The Tinderbox

Chapter 1-5

The When used three fingers to press the previous buttons, and the display dropped to the console and disintegrated. King Xander continued to stare into the empty space as if he had seen a ghost. Nor recognized the look but said nothing. The Which watched them both carefully.

“However, I hasten to remind you,” said The When, sensing the grimness, “if the Prophecy is to be fulfilled, it has only one night in which to do so.”

The Why and The Where looked up hopefully. Surely, this could be interpreted as good news? But before the king could concede any optimism, the gathering was startled by a disturbance at the door. General Bahn muscled his way through the guards at the entrance.

“I will be allowed passage!” the general boomed, his size and stature dwarfing everyone else in the room.

Instantly territorial, Chancellor Olaf stepped forward. “What is the meaning of this disturbance?”

Bahn strode to the dais, still clad in his battle garb and trailing the dust of the battlefield behind him. The Four Tellers hastily made way. “I must make a report to the king.”

“This is an egregious breach of protocol!” Olaf blustered.

King Xander raised his hand, silencing Olaf before he could become completely apoplectic. “Chancellor Olaf, I will allow it. General Bahn.”

Olaf seethed but took a respectful step backward. Bahn regarded him with baleful eyes before turning his attention to the king. “Thank you, Your Majesty…I am happy to report that the warmen of Mano have repelled an Indiran invasion that attempted to land troops at the Grand Schism.”

There was an audible gasp from those gathered. Xander leaned forward, suddenly invigorated. “I am pleased and mortified at the same time. When?”

“I have come directly from the conflict.”

Queen Nor leaned forward as well, visibly reflecting on all the many possibilities. “Interesting timing, Xander,” she murmured.

Xander, however, had turned his attention to The Which. In contrast to Nor’s analytical thinking, Xander’s reflex had always been to lay blame. “The Which of Front Tier, were you not aware of this? It’s your domain.”

The Which blanched slightly. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. I was here preparing for our conference.”

Before Xander could pursue this punitive thread, Olaf interjected, “Your Majesties, I cannot help but be struck by the proximity of the attack to the impending arrival of the Prophecy. I find no comfort in coincidence.”

“I just said the exact same thing, Olaf, only with fewer words,” Queen Nor snipped.

The Which glanced gratefully at Olaf, wondering if he had distracted the king to illustrate his own brilliance, or if he had interceded on her behalf. Olaf avoided her eyes and she had to conclude that both could be true.

At the mention of the Prophecy, Xander deflated to his previous impotent state. He leaned back in his throne and only mumbled, “Yes.”

“I’m glad that Chancellor Olaf has broached the subject,” Bahn said, clearly sensing an opening. Olaf’s eyes narrowed at the unexpected bit of diplomacy, but Bahn continued as if it were not out of character. “It was only by the Light of Femera and Amali that we had additional troops at the garrison of Front Tier. Only that and our increased firepower assured our victory.”

The Which watched the general carefully. She knew that, as a mere soldier, his counsel had been discounted far too often in this throne room. As an outsider herself, she appreciated Bahn’s tenacity and confidence. His strategy now was obvious but potentially effective. The fight often goes to the aggressor, The Which thought as Bahn cut to the chase.

“Now, I implore you, reinstate troops to the capital city of Mist Tier,” the general summarized in no uncertain terms.

King Xander seemed stymied, but Nor was quick to rise to the defense. “Your words belie themselves, General,” she said. “It was Xander’s decision to redeploy soldiers to the outlying tiers. Why question it in success?”

“With all due respect, Your Majesty, it was a directive born of superstition and not military logic. To be blunt, we got lucky. Mark my words, the Indirans will attack again. And in greater numbers.”

The king scratched his chin; then his attention drifted back to the magi seers and their less than linear way of thinking.

“Is it possible that the Indirans are aware of the Prophecy and believe they can use it to defeat us?” he asked the Four Tellers.

“As a matter of perspective, the Aurora Constellation is not visible from Indira. It only occurs in our sky.” To The Which’s surprise, The Where had responded first. She would not have expected him to have paid attention to the previous conversation, much less provide so cogent a point.

It prompted The Why to muse, “It is possible that the details of our culture would be unimportant to them.”

“Unless they have studied the writings of the Predeciders as scrupulously as we have,” The Which countered quickly.

Queen Nor turned to her, and The Which quickly deciphered that there was more than just curiosity in her gaze. The queen was sizing her up. Unlike King Xander and his chronic cluelessness, The Which knew that the queen was highly attuned to the presence of competing power within her sphere. Perhaps it was a particularly feminine trait. She also knew that the more she exerted her influence in these summits, the more she would be considered a force within the inner circle, a position that did not come without risk.

At the moment, Queen Nor’s inscrutable expression made it difficult to tell if she thought The Which was a rival or a peer. It would therefore be prudent to let the queen have the last word.

“Our histories are as tied together as our futures,” Queen Nor said. “Don’t assume their ignorance.”

General Bahn cleared his throat, reclaiming the floor before the discussion could continue down this dithering path.

“Your Majesties, I am simply a soldier,” Bahn said. “The Prophecy is a matter for yourselves and the Four Tellers to decipher. But isn’t it possible that the soldier in question is not one of ours? I know why you removed all our soldiers from the capital city. But if we cannot defend Mist Tier and the Indirans decide to attack the throne itself and overrun the city.” Bahn drew a steadying breath. “Then isn’t it possible that you are fulfilling the Prophecy with your own reckless decision?”

“General, you are being insolent!” Chancellor Olaf’s voice cracked like a whip.

Though The Which often agreed with Olaf’s decisiveness, the general raised an interesting point, one that she herself had not considered, and she was intrigued to hear more. But it was not to be.

Xander exploded like a HEX hurled from the hand of a warman. “Olaf!”

Olaf cringed while the others considered the floor. All except Queen Nor. She regarded her husband with flickering hope.

Xander turned a firm eye first to Olaf and then to the general. His voice was cold and controlled though crimson colored his already ruddy cheeks. “I am perfectly capable of disciplining my own subordinates. I am still king. For the moment, anyway. Mind your place, General. As you said, you are simply a soldier. And the Prophecy does not specify. So it could just as easily be you who betrays me. Knowing that, I would advise you not to question my decision. Or face exile yourself. Understood?”

Bahn feigned contriteness. He bowed his head and uttered a clipped, “Honor to Mano.”

“Now,” Xander rose, and all the dissonant energy that had clouded the room was quelled and came to focus. “We must harness the Dogs in the time that is left. Let the will of Femera and Amali choose a champion. The When of Back Tier, you will host the duel. Choose your two best to saddle the birduns. The Which of Front Tier…”

She looked up expectantly. The Which knew that she was destined to be the tip of the sword, the integral and irreplaceable player in Xander and Nor’s defense against the Prophecy.

It is the myopia of those with only two eyes, The Which thought smugly, that leads them to believe that only they are deserving of a destiny.

“When the champion is chosen, you will prepare him to depart for TREE,” the king concluded. “It shall be.”

THREE

As he ascended the seemingly endless steps of the Palatial Pyramid of Indira, Commander Giza grimaced. Once, he had viewed these very steps as a metaphor for his life and career. As a young officer he had attacked the steps with force and focus, rising quickly, mindful of his ascension, his sight set unerringly on the top in every sense of the word.

Now, even though he had achieved the pinnacle of his career, it was still his duty to climb these increasingly irritating steps. With each cycle of his life, Giza had become more and more aware of the creeping decrepitude of his mental fortitude and physical being.

He stopped now simply to catch his breath. He was far above the capital city of Agrilon, with its pyramids rising majestically out of the bosom of lush jungle. It was beautiful, but he couldn’t remember when he had stopped taking joy from the stunning view. He sighed heavily, afflicted as he was with the woes and wounds of perpetual war. This was the worst climb yet, made all the more difficult by the gravity of the news he dreaded to deliver.

Giza entered the opulent counsel chamber that sat at the apex of the Palatial Pyramid. A solid mass of crystal, easily the size of a peasant’s hovel, had been carved into a pyramid shape and topped the tip of the structure, sending shards of rainbow hue into the glowing interior. Six of the Wisened waited with the patience of the dead at their judicial bench, located above and behind the thrones of King Raza the Forty-Seventh and Queen Patra.

The Wiseneds’ faces were as lined and leathery as dried hydreeds, and between them, they shared a whole head of shocking white hair. Small wonder, since the youngest of them was a few hundred years old. They never failed to remind Giza of the mummified remains of monarchs past who lay in temperature-controlled chambers in the catacombs far beneath his feet.

In addition to their intricate and traditional attire, King Raza and Queen Patra wore inquisitive expressions and an air of suspended judgment. Still, the commander knew better than to relax. His body ached from the torturous climb, but his heart ached even more.

“Commander Giza,” King Raza commenced, “I expected you to be indoctrinating Manolith youth in Front Tier by now. I’m certain there is a good explanation for your presence here in Agrilon.”

“I offer no excuses, Your Highness,” Giza replied, bowing his head. “We failed.”

Silence descended momentarily on the chamber, and Giza felt himself grow small and unsatisfactory. He was not just a warrior who had lost a battle. Those eventualities were to be expected. No, the dregs of his defeat went deeper to a confidence counterfeited, a trust betrayed. He and Raza were friends. In their carefree childhood, they had been almost inseparable, until they had been set upon their respective preordained paths. And Giza knew the worst was yet to come.

Raza remained compassionately quiet. The Wisened showed no signs of life. Instead, it was Queen Patra who called him to account.