banquet this evening. He’s probably at the palace this very minute, and I’m going to be late…”

“Let me release you. Go, do what you must. Here!” He took a small ring from a clean ashtray by the window. It was an ornate blue stone ring, gilt with gold, and extremely valuable looking. Sunye gracefully placed it in my shaking right hand. “Baulan the Great gave this to me himself. This will see you past the guards at the very least.”

“Does Baulan II care for such… legacy items?” I asked.

“Just take the ring, boy.” I closed my fist over Sunye’s gift. I then clasped his weathered hand with both of mine.

“I’m scared, Sunye. If you’re right… it means the state is unraveling.”

“The closer you look,” Sunye said, “The more you see that everything is always unraveling, it’s just more or less localized.” His voice was stern: “You will always be scared. Don’t let it stop you.”

I let go of his hand, and bolted out the door into the razor thin apartment building hallway. I heard the door shut and auto-lock behind me. I then felt a final swell of curiosity, turned around, and began nervously rapping on the door. It took him a minute to rise from his chair, but he soon opened the door with an energetic glint in your eye.

“Are you an atheist?” I asked.

He chuckled exasperatedly. He eyed the necklace to Lath I kept chained around my neck. “At this point, I may as well be,” he said. “Go to your stupid party.”

I turned swiftly, and the door shut behind me, suddenly I remembered, “That wasn’t at all a satisfying answer!” I turned again, and pounded one fist on the door, pressing my forehead against it.  “Sunye,” I said, “When I get back, you’re going to explain yourself.”

There was a pause, then, through the wooden door, I heard a small, sad sigh. “Sure, kid.” he said reluctantly.

As I ran down the stairs, out the entrance, and into the puddled streets, I saw another long, white horizontal flash of light rip across the mountain peaks. This time, a louder noise, like a peal of thunder could be heard.

* * * 

I had to foot it to the palace. The trams weren’t running as usual, and paying a rickshaw to take me would be redundant. I had run up Mount Akimbo, one of the nearby mountains, two years prior in a youth program, and had to channel that energy as I ascended out of the slums, and up the great imperial hill, the mountain of the All Father.

I was breathing hard, my rain jacket was heavy and I wasn’t wearing athletic shoes. The cement streets turned to soft asphalt in the upper class district, but as the upper class residences turned to the top 1% 's neighborhood, the asphalt merged into wet, ancient cobblestone, horrible for running.

The upper class neighborhood transitioned to the old quarter at the base of the hill, which meant that most of the incline was that of the old cobble. I rose up a long stone switchback, remnants of a millennials-old causeway to the old quarter. The causeway took me up 50 feet in a matter of minutes. My heart was ready to burst by the end. 

At the top of the causeway, I could see over the upper class housing and the sprawling eastern slums. I was much closer to the palace now. In front of me sprawled the old town, its buildings quaint, compact, and all predating the empire by at least 1000 years. Ironically, despite the tiny house sizes, this was where the highest nobility of the empire lived. Most of the neighborhood had their spare rooms in the palace itself.

The old town streets were packed with people as on a normal weekend night; music played, barterers squawked, and steam rose from dozens of meat and noodle vendors, their small food trucks and stands snaking down any street or alley you could see. It was the usual humdrum. Nobody cared about my apparent alarm - an upper class looking lad running around here was unnatural but not unheard of.

After a few blurred minutes, I arrived at the great courtyard and the palace walls, ankles sore and lungs bursting. I was in the imperial commons, in front of a great marble fountain. I fastened the ring Sunye gave me to my finger. 

Around me, sullenly imposed over faux-firelit braziers, was a gathering of great pillared buildings and temples the likes of which the world had never seen all in one place. Unlike the streets behind me, this area of old town, great and historic as it was, was dead silent.

“YOUNG MAN!” A voice cried from behind me, “Hands in the air!”

My heart renewed its pounding and I threw my hands up, “Dispatch of the imperial court, sir!” I cried.

“That so?” The voice called sarcastically. I then heard footsteps approaching me from behind, slowly. The voice’s owner circled in front of me; a private of the imperial guard, in his beautiful ceremonial blues, sauntered in front of me and eyed me down head to toe. He wore a navy-blue beret over close cropped brown hair, and a large scar stretched across his stubbled chin. His gray eyes seemed aggressive, yet apathetic. In his right hand, calmly pointed at me at all times, was a NeoPrussian M3-66 automated pistol. I gulped.

“I’m sent by court advisor Sunye, sir, to see my father, sir.”

“And your father is?” he asked. I could smell strong corn whiskey on his breath.

“Vizior Jamison. I’m his son, Cal Jamison.” I stuttered.

The private pulled out his Autoadvisor machine from his pocket and began tapping away at it. In a few moments, he’d found my name on the autoledger application. His weapon stayed pointed at me the entire time. My knees knocked.

“This checks out.” The private called to more, unseen guards behind my shoulder. They were probably lounging like snakes in the shadows of one of the dark buildings.

“Is that one of those courtroom interns?” a voice, an old, crusty voice, called back.

“Yes sir.” The private answered.

“Up to you.” The old voice said.

The private glanced back at me, scanned me up and down, and then decided: “I’ll take him in. Follow me, boy.”

I breathed a sigh of relief and followed the man. We did not go through the great, thirty foot tall, wrought-iron palace gates(gates I’d seen my entire life but never entered), but into a small black side door next to them. We entered a dark stone tunnel which ran behind such fine facades. Instead of the great, smooth sandstone of the outer walls, we were surrounded by this wet, moss-covered slate. Dignitaries may enter the great gates, but the rest of us went through this dingy janitorial alley. Everything was so quiet. You could hear the scitter of mice and the dripping of water. Fluorescent bulbs guided us, swinging from the ceiling and buzzing softly. 

“You have something to get you an official audience, boy?” the private asked. His boots clicked like a metronome as he walked.

“Yes.” I answered cautiously.

“Uh huh,” he huffed. We went another hundred feet and came to a second small, 6 foot tall iron door. The private scanned his fingerprint on the door handle and with a sudden grunt and click! the door unlocked. He opened the heavy door a crack, paused, took a deep breath, and exasperatedly announced “enough of this.”

“Huh?” I asked.

“It’s nothing…” he said. “We’re all gonna die anyways.”

Suddenly, he turned and swung his fist at me. I dived to his left, onto the floor, about switching places with him. He barreled forward, back into the hallway guided by his fist and presumably his whiskey. He staggered around and looked at me as I backed up, towards the barely open iron door, terrified. His pistol was back out in his hand.

“That ring. That’s a nice ring. Give me that! And I’ll let you live.”

I cried out for help for a fraction of a second, but he thrust the pistol at my face, compelling me to stop, “This’ll go through your weak brain in two-fifths of a nanosecond, son. Give me that nice ring, idiot!”

“My father will die! I must see him!” I pleaded.

“You’ll join him in Hoz’s cauldron of death, you will!” He turned the safety off his pistol. His finger itched on the trigger. Sure enough, a silver necklace of the punishment god Hoz did hang from his big, tan neck. The back of my head struck the cold door. Sweat poured down both our faces. A mouse ran over my shoe. I let out a small, stifled gasp, and everything went black.

The power had gone out. I knew not why at the time. The private was equally as shocked but far more impaired. I rolled quickly to my right and parted the iron door a small bit. The private concurrently let out an alarmed squeal and BANG! Shot his pistol. The split second muzzle flash showed that if I could lunge my body forward, I’d be out of this small dingy hallway into a wide imperial one, now all darkened with the power outage. A small ping! Pap! was heard as the bullet ricocheted off the iron door, and back in the man’s direction. I squeezed through the crack into the hall, now all by feel. 

Wasting no time, I scurried blindly to the left, rose, and began bounding away in the pitch black. I heard behind me a terrified wail, mounting in alarm and echoing through the empty halls. It was the private. He’d shot himself.

I ran blindly for two seconds, when suddenly, light returned to the building. 15 feet overhead, the hall’s great electric crystal chandeliers turned on one-by-one. I didn’t stop running but did begin gawking at the unsettling regality of the whole place. This was the empire they wanted visitors to see. The walls were covered in gold and royal blue paint. Vases of exotic flowers I’d never seen before lined both sides of the hall on 4-foot tall stone pillars. Portraits of great people I’d learned about in school flanked me on my right and left: Baulan II, Baulan the Great, Baulan the Great’s great-grandfather, as well as other spiritual predecessors to the movement: Julius Caesar, Nietzche, and our first high priest Rasputin.

The halls were so, so eerily quiet. Devoid of life. The private kept wailing behind me, but after a few minutes of running his voice mostly faded into an occasional reverberating, mammalian hum. 

As his cries faded, another, greater sound became apparent ahead. A concert was coming into earshot; bass shook the walls and different instruments’ could be heard whining. When you’re trying to find a party, if ever in doubt, follow the bass.

More odd details struck me as I got closer. The walls, upon closer look, were padded with this well-hidden sound proof paneling. There were no windows. 

After probably ten minutes of wheeling through the corridors, I found the party. Rounding a corner, I saw an old man, dressed very womanly, with garish makeup and a flowy dress, leaning against a hallway wall with a large bottle of corn syrup rum in his hands. The music was very loud now. I kept moving forward, and there I saw two women crying(or were they laughing?) on each other's shoulders. I saw another man, a young man, throwing up in a vase, more people laughing at him, some more older men huddled faces commiserating on the economy, a few guards communing quietly, and then a great gathering of people standing outside the apparent entrance to the party.

There was one, and only one way into the party: two great, 9 feet tall, iron-lined mahogany doors. They were the sole entrance to a great room I’d only seen from the outside: the imperial venuplex. It was, at the time, the largest banquet hall in the continent. More sweat poured down my face than ever before. The combined body heat of hundreds wafted out of the room. I was hoping that my father was no part of the depravity inside, but at this point in our relationship, I knew better.

* * *

The emperor’s mustache was a very apparent thing. Even in the dim half-light and sporadic flashing neon, I could see it from that hundred foot distance. Some new edict since Baulan II’s ascension declared that none in the empire shall directly copy his facial hair. He bore the sole old-Hungarian style mustache in the banquet hall, and the empire. Close advisors would flatter him with similar facial hair styles; the handlebar, the ancient-English, the painter’s brush, but never exactly what the emperor had on his face. That old-Hungarian style of mustache? That was his mustache.

He wore a silly velvet fez over his brown hair, a fez which didn’t fit his cylindrical head shape at all. On his big, barrel-chested torso he wore a tight, velvet tunic with a golden belt. He had made sure to expose plenty of his chest hair. On his neck was flashing a silver necklace with a navy-blue ruby hanging from it. From this distance, I could even see his gaudy imperial signet ring.

The emperor sat in the middle of a long banquet table on a sandstone portico lofted above the crowd. On either side of this long portico were 9-step stairs going up, protected by 2 guards on each side. Those feasting on the portico were raised from the crowd by an 8 foot tall carved-sandstone wall. The portico’s guests sat in large wooden chairs(though Baulan’s chair was burnished bronze) and the banquet table they all sat at was availed to view the party unravel 8 feet beneath them.

To Baulan’s left sat a row of the highest generals in the land, all fat and drunk with new wine. Their(mustachioed) white and brown faces were all flushed red, and they were, each of them, wearing so many medals that when a strobe lights struck their group, it reflected everywhere around them as a sort of private disco. To the emperor’s right, the seat for the empress(which the empress didn’t occupy, but some young concubine did), to the girl’s right was the high advisor of economic affairs, to his right the high advisor of energy, and to his right, my father - who himself was passionately mashing another young concubine’s face.

The room was a giant sideways cylinder, 100 feet in diameter and 4 times that in length. At either end the walls were sheer glass. They were great circular windows overlooking the city. To my left, a western view of sprawling city and desert and nearly-black twilight. To my right, I could see the Eastern mountains, where the flashes had come from. The hall’s lighting came from huge 10 foot wide chandeliers hung at intervals, as well as mock-braziers on the walls, all lit with electricity. From the outside, the hall was nowhere near as ornate, but rather looked like one gargantuan cannoli stalking over the sprawl.

There were flat floors to this hall(I wouldn’t put it past the neoliberal designers to make the floors curved), as well as the central entryway I came in- it’s great, 400 foot wall was one great flat rectangle, so it could be built on a flush with the rest of the palace. All was stone, and the whole interior had an ancient look to it; small stone fountains gurgled on either end, connected by an exotically lit lazy river which cut straight through the middle of the hall. Both sides of the hall had rows of pillars, made in an old Greek style, embedded into the structure, pretending to hold up the roof. Under all the facade lay a titanium superstructure no-one could see. 

Old curtains and carpets, bearing all sorts of mythic and crude designs, were draped over nearly everything. The lengthwise walls on either side of the hall were adorned in these rich tapestries, some made of cloth, some painted onto the stone. Many if not all depicted the former emperor in them. 

Baulan the Great, the emperor of my childhood, was venerated all over the room on every piece of artwork. He could be seen fighting battles, having rulers kiss his feet, making the rains fall, and even dominating in graphic sexual conquests visitors couldn’t unsee. By these depiction, the late emperor came off as a lustful Bacchus type man-god, or a warrior in Beowulf’s vein.

Seeing those designs- for I’d never been in this room- was one of the first times I realized for certain that I was right in feeling that all this was all so…  crooked, immoral. This is how Sunye felt, this shaped his entire desperately firm disposition. I still didn’t understand how he could live amidst it all. I desperately wished I could just wait out the storm back at his apartment, not looking for my father through this sweaty mess.

Looking over the festivities, I was surprised that Sunye wasn’t invited. Hundreds -if not a thousand or more- advisors, dignitaries, nobility, and military men and women were there. To get to the emperor’s lofted dining section where my father was, I’d have to work my way through them.

I made a game plan: descend the stairs I was standing on, into the pit, push through partiers without getting into a fight, jump over the lazy river, fight through more bodies, then get to the portico steps, convince the guards to let me up, and then convince my drunk father to leave. 

I had no idea how my father would react, “Father, the city is under attack, and our people don’t know about it. We need to get out of here.” might get me killed if the emperor caught wind of it. From what I could tell, the party had only recently begun; most people were only slightly drunk and only a vocal minority were naked at this point. To leave so soon could tank one’s social status.

The music was live and there were two bands playing; on one end, by the western window, a group of musicians played ancient Chinese instruments. At the mountain-facing eastern window, two DJs stood at a huge sound system, blasting techno out of dual 18 foot tall speaker towers. The hall’s acoustics were exquisitely engineered such that both sounds of either musician would meet in the middle of the hall and blend themselves together. Now, in the middle, a techno-asian rave had developed, separating me and my father. As I descended onto the main dance floor, the rave appeared to be less and less a group of people and more and more of a forest of sweat-soaked limbs jauntily dancing towards the ceilings.

I’d successfully avoided having to deal with any naked folks in my cross-hall quest until my cousin found me.

“Cal!” a voice cried, “It’s me, Rami!”

I spun around to see my cousin Rami bounding towards me in the melee, 6 feet tall and fully nude. 

“I don’t know you!” I cried. I darted between the legs of a group of drunk soldiers next to me and fell headlong into the lazy river. I wasted no time getting out of the shallow water, though I did rocket some poor mimosa-drinking girl off of a floating inflatable tube meanwhile. She shrieked in alarm, and I didn’t stop to apologize. I jumped out the other end of the river and kept crawling forward.

I saw, to no surprise, more distant relatives of mine in the crowd as I went; all of them my age if not a little older, all of them ambitious to career climb, each seemingly making poor choices. I hadn’t spoken to any of them in years.

Finally I, drenched as I was, reached the stairs to the emperor’s dining loft. The two guards looked at me quizzically, soaked as I was.

“Urgent message for the emperor, sirs!” I panted as I addressed them. I handed the older looking guard Sunye’s ring.

“The hell is this?” He asked. Before I could explain, an announcer got a hold of the DJ’s sound system, and with a great voice, bellowed: “Excuse me!” 

A thousand heads turned his direction. He choked in surprise. “Erm, hello honored guests! On behalf of the emperor, I’d like to apologize for the brief power outage we experienced a few minutes ago!” He was alluding to the power outage that saved my life in front of the private. “Rest assured no such thing will happen again tonight, and to ensure this, I invite to the stage Father Ourmad, priest of Luz, to bless the rest of the evening as a joyous time of unity under our All-father.”

The crowd cheered. A bald, old man, hunched over in black robes and covered in golden jewelry hobbled onto the stage. Ourmad was known publicly as a very determined man of the cloth. Ourmad was the famous priest who had volunteered to undertake the burden of offering child sacrifices to Luz for the last 8 consecutive winter solstices. The crowd roared, and again I felt that old Sunye dissent. A pit sank in my heart. I was totally alone here.

The old, robed priest then began spouting some prayer to the god of light. He had the whole orgy’s attention. I clutched my ears shut, yet I could still hear him;

“Lord of light! We beseech thee! On this night of unity, of dignity and of joy! Of passion and love everlasting! We beseech thee, in the name of the blood offered to thy throne, to continue bearing your countenance upon us. We love you, O great Rey of rays! Saint of sunbeam! Bring that sunlight into this place this very night, preserve our joyous feasting, accelerate our merriment! Bless our climax! Surely you will make the sunrise tomorrow in your grace, but till then- In the name of our great hallowed Emperor-” 

At this the emperor rose from his banquet chair and stood imposingly on the stone railing, looking down at the partygoers. The crowd interrupted Ourmad and burst into mad, earsplitting applause for the man. The ground shook, and the whole tumult was enough of a distraction for me to sneak past the guards. I left Sunye’s ring in the hand of the one who was vetting me.

I rose the stairs quickly, getting out of the guards’ peripheral. My father was close now, keeping a noble facade on as the emperor presented himself, though my Dad was clearly pissed as a skunk and still had a concubine sitting on his lap. I snuck behind the backs of other drunken dignitaries, which included having to shimmy between the rear end of the huge advisor of agriculture on my hands and knees. My chin scraped against the stone wall. 

Ourmad continued: “As surely as Baulan reigns in glory, O Luz, bless us and keep us. Keep us!” Another cheer broke out, and I finally got off my hands and knees, rising behind my Dad. The young woman on his lap glared at me in surprise.

As Ourmad said his last line, a great rumble came upon the entire hall from the outside. The great, round eastern window shook and deafening cracks spidered through the glass. From behind Ourmad, through the huge window, a great orange explosion was erupting towards the sky. 

* * *

It was a great mushroom cloud, rising out of one of the many misty valleys of the eastern mountain range. This particular vale was where the city’s hydroelectric dam was, the very dam Sunye had mentioned. All eyes adjusted themselves to the landscape behind Ourmad, though he continued fervently praying. The crowd gasped, recoiling in confusion. “Praise Luz!” one loud individual cried. 

One by one, starting from the base of the mountain dam and reaching outwards into the city, neighborhood after neighborhood could be seen losing power. Great city blocks of light went dark, creating a growing wave of geometrically shaped pitch black urban sprawl. The wave got closer and closer, reaching Sunye’s neighborhood of the slums, the old quarter, and then, all at once, the darkness came upon us.

My eyes adjusted, my ears screeched in pain as the crowd of a thousand, all arrayed before me, entered a frenzy. Many ran towards the exits, while others stayed and laughed. Many began to embrace each other in further intimacy. All this I could see only because of that great pillar of fire to the east. It cast a dim orange glow though the cracked window into the great hall. All that I could see was orange-lit and casting long black westward shadows.

At least 200 partiers mobbed the stage to gaze out the window, toppling the techno musicians’ expensive sounds system, which crashed down with a boom! I kept my eyes fixed on the window in astonishment at the size of the explosion; its plume of smoke was rising over the lower mountain peaks now. Suddenly, all was lit by a bright flash and yet another explosion could be seen at the dam. The shockwave came over the darkened city once more, and upon reaching the citadel shattered the eastern glass window whole. Thousands of glass fragments were blasted onto the writing mob beneath, to greater cries of woe. Dust, loosened from the stone, began raining from the ceiling.

“What’s the meaning of this?!” Baulan, in sight of everyone, whined. His regal facade was well broken. He was red with rage and cast in the dim orange glow, looking ugly and devilish. I tapped my father on the shoulder, but before he could turn, my back was crushed under the boots of the two guards I had crept by. They sprinted over me and launched themselves over the table to the emperor’s side.

“It’s the invasion! It’s the war!” someone in the crowd called.

“THERE IS NO WAR!” the emperor spit back into the crowd. “WHO SAID THAT?!” Everyone around the emperor stood deathly still, save the guards who were trying to usher him off the portico.

The crowd entered a new level of fervor, now dozens were mobbing their way out the exit. I finally got to address my father.

“Dad!” I hugged his chest from behind.

“What!” he started, “Son?”

“We need to leave Dad. We need to go, right now.”

“What is happening?” The young woman sitting on his lap uttered at me. Her lustful facade had also broken. She was sober and clearly very scared.

“We’re under attack, Dad. Sunye knows. He told me. We need to go now. This hall is a prime target!” I whispered into his ear violently.

“Son, we’re fine - hey, girly, come back!” my father called to the woman as she slipped off of his lap, and into the long shadows on my right. At that, my Dad, still seated, turned his huge impeding torso towards me and we locked eyes. That was the first time we’d made eye contact in months. He grabbed me by the chin with his right hand and pushed me violently away. I spun rightward onto the ground. He threw his chair back and rose.

“You don’t ruin my night like that ever again, son!” Father spat. I cowered back against the wall, tears welling in my eyes.

Before my father could beat me further, one of the guards next to the emperor shot a round from their assault rifle into the air. People turned their heads, even the ones leaving stopped and gawked.

“LISTEN!!” The emperor cried, “Shut that exit! Quit all your screaming! No one leaves! You will submit to your All-father here and now!”

The iron-wrought entry doors were forcefully shut from the inside. 4 guards stood there, beating back the stampede with clubs. People trying to leave wailed for mercy, but otherwise the room did go quiet. “Come with me.” The emperor seethed at the two guards escorting him. The three of them shuffled across the dining loft, in front the table my father and I crouched at. Any remaining advisors near us gawked as the emperor squeezed his way along the portico rightward to the steps I’d come up.

“You all-” the emperor took a deep breath as he frustratedly trotted down the stairs, “need not think the worst of this situation! Trust me.” Fawning hands of the crowd reached out to touch him as he descended. He rolled with the adoration in cool confidence. “There is no war. In fact, what you see is an accident. O chief Briggs!” the emperor had turned his head up and around, and called to the high advisor of energy, a nervous and spindly man to our left. He rose shakily from his oversized chair.

“Y-yes, Allfather?”

“Advisor Briggs, explain to my children why the power went out?” 

“W-well, a freak accident, to be sure. Must’ve been a f-failed power generator. N-no need to be all-l-larmed everyone. Nobody got h-hurt, I’m sure.” he gulped, looking at the rising mushroom clouds.

“Well, as the chief advisor of energy, I’m sure you’re more than willing to accept responsibility for this freak accident? For ruining our evening?!”

Briggs’s face turned into a grave mask of death, “Of course, sir.” 

The emperor gave a deathly glare to a guard at Briggs’s left, who began scooching his way behind the row of fat, dining generals to detain the poor advisor.

“If any of you had ANY doubts regarding the future of our great nation,” the emperor grinned, holding his arms open wide, “You only need know that those that wish to do us harm, such as Briggs, are being weeded out moment by moment. You need only look,” he gestured his hands upwards to the murals, “to the great feats of our past, the great conquests under our name, in the name of life, and freedom!” the emperor spun around as he said this, taking the audience from one mural to the next.

“Look at the feats of your Allfathers, my children. My father before me testifies to my strength, you must know this! Where is your pride in who you are? Chosen servants of greater powers, that is who we are, don’t you remember?!” the crowds stirred around him, some began to mutter nervously. “You all have faith in the gods,” Baulan continued, “whom you see as pieces of wood and gold. Well what of your living, breathing, crowned king? I represent them better than any statute, let's not be bashful! The Priests, see, they agree…” 

It was at that moment that Baulan turned his face to the great entry wall, beholding that terrifying vision we all had already seen.

* * *

People still ask me if I believe in miracles. I always answer the same way: “I don’t know.” I have never been in need of a miracle. I, Cal, have lived a full life without them. It was that night -- that Hand… I would not call that incident a miracle. Something was at work that no one could see, but, in hindsight, it didn’t seem out of place. It made perfect sense.

It was quite literally a big floating hand. It was a floating hand and it floated on the wall above the doorway. It was a large hand, about a foot across at the wrist, and was raised about 15 feet above the crowd. It appeared to be a man’s hand: it was strong, dark, ruddy but unbruised. It was attached to a similarly floating and disembodied wrist which was partly visible and partly invisible. The fingers of this hand held a large 2 foot long rod of pitch black flint, rounded at the end. No one, I think, saw the hand appear, but everyone saw it linger in the air before it began writing on the wall. 

Everyone was in fear of it. There was a great, collective cry of terror. The emperor’s arms dropped. He made a small jump back and his little hat fell off. I had gotten on my knees after my father struck me, and now my jaw was dropped onto the banquet table as I saw the hand abide in mid-air. 

The Hand then, with great grace, floated to the wall and began writing on it with the flint rod. It wrote as a teacher would on a board. The characters written on the wall were big, black, with exotic curves, and all seemingly outlined in a fiery orange tint. The characters were remarkably similar to me, they were Setesian script, though I didn’t know what they meant. As the second explosion’s firelight dimmed, the handwriting’s fiery orange glow brightened. The handwriting was eligible regardless where you were in the huge venuplex. There were only words: two identical ones, both of medium length, a third of medium length, though not identical, and a fourth word, distinctly shorter than the other three. Upon finishing the accent on the fourth word, the hand disappeared into thin air, dropping the writing instrument to the ground where it shattered into dust.

For a moment all were in stunned, carnal silence. Then, the whispers began. Starting at the ends of the hall, as quiet as the wind, people began whispering to each other, and the wave of whispers gradually got closer to Baulan. I took this moment to go back to embrace my father, but he shoved me away again and I involuntarily darted away from him to the stairs. My footsteps accidentally created the loudest sound in the room. Pausing at the top of the stairs, I looked again to see that there was an assumed distance forming around the emperor; people were keeping space from him, even his guards. The fearful whispers grew louder, closer. Baulan stood alone with his head craned at the writing, and I couldn’t see his face.

My Dad was out of his chair, and had stood and turned to look at me. His big black silhouette aroused enough survival instinct in me, that I ran again. I dived down the stairs into the crowd.

The real thing that broke the terrored silence was a pair of jet engines. Two unknown fighters flew directly over the palace, their great ripping roars shaking the room. More dust fell from the ceiling. A distant machine gun echoed from the slums, and another responded. The crowd winced with every new development.

One man near Baulan broke down and wept, screaming with a loud voice: “This is a cursed place! It’s the gods! Praise them, though they have cursed us!”

“SILENCE!” Baulan cried shrilly, turning his head towards the source of the screamer, “Come forward!” he demanded, his voice cracking.

The crowd melted around the screamer, who all could see was none other than the infamous brother Patricio. He cowered not towards the emperor, but the wall, leaning lopsidedly with a twisted scowl and a bloody nose.

“Tell me, speaker of the divine, what is this language?”

“I- I-” Patricio stammered.

“READ it.”

“An ancient language sir, older than the hills, that’s to be sure.” Patricio gasped, hedging.

“Read it, my son.” Baulan implored him.

Silence. I was closer to them now. I clenched my knuckles white with apprehension, realizing I might not want to be that close, actually.

“I can’t sir. I dare not misguide you, of course.”

A pause. Baulan smiled kindly, stretched out his left arm, and reached his right hand into his robe’s left breast. Out of it he pulled a handgun and BANG! The crowd ducked except for me and I could see Patricio curled over, reaching for his side. The shot had gone clean through Patricio and hit a young woman behind him. Patricio fell to his knees and violently growled. The second victim was shrieking loudly in pain. She was not even twenty years old and in loud hysterics.

Baulan calmly strided over to Patricio and shot him in the crown of his head. Blood gushed in all directions. The emperor then raised his gun and pumped two shots into the injured girl. My ears hurt again. Baulan’s robes were covered in blood.He stood there, alone, panting heavily. He dropped the gun, spread his arms out again, and turned around to the horrified crowds. His pallor now was white-green, his eyes were sunk, and his arms coated in remains. 

“Let anyone-!” His arms dropped again. He coughed out a dry sob, losing every ounce of charisma, “l-let anyone, anyone who can r-read these letters, and tell me their meaning--let them be crowned second in the empire, second! Above the queen herself!” He took a shaky breath, and rallied some pitiful amount of confidence to finish the decree. “I, myself, I shall name them All-father and all-advisor. W-we shall now both be fathers of the children of the empire. They shall receive a robe and ring of their choosing, and have my share of the royal harem, and nothing will be forbidden to them.”

All was quiet. Someone coughed. The emperor took a deep breath and looked around in bewilderment. Tears streamed from his terrified eyes.

There was a shuffling in the crowd. Two guards broke through the gathering in front of Baulan. Detained in their locked arms was father Ourmad. “We found him trying to escape, master.”

“Escape?!”

“Yes sir. He almost jumped out the window.”

“What would compel you, Ourmad?” Baulan asked, disparagingly.

“I couldn’t read it.” Ourmad stammered, nearly cutting him off.

“On your knees.” Baulan demanded. Weeping, Ourmad was thrust to the ground.

“I can read it!” an enthusiastic voice spoke up. Through the crowd pushed a handsome priest in lavender robes. I’d never seen him before.

“By all means, father Fairecrowe.” Baulan muttered.

“Of course, you see, umm…” Fairecrow rubbed his wide, ruddy chin, grinning attentively, “It means this: ‘prosperity, prosperity, in the hands of the emperor.’”

“Those words mean that?” Baulan asked.

“Yes they do so, the very same, your grace.” the priest amicably grinned.

“Well, what does that mean?” 

“Well, it means what it says, your highness. These dramatic times we’re in are only a prelude to future prosperity. You need only endure, my liege, and prosperity will be yours.” he raised his arms skyward and cried “praise the gods!”

No one joined him. “Fairecrowe,” Baulan asked, “Are you sure?”

“Yes, my emperor.”

Baulan, his back now hunched, shuffled towards the priest. The priest stood still, his body made the slightest of involuntary twitches. “Prove it.”

“Prove that’s what it means?”

“Yes.” Baulan rasped.

“Well, heh heh, my liege, it isn’t so much a confirmable thing. All I can do is interpret.”

“What’s the language?”

“It’s Crowspeak, sir, Crowspeak. An old dialect of the southern, erm, mountains, of course. A folk language. Nobody’s heard of it. I only stumbled upon it last year, in the depths of the imperial, erm, library, of course.” 

“And we can go find this book?”

“Perhaps, perhaps not. It was very old, practically falling to pieces when I read it. It could be, heh heh, windblown, erm, flakes. Maybe not. Well, I’d have to look first!”

“On your knees, Fairecrowe.”

“I’m telling you the truth!”

“That’s fine just,” the emperor grabbed Fairecrowe by the shoulders: “get on your knees.” he commanded.

Fairecrowe flinched and obliged, his smile fading, his eyes dead. A smaller, uglier priest stood at his side.

“Is he lying?” Baulan asked the small man.

“Yes.”

“Can you read it?”

“Nope.” the priest knelt on his own.

“ANYONE?!” Baulan cried out. He didn’t hide his despair now. Black eyeliner ran down his cheeks and mixed with the flecks of Patricio’s blood.

Suddenly, the great iron doors opened dramatically. Everyone in the room tensed themselves. Marching in dramatically was the Queen empress, Baulan II’s first wife. She was, from what I heard, one of the few people in the court who still had an affinity for truth.

“I have a man!” she announced. The doors slammed behind her.

“Ah!” Baulan cried in fear at the Queen’s entrance. “You! You weren’t invited here.”

She descended the steps, “Neither were the divisions of enemy infantry tearing our eastern slums apart, yet here they are. I have an interpreter.”

From behind her stepped Sunye. His robes were torn, and his gray hair was a ruffled mess. Dried blood was on his right temple. I cried out in relief. Everyone else was silent. The kneeling priests looked up in fear and disgust.

“Who is this?” Baulan asked incredulously.

“This is advisor Sunye. He was dragged here tonight by some of Brother Patricio’s grunt men whom I have beheaded. Patricio meant to put Sunye to death tonight by showing you that Sunye was avoiding your banquet.”

“Were you?” Baulan asked.

“Yes.” Sunye said firmly, his eyes unwavering. Baualn’s eyes flashed with bitter hatred.

“Sunye is on record as your late father’s chief advisor.” the Queen announced “He interpreted dreams, signs, and was well trusted. Notably, your grace, he is on the scribal record as one of the only men in your father’s life to prophecy negative things. Even doom. I have faith in his abilities.” 

The emperor started for a second, and paused, glaring at Sunye in hatred. He wiped his tears away. “What do the words say?” He demanded.

Sunye quietly walked to the middle of the hall, turned, and studied the language. The pitch black letters were still inscribed into the wall, still with the smoldering, hot-iron flourish to outline them. It was as if they were branded into the sandstone. I could see the old, wrinkled eyes of Sunye open wider as he read. He huffed and shook his head.

“It’s Setes.”

“What?!” Baulan aked.

“Setes. The language of my people.”

“Your people? What, are you an immigrant?”

“An exile, your grace. Sixty years ago, your father destroyed my home, and brought me here.”

“Just read the damn words, old man.” 

“That’s just fine.” Sunye quipped. He cleared his throat and then read “‘Duneia, duneia, hafsya, kun’ or, in your speech my lord: ‘appraised, appraised, numbered, carved.’”

All was silent for a moment. It was a proper tableau. Sunye took a deep breath, and prophesied: 

“Appraised: You. Your empire, it’s standing, and everything it is, and everything you are, have been evaluated. 'Appraised’ is repeated again. The evaluator has done due diligence to examine you twice, so as to be sure of the result.”

“And the one appraising is…?” the emperor interrupted. Sunye ignored this and continued.

“Numbered. Your judge has measured you and found you lacking. Thus and so, your days, and your empire, are numbered.”

“And the last?” The emperor blurted unnecessarily.

“Carved, my liege." Sunye captured a certain edge to the word I'd never heard before. "This judge, at the end of your numbered days, will divide you up. Not to one empire, but to two. Our enemies, both to the North and South, which you decided to simultaneously attack months ago will conquer all you possess. All you inherited from your father, and his father before him will be strewn from north to south, across the world.”

The room was silent except for Baulan’s worried heaves. He stood for a second, then fell to one knee, and then to both. His hands listlessly felt through his greased, weedy black hair. Sweat was dripping even from his nose. His shoulders were bare and his robes had been thrown from them and drooped down to his elbows. Blood had pooled at his feet. He stared at Sunye.

“I trust you.” he muttered mournfully. Sunye stood by Baulan as a man primed to execute a prisoner.

“Just… who? Who has said this?” Baulan whimpered, looking at the ground.

“My God. That’s how I know.”

“Your god…” Baulan chuckled softly at the notion. “...but you are a Setesian.”

“Correct.” Sunye responded. 

“I remember my history lessons, old man,” the emperor cried defiantly, rearing his head. “We… my father… destroyed your land! Scattered your peoples towards the four winds! Brick by brick! It’s a… a cornfield now! Mine!”

“That it was.” Sunye’s voice cracked.

“Your god couldn’t have written that, you imbecile! My gods, our gods, vanquished yours sixty years ago. Why else would you be here?”

“I was sent here.” Sunye calmly retorted. 

“Sent? Ha ha!” The emperor laughed nervously, “Taken!” He shouted, spittle flying from his mouth. He then pointed at the writing and repeated “taken!” His arms dropped, but his interrogation of Sunye was not done: “Why would- how could- why? The god of Setesia is dead. He’s dead! It’s a fact!” he was turning in all directions as he raged, incredulously looking for witnesses to this absurdity.

“So says your customs, your grace, but they are not true.”

“They are true because they work. They make sense.” retorted the emperor, “Me, my divinity, and my gods, our gods, if we defeat you, we defeat your god. Luz, Lath, the gods of my fathers, feast on the entrails of the gods of the villages and the valleys- including yours- and the conquered waste. This is the law! I am your Allfather now, immigrant!”

“You say so.” Sunye said coolly. I cringed. In normal times even a hint of such insolence was a death warrant. 

The emperor had risen during his tirade, looked at Sunye, squaring up to him. Baulan looked as if he might strike him. The emperor then leaned back, shrugging his weary shoulders. More exchanges of gun fire were heard outside, and large swaths of the city were illuminated in flame. The enraptured tyrant shook his head: “You’re so sure of the writing, Sunye, a writing you claim to be from a god of a people that no longer exists. You stand before me, calm. You know this means your death, you must…” Baulan faltered, exhausted, putting the pieces together in his mind, “what makes you say these things?” he nearly wept in frustration.

“My god is the God.” Sunye replied smoothly. His words took a moment to sink into the audience. The crowd reacted to such claim before Baulan could, gasping and growling in shock. 

“Heresy!” cried old Ourmad through clenched teeth. He was not far off, still on the ground, wringing his fists. Further priests in the room echoed his accusation. Naked men and women nearby began covering themselves at the utterance.

“The god of the Setesians-” Baulan stuttered.

“Is not the just God of the Setesians-” Sunye said grimly.

“He would have to be… God of all.” the emperor finished the thought.

All was silent again. The crowd stood round in wordless excitement. Far on the western horizon, a ballistic missile fell from the sky and hit one of the city’s towering corn silos. The explosion illuminated the emperor’s face with new clarity. All could see: he was in a deep, carnal fear, his skin sunk to the bone. His eyes manic. 

“HERESY! HERESY OF THE HIGHEST ORDER!!” Ourmad screamed. He rose from his knees and began bounding at the emperor, grabbing him by the shoulders, gasping: “My lord, this is all part of the plot. It’s a trick, a dirty morale draining lie! Sunye is an insurrectionist. He’s jaded, my lord, jaded. You are Allfather, my lord, you herald the pantheon, you are the incarnate force of eternity! We know it, do not let him–” 

Ourmad was suddenly struck on the side of his head with the butt of one of the guard’s rifles. Halfway through his sputtering, Baulan had waved a two-fingered hand sign to one of his men to strike the priest. Ourmad flew backward, stumbling away from the group. He flailed his arms for balance, but his foot slipped on the edge of the lazy river, and he fell headlong onto the pool’s siding stone, cracking his head. 

Hundreds of scuffling feet squeaked as observers sought to distance themselves from the growing execution. Baulan turned back to Sunye. He took off his platinum signet ring, and offered it to the old man as a child might buy candy.

“Can I trust you?” Baulan whimpered.

“Trust the judge. Not the court reporter.” Sunye said, taking the emperor’s shaking hand and wrapping it back around his ring. 

At this, Baulan’s eyes bulged and his throat gulped loudly. Head bent down, he shuffled to the nearest chair, a small wicker banquet chair, and sat down. He stared at the blood covered sandstone, looking as if he was pouting. 

It was at this dramatic surrender that I noticed 8 ropes had been silently let down from above the eastern window, and that all present were too enraptured at the emperor to notice that silently descending those ropes were enemy soldiers dressed in all black, wearing night vision gear, armed with assault rifles.

Baulan called to the door guards, his voice husky “Open the doors, let them out.” he ordered. The great banquet doors were pulled open. The imperial blues opened them from the inside but were alarmed to find black-clad SpecOps units of the enemy staring at them from outside the dark portal. Suddenly, the verbal chess match that had dominated the room was over and the chess board had been smashed with a sledgehammer. 

All Hades broke loose. The enemy SpecOps poured through the doors by the twos and threes, shooting the door guards dead on the spot. What remaining imperial guards in the room cried orders and raised their rifles, but the invaders descending through the eastern window dropped them quickly. The attackers then loosed a volley of automatic fire into the crowd and, just like that, panic once more ruled the day. 

The violence would oscillate over the next five minutes as men rose, got shot, more men fled, some more were shot, women cried out, got beaten with SpecOp clubs, one partygoer brought out a pistol, fire resumed, and the partygoer was dead. More and more, as those handful of minutes elapsed, terrified citizens met their dooms. Such is the transition of power.

Though I spent my last conscious moments of that horrible evening on the ground, curled up in a ball, I did not ever keep my eyes off the emperor. He stayed staring at a puddle of blood on the ground, which just so happened to be reflecting that fateful dark writing inscribed on the wall. A .223 round, at one point, went straight through his shoulder, and he didn’t even flinch. He just kept on staring.

As for Sunye: He took a seat next to the Baulan in solidarity, his legs criss-crossed on the floor. Last I saw: his head was bent, and his eyes were closed, and he softly said things to his God no-one else in the room could hear. He still had a ways to go.