Rohvim #1: Metal and Flesh (2 page)

It’s not that he was bad or was selfish or overly self-centered, at least no more than any other well-to-do teenager: he just knew his advantages, and took advantage of them. Several girls in the city believed they were going to be the next Lady Rossam—mainly because he had suggested this to them directly—while several young men in town believed they were his best friend. Many shopkeepers and food vendors believed they were the preferred suppliers to the Rossam estate due to one sweet talking boy with a taste for free samples of sweetcake or tender jerky.

The lords and ladies that often came calling at the Rossam estate fawned over him, and at parties he rarely strayed far from the center of attention. He spoke well and politely, always showing due respect to his elders and superiors, at least when within earshot of them, and he could entertain with his singing—endowed with a deep, honest voice (“Fuzzy,” his mother often remarked)—and awe with his dancing, being rather well-coordinated in body (“That’s from my side of the family,” his father noted proudly).

Now, before one thinks that this particularly talented and blessed young man was a completely spoiled brat and a royal pain, some mitigating information is in order. He was kind, though not entirely compassionate, and he could be generous, though not always unexpectant of a reward—even if for praise only. To his family and real friends he was true, and he had high ambitions for himself: he did not want to live off the income provided by his father, as did most of the other young nobles his age.

Running his hand through his hair a few times, he nodded approvingly and dashed out of the room to join his family for breakfast, the door slamming behind him.

Seconds later, the door reopened, and the young man vaulted over his bed to his desk and sat. He picked up a quill and began slowly copying a few words from his father’s set of Chronicles into his own, a daily ritual one was likely to see performed by many young men and women in the kingdom as they prepared for the eventual day that they would have their own children in their own households. He managed to recopy a total of thirteen words (…
and the sword, and armor they left, but took the common, simple necklace …
) before he tossed the quill aside and shot out the door again, which creaked to a close behind him.

Before the ink dried, the door banged open again. This time Aeden strode to the foot of his bed, looked to the ceiling, and mumbled a very brief prayer to the Creator, before running out of the room for a final time.

Aeden came third in a family of three children. His younger sister, Cassandra, eight years old and full of rambunctious energy, never closed her mouth for even a moment, unless it was to chew. His father, Alastair Rossam, was a tall nobleman in his nineties, while his mother, the graceful and elegant Elanna Rossam had just recently turned one hundred (Aeden’s grandfather had just passed away at the early age of one hundred and fifty-six). Aeden made his way down the third floor hallway, quickening his pace as he heard the tinkling of breakfast plates and cutlery. He paused at a painting at the head of the stairwell and absentmindedly brushed his fingers along the head of the figure depicted there—his brother, Cyrus, who had been lost years earlier—before he descended the steps. Eventually Aeden reached the dining room, where two servants stood at stiff attention in the corners, as the rest of the family ate. He kissed his mother on the cheek as he passed her, and sat.

“Do I need to hire a nurse-maid to take care of you again?” his father asked, without looking up.

Aeden accepted a plate of food from a servant. “Excuse me, sir?”

“Or maybe if I hire that commoner friend of yours to wake you up in the mornings? Priam is always looking for a chance to earn some coins.…”

“Father. We were up late last night at the lord’s estate. The feast itself did not finish until after dark, and the music and dancing went on for hours after that.”

The man retorted, “And yet, somehow, your mother and sister and I managed to drag ourselves out of bed this morning at a reasonable hour. I should send you to live with my father, and maybe he could beat you half as viciously as he beat the servants. Edmond!” He looked to a servant in the corner.

“Yes, my lord?” the servant bowed.

“More ham. And tell Marion not to salt the eggs so much.” The man sternly pointed towards the kitchen. The servant scurried off, and he continued, “By the way, I spoke to Lord Caldamon last night, and he agreed to bend the rules a bit …”

Aeden interrupted, looking up sharply, “He did? I mean, he’s going to let me?”

The lord nodded, “Yes, you may compete in the dueling tournament in the nineteen to twenty-four-year-old bracket.”

A smile broadened across his face. “Thank you, father! How did you do it?”

“I told him that you dueled better than half the royal guard, and that you really belonged in the twenty-five to thirty-five-year-old bracket, but that I would compromise and settle for the lower bracket.

“Brilliant, father, simply brilliant.” The boy beamed in awe at his father.

The man winked at his son. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

Lady Rossam interrupted the discussion, “Boys. Please. Aeden? Tonight is the celebration of summer and friendship. Will you? Like we discussed?”

“Oh. I suppose, mother. Will there be others singing as well?”

The lady gracefully nodded, “I believe so, yes. Lady Markham and her daughter will perform
The Call of Springs,
and Lord and Lady Swartham’s youngest son will be singing something no doubt. He always does—seraphic voice, that one has.”

“Aren’t seraphim always girls?”

“Very cute, Aeden. Cassandra, please close your mouth when you chew. Edmond?”

The servant bowed low, “Yes, my lady?”

“The Franckish tort, please.” The servant returned with an extravagant slice of sweetcake, lavishly piled high with fresh cream and topped by a strawberry. The Franckish tort was one of those Puertamandian foods that were particularly fine and fancy, the nobility of the kingdom of Puertamando attributing the name of any elaborate food to the barbaric kingdom of Franckland to the south, in a sort of dry irony.

While his mother made her dessert request, Aeden poked his sister in the ribs, who with a mouth full of food erupted in obnoxious snorting. Lord Rossam slammed his fist on the table and glared at Aeden momentarily before resuming his meal. The smile melted from Aeden’s face and his heart momentarily froze—he loved his father, but the man often flashed his temper at random times, and though not as violent as his own father, Lord Rossam was both loved, and feared in his house.

Aeden sought to distract him from his anger. “Sir, may I practice with Priam later today? With the tournament upon us in a week, we want to get in all we can.”

“You may. Just remember that list of responsibilities I gave you last week—how will you ever become the lord of this estate if all you do is sleep in and practice dueling all day?” His father shook his head in faint disgust, his wrath having now cooled.

The family finished their breakfast and scattered to their various duties. Aeden, wanting to check at least one thing off the long list his father had given him so as to be allowed to practice his swordsmanship, left the estate to go to the Markham mansion to coordinate with the steward of their house the delivery of the wheat grown on the Rossam farmlands to the market owned by the Markhams. Almost every farm, store, kiosk, herd, flock, and smithy in the great city of Elbeth was either owned by the nobility, or taxed with the proceeds going to the lord of the city, who then divided it up between the king—who reigned in Puertamando from the capital city by the sea, the nobility, the priests, and himself.

The streets bustled with the activity of merchants hawking their wares and foods and customers carrying their purchases home. Along one of these streets Aeden walked, the smell of freshly cooked beef wafting to his nose from a nearby vendor, soon replaced with the aroma of lavender incense from the next vendor. As he looked ahead down the street and saw a crowd assembled he realized it was last day of the month—judgement day—the day the tribunal executed the sentences upon criminals. He wandered among the crowd and looked up to the raised platform.

He saw the rows of stocks, customarily filled with an assortment of commoners accused of petty crimes—not paying their rent on time, speaking ill of a noble, petty thefts—these were about half filled, and a few in the crowd occasionally threw a rotten vegetable at the humiliated individuals. Aeden, however, was far more interested in the main attraction—a man was to be executed that day. He walked to the judgement board and read the description of the crime the man was accused of. Murder. The accused had entered into a contract with another commoner, the man did not uphold his agreement, and the criminal, now kneeling on the platform in front of the tribunal, killed him in a rage.

The man was hooded and naked except for a rag covering his groin. Ropes bound his wrists and ankles, and the executioner guided the quivering man’s head down to the block before him. The crowd waited in breathless expectation. The man wept openly and shook. The executioner raised his axe high, held it aloft for several seconds, aiming so as not to cause the man undue pain, and brought the blade down swiftly and cleanly. The customary sparks of lightning flashed out as the axe severed the neck—the man’s soul—and the body fell limp.

The crowd cheered, glad to be rid of a murderer in the community. Aeden nodded his approval.
When will people learn? Thank the Creator for the tribunal and their swift punishment. Good thing father is not on the tribunal, or he’d arrange for the criminal’s family to be punished as well, sold into slavery or beaten or eaten or something vile.
He shuddered, and continued on his walk to the southern edge of town.

Still, though, the poor wretch will never fly east over wind and zouree. The adversary owns him now. His victim didn’t get the chance to make his final pilgrimage either, but at least his soul flew east. Probably better for him that he didn’t have to walk the whole way to the deathless lands.

He found the Markham residence, a vast, imposing building overlooking lavishly ordered grounds and conducted his father’s business. His father may be imposing, stern, even erratic and violent, but he trusted his son, rewarding his competence and loyalty with attention, occasional praise, and more importantly, money. Having finished his tasks at the Markham estate, Aeden wandered the streets of the city, mainly the more well-to-do sections. He entered the confectionary’s shop and strode confidently up to the woman at the counter. “Madam Rutkin! How delightful to see you!”

The rotund woman dropped the balls of hard candy she worked on, fluttered her hands about her face and breathlessly cried, “Master Rossam! Oh, it’s such a joy when you drop by!”

Aeden winked his long eyelashes and assumed a syrupy smile more appropriate to the confectioner. “Is your lovely daughter around? I would love to have a … private conversation with her …” Aeden knew the round daughter was, in fact, at a dress shop several streets over, but he thought—and as his father joked to him that morning—flattery will get one everywhere.

“Oh no! I’m afraid she just stepped out. Please come back this afternoon and she will surely be here. I will make her stay until you come. Here. Have some of these, and do come back!” The woman hovered over her wares, picking out an assortment of candies to give to the boy, and he left the shop munching on the sugary lumps while continuing down the street to make the rest of his rounds.

When Aeden returned to the Rossam estate later in the day, the steward of the house approached him, announcing in his dry voice, “Master Rossam. Your friend, Master Switchback came by earlier to inform you that he will be unable to practice this afternoon, as he and his father are embarking on a hunting expedition in the mountains and do not expect to return for three days.”

“Three days! But the tournament is in a week! What is he thinking?” Aeden threw up his hands.

“I do not know. But he is the son of a gold-digger. Who knows what motivates such folk.” The steward replied. Priam’s father often went on trips searching for gold and ancient treasures that he claimed he found in the mountains, but which many thought he fabricated in a secret workshop. Regardless, he had somehow found favor with the lord of the city, who gave him a title and an official responsibility—the steward of the chamber of artifacts for the lord, but otherwise the rest of the nobility looked down on him, he having not inherited his title.

“Oh well. I guess I’ll have to practice on you.”

“Truly delightful, master Rossam,” the steward said stiffly. “By the way, Lady Rossam asked me to tell you to dress nicely tonight. For the celebration in the communal hall, that is.”

“I always do.” Aeden rolled his eyes. “But at least she doesn’t lay out my clothes for me anymore on occasions like this.”

The steward bowed, “I will refrain from telling that to master Switchback, or any of your other friends.”

“Thanks. You’re a pal, Harvey.” Aeden slapped the man on the back and marched up to his room, leaving the steward to close the front door and pick up the cloak the boy had tossed in the entryway.

That evening, the family walked to the city center and entered the communal hall, where the celebration of summer and friendship was soon to start. As with all religious celebrations in those times in the kingdom of Puertamando, the event commenced when the rim of the sun just touched the horizon, shooting its golden beams through the communal hall and bathing the room in warm light. The elder priest shuffled to the center and welcomed the celebrants.

“Creator bless you, noble men, women and children, for attending this communal celebration of summer and friendship. To begin the evening, Edward Swartham will grace us with his voice in praise of the eternal Creator.” A short, pudgy, proud looking boy stood and came forward. He began to sing, and every pair of eyes focused on him. Except, of course, for Aeden’s—his occupied themselves by staring at a particularly beautiful pair of sisters seated to his left. His mind wandered as his eyes feasted, and soon his eyes wandered too. He looked up at the high ceiling, then down at the vast circular stone dais at the center of the hall with the curious, worn markings circling its edge.