The Mask of Command
The king slouched on his gilded throne eyeing the room with the wary enthusiasm of a fully-fed hawk. His eyes shone through the sockets in his carved golden Masekha. The great doors to the hall opened and a hush fell over the crowd as a weary wreckage of an old man came forward. Mareth’s skin sagged as if trying to escape the muscle which had long-since atrophied atop brittle bones.
The king’s gilded mask bore a steady expression at total repose. A single inset ruby hung in the forehead of the mask at the base of the crown.
The old man padded in on soft leather soles, the flow of his deep purple robe a train behind him. People moved around him like little human waves from the keel of an ancient boat. His simple staff resounded off the stone floor with each step.
The king shifted in his seat, as he fiddled with the lion’s-head pommel of his sword. Darting eyes shifted between the old man and the king as the stifling heat of the day weighed like a living thing upon the room.
Each strike of Mareth’s staff resounded across the floor made of marble which bore a series of ancient flowing glyphs in black etching upon it. The echoes carried forward riding up the inlays of ivory with the same arcane sigils which adorned the gold of the throne. Two more lions were formed into the seat itself and sat on either side with their heads as armrests for the King.
A low hum filled the hall as men and women began to whisper at the old man’s passing. Attendants and councilmen either stood in clumps or sat on the benches which lined the edges of the Great Hall. Some fifty advisors and the four councilors of the realms had gathered in session with the King at the behest of the Old Man Mareth who finally reached the foot of the throne and slammed his staff once into the granite at his feet and silence erupted over the room. Then he spoke in a guttural rasp,
Wisdom is hidden, must be discovered.
She cannot be taught, only uncovered.
As mistress she reigns o’er all and o’er naught,
elusive to men, by child may be sought.
Beseech her in silence or all in vain.
From pleasure she flees, while dining with pain.
Ev’ry hardship bears you closer to her.
For the darkness of men, she holds the cure.
Mareth finished, and the King replied, wearied with every word, “Mareth, why do you tire me with your ceaseless riddles? How did my fathers endure such cryptic counsel…”
“But, my Liege, you are Mishorer-Rex, King of the Shir, Speaker of Truths, Master of Verse, why should you be weary of the very power that gave you that masekha and holds your kingdom in peace? You, more than any man living, should deign to hear verse and apply to its teaching.”
“Mareth, why can we not speak plain? Why can you not simply tell me of wisdom and of this ‘darkness of men’ which has so consumed you of late? Surely a far better explanation could come if you lay to rest the restrictions of verse. What could possibly threaten what we have accomplished?” Here the King paused, his gaze rising from the floor and out across the room full of his advisors, past them to ponder the crystal statues which lined the hall next to load-bearing pillars. Their regal splendor paid homage to times of great tumult, but also great honor. He sighed as he spun the hilt of his sword. Its scabbarded tip whispered against the stone floor.
He continued, staring off at the statues, his questions hollow, “Does not justice stand exalted in our midst? Are not men already of sound mind to be governed with ease, or even to govern themselves in far affairs? We have not been given over to barbarism, chaos and savagery for more than an age, why should we fear or fret? The Shir made and remade the world. The Festival of Ages comes, another millennium passed, this one an Age of Song, of the Shir. Should we not expect a steady growth and progress in mankind? Men are, after all, basically moral and upright creatures, are they not?”
“You pepper me with questions to which you have already devised answers, Your Highness. Folly asks what it dares not hear and hears only what it wishes. I do have a task for your court, Sire…”
“Task?” The King raised an eyebrow and ceased spinning his sword. “I am King and do not take tasks from lessers in my court, nor suffer my musings to be called folly by any man. Not even my former teacher. You forget your place.”
“Sire,” Mareth began but was stopped by a raising of the King’s hand.
“Your counsel is noted, but ignored, Timedodger. I don’t need riddles and games. No quests or tasks.” A deep sigh escaped the King, “The days of battle are long gone. The time for delighting ourselves with talk of knightly deeds and vain hopes for glory in hard times are past, faded into a waste of peaceful years. I doubt I even need this blade any longer.”
The King stood. His silver embroidered robe hung just above his knees, the dark leather of his greaves revealed simple, protective functionality. His chest plate of dark steel shone beneath the robe. He pulled his blade from its sheath and raised it skyward, twisting it in his hand as he inspected the folds and craftsmanship. The warm affection from its core was tangible, a wave of fellow-feeling which had bonded them for years, ever since he had completed the keening as a young man. “That such a blade should be caged to a scabbard.” He mused aloud.
His eyes were drawn into the labyrinth path of its temper patterns, the layers of Adamantine folded in and through and between one another.
When the King tore his gaze from the sword and looked up, he found the room empty of all men. Mareth, the counselors, every advisor or friend vanished from his sight, and only the torches hung upon each pillar while a deepening silence remained to keep him company. The King gawked, straining to see what had just been present a moment ago. His restlessness was stolen by shock as he stood before the throne and clenched his fists against his fear. Shadows grew out of the runes on the marble floor and crept towards the torches in steady strides. The flickering torchlight shifted with sinister intent as long black tendrils swayed and stretched over every wall. The lights waned with every passing moment as shadow waged war on what little glow remained. In a matter of seconds, the King was plunged into pitch; an abyss of unearthly night. For the second time in his life he felt the fangs of fear pierce his throat, their poison paralyzing his muscles. Then came a whisper in the dark in an accent foreign to the living,
You seek a man living long in a tomb
humbled by sorrow and shackled by doom
He is not of this world, nor of the next.
No man could slay him or lay him to rest.
In silence, of betrayal he does sing,
and tortures himself with thoughts of his King.
He tells hard tales of man’s true desire,
the blade he holds can quench the coming fire.
“Sire?” the pause lengthened like the shadows in a growing dusk until the steward placed his hand gently on the King’s trembling shoulder. “Sire, are you well?”
The King’s eyes were dark, pools of black that betrayed no sense of sight. Slowly, the black gave way to the natural platinum of his eyes and he turned slowly to gaze at his steward. The room was full of his counselors, advisors, and friends. A nervous servant filed into the room with a goblet of wine for the King while Mareth trudged toward the door preparing to leave. The King stood with cold sweat dripping off his brow– horror etched upon his face.
“Keep your sword, My King.” Mareth breathed as he paused before the lofty doorway, “By Eternity, you’ll need it.” The King tried to reply but the words perished in his throat. Silence hung like millstones upon the room until the great door slammed shut behind Mareth, and the King’s breath returned.
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