The Mysteries of the Faceless King, page 2
He saw all eternity as a continuous strip—past, present, future, and end molding into one. He saw the primal screaming chaos which spawned the gods, and against which they battled in the days before Time. Revealed to him was the shaping of the world in the hands of the various deities, and the reigns of the Kings Before Men, the driving into the sky of the immortal dragon which threatened to devour the world and still nibbles at the sun. He saw also the coming of Time from the mists of chaos, and he knew then how the brothers Time and Fate drove the world before them with sword and hammer and toppled Throramna, the Father of Cities, and smote also the ancient lords of Earth, toppling their corpses into the jaws of the Jackal Death. The coming of man Obbok saw, and before the eyes of his dream, kingdoms rose and melted away like seasons before the onslaught of years. And from the Farthest East he saw the hounds of time come, unleashed by their master, howling after the lives of men. Gnath and Belhimra came and went. Even his own country died before a flood of savages from the south. He saw new continents arising, only to sink again beneath the seas, and he caught a glimpse of the war the gods fought over Aduil; he gazed in horror at the coming of the Lizard Earls, the return of chaos and the dimming of days, the final death of the world and the gods. And yet more was revealed, all the secret thoughts of men laid bare. He saw into their minds and hearts, discerned nobility, self-sacrifice, stupidity and cowardice, love of country, greed, treason, murder, and love—all the things which make men what they are. The veils were drawn back yet further and he saw into the hearts of the gods, and in them he saw the same things again, plus their contempt for all creatures lesser, their conceit and contempt for one another, and finally their fear of the One who is greater than the gods and keeps the universe in a bottle in his pocket.
At this point the gods cried out and the world trembled, for the spirits had shown too much, and the gods recalled them at once and sent the Sisters of Forgetting into Obbok’s sleep. But it was too late, for Fate and Time, who are impervious to the gods, again strode over the world scattering the night before them, and the dreams of Obbok left him with the coming of morning.
And the gods were very much afraid, save for Gheeznu, who seemed rather pleased with himself.
Great was the wonderment that seized the awakened Obbok. He roused his servants even though it was before the accustomed hour, and sent them scurrying to fetch all the pens, ink, and writing parchments they could find. There was fire in his face that made them all fearful, and they went off at once. Soon a great pile of writing materials was in Obbok’s chamber. Night and day he wrote, and wore out pens, and higher and higher grew the pile of pages. Cautiously his apprentices and servants approached him and laid out a meal before him, only to remove it again when they saw it was cold. They muttered among themselves, saying, “Surely the master is possessed by a demon or devil,” for Obbok had never previously taken writing too seriously and had only composed verses out of necessity or boredom. Now, of course, the heat of inspiration was in him, but the others did not understand, for they knew nothing of the true meaning of the mysterious scroll.
One day the King sent a messenger to the room of Obbok to summon the poet so that he might hear some of this new poetry that the whole castle was talking about. Yet the poet did not come, and the messenger spoke as if to one deaf, for Obbok did not speak or even slow his hand, and the messenger was moved with fear when he saw the look on the old man’s face.
At this point the King grew angry and sent his guards to seize Obbok and bring him to the courtroom at once, for never before had anyone dared to ignore a royal command, and the King would have an explanation. The guards went, but when they came to lay their hands on the bard, Obbok did look up, although he paused not an instant from his writing, and the terrible glare frightened the guards, for they saw something in those eyes that was not of mortal Earth. They too turned and fled.
Then the King himself came to Obbok and the poet paused for the briefest of seconds and spoke a single word which gave reason for everything and caused the King to fall down on his knees and beg forgiveness for the interruption. That word was a god word, and it had come at the very end of the dream. It was never intended to be uttered by the mouths of men or heard by their ears.
The King withdrew, and all the castle was moved with fear and bewilderment at this new thing. All activities stopped. Everyone waited for Obbok to finish his work as they would await the sentence of a harsh judge, and the court soothsayer proclaimed a miracle of the first order, bidding all to go and purify themselves in the temple, then return and hear the wondrous revelation of Obbok.
And after fifteen days Obbok called out from his room and bade his servants lift him into bed. With fading voice he commanded them to bring food and water, and medicines, for he was exceedingly weary. These things were done and Obbok slept for two days after he had eaten, and none dared enter and read the manuscript while he slumbered.
Finally the poet roused himself and sent word to the King, informing him that he was ready. Nearly all the people of the castle came to hear him this time, every lord, every general, even the guards from the walls and the cooks from the kitchen. All stood in silence and complete attention was on Obbok, and the ladies did not whisper among themselves, and no one dared slip out.
Obbok came and recited his poem before them, and it was four thousand and nine stanzas in length.
There is some confusion as to what happened after that. No books tell of it, and the whole affair and especially the ending of it has been shrouded in great secrecy. The King died shortly afterwards, and it is only by piecing together the accounts of the various servants and courtiers who were not present at the recital that the tale is known at all. And yet no two of them have ever been able to agree on certain parts of it.
According to some, so terrible was the content of Obbok’s poem that its words drove all who heard it mad, and for this reason none who heard it could tell any of it, and if asked, they would only roll their eyes up to heaven and mutter something obscure, or else not respond at all. Great were the secrets revealed that day, all the things beyond the knowing of philosophers, and no one had the courage to understand it, let alone repeat it. Fervently they begged the Sisters of Forgetting to slay them, but there was no relief. Many went out and slew themselves afterward.
And others claim that the King declared Obbok to be possessed by a devil. And he had him hanged from the highest tower. The poem was cast into the fire, according to this version, for none dared leave it around. It had the power to corrupt.
Yet others will tell you that it was Obbok who went mad, and after speaking the final verse he collapsed to the floor and whimpered like a child, begging gods and men to forgive him for what he had done. He was carried away and locked in a remote tower in a distant castle, for it would have been bad luck and poor form to allow a madman to wander about one’s court.
And still others insist that while all were dazed by the effect of the poem, Obbok grabbed the manuscript and fled from the court, and not able to destroy his work, he hid it in a place from which it will issue forth on the last day, rendering men helpless with its words and bringing back Chaos, causing the final death of the universe.
And those who tell the tale this way believe that Obbok still walks the world in the guise of a minstrel, and he sings only of simple things and pleasant happenings, of the birds of the air and the bees of the flowers and the coming of spring. Those that behold him see a sorrow beneath his calm and do not ask of it. And finally there are some who swear by all that is holy that as soon as Obbok finished his poem, the floor was rent apart and a demon sprang up into the throne room, devouring Obbok and the manuscript in a single gulp, and thus the blasphemy and horror of it were removed from the lands of mortal man.
No one can be sure of any of these things now, for there is a new king in Klor, and Rhoon is troubled by wars and no one has time to bother with the past. Furthermore the King has been cautious and has decreed that anyone prying into the matter will be tortured to death by devices unimaginable, learned by wicked sorcerers from demons conjured for that purpose alone.
The son of Obbok dwells in the court now, and once every week he recites his new poems, all of which deal with the subject matter common to courtly verses and written in the classical manner. They are applauded out of courtesy, and the ladies whisper and giggle during the performances, and some of the men slip away unnoticed, and the poet is given a place of high esteem and privilege in the court, as befits one of his noble calling.
A VISION OF REMBATHENE
IT IS LATE AT NIGHT, THE feasting long over. Guttering torchlights swim in a haze of stale incense. The ghosts of ancient heroes, like shadows, stir in the corners, behind the limp-hanging draperies, and begin to move about as darkness creeps upon the exhausted court.
Amidst the revelers, the king raises his head, and looks wearily over all. The queen by his side whispers something into his ear, and he calls out to one on whom his eyes have come to rest, saying, “Tell me now of the cities of your dreams, that I too may behold them when I sleep.”
The storyteller replies, “Of which, O King?”
“Of Rembathene.”
“Ah Rembathene! Rembathene! Of all the cities revealed to me thou art the fairest! Rembathene, thy towers catch the dawn glow before even the mountain peaks the gods have wrought. Ah glorious Rembathene, a diamond with a thousand thousand facets, not built, but grown like some strange tree from that single pebble called the Soul of the Earth. Rembathene, all the Worlds envied thee!”
It was in Rembathene that Anahai the young king sat, on a throne of the East Wind carven, of night air frozen into a solid thing by magic and ancient rite, and shaped in secret beneath a broad moon of old, when they who first conceived Rembathene came out of the East armed with the sword. On this seat of his forbears he sat, brooding for the first time in the six months of his reign, the days of which before had dawned on nothing of peace and contentment, the enemies of his people having been subdued long before the birth of any man yet alive. Perhaps it was the very grace of his reign, and the splendor of his realm, that had brought him woe, for a pestilence had descended upon Rembathene, of the sort that a petty god sends when he is jealous.
By these signs was it known: First, a chill, such as one might feel when a window is left open in the evening, then a fever following, very slight, still not cause for alarm. But after that, the suffering was swift and terrible. The afflicted one would awaken one morning covered with sores and welts, as if he had been flogged; blood would stream from every pore, and from his nose and ears; and he would go mad. In the end, the flesh would decay while yet animate, and that which had once been a man would claw putrid chunks from itself as long as hands remained, and only after long hours of howling and writhing find relief at last in death. When a person was so stricken, all those around him would flee, for touch, or even nearness to such a one, would mean contamination, and a similar fate within days. So the people of Rembathene and the lands around fled in all directions, into the city and out of it, from villages and towns into the fields, and from the fields into villages and towns. They trampled the crops they had planted. They clogged the roads. Many were crushed in the great arch of Rembathene which had been built for triumphant armies. And all this was to no avail, for when one of their number screamed and fell they could only turn in another direction, often back the way they had come. The subtlety of the plague was that in any crowd there were always a few who were already infected but did not know it yet, so that Doom walked always as a silent companion among the refugees.
This young king, who knew himself to be the father of his people, who was willing to supplicate whatever god was angered and to sacrifice himself if need be, who had never truly proven to the people by effort that he was their king, listened helplessly to the reports brought to him, and watched much from his high windows. He felt in his heart the misery of the citizens of Rembathene.
He asked first of his physician, “What cause?”
And the physician answered, “Lord, it is not known. Many and marvelous are the secrets of creation, and marvel enough would it be if a cure were to come to us, or some mitigation of our suffering. To know the cause is to ask too much.”
He turned then to his master of leechcraft, saying, “Has your art been tried, to draw out the evil humors?”
“Aye, Majesty, and there are fewer of my brothers than there were before.”
And to his magician, he said, “And magic?”
“Magic has been tried, O King, and there are today fewer magicians in the land than there are physicians or leeches.”
Anahai ran his fingers nervously through his beard—it was not much, for his years were few—and the learned men stood impotent and afraid before him, and silence ruled in the room, until one spoke whose voice had not been heard before, an ancient who was not learned but wise, who had given up his name because he was so holy. All faced this revered one as he rose from where he had been seated, his black robe draped over him like a shroud, his polished ebony staff glistening like a living serpent.
“Most noble King,” said he, “the cause of Rembathene’s sorrow is not an imbalance of earthly humors, or a magical curse laid on the land by some enemy, or even the anger of a god, but this: Beyond the world’s rim there sits a Guardian with the Book of Earth in his lap, and this Guardian has fallen asleep with the Book open in his lap to the page of Rembathene. While he sleeps, the spirit Nemesis has crept close, whispering ‘Death, death, death’ into the book.”
“Then the Guardian must be awakened. How can this be done? What God shall I pray to?”
“There is one god only who can help you, one who is greater than all the gods of Earth. The God of Mysteries alone has power over the rim and beyond.”
“He is not one to whom I sacrifice each day,” said the King, puzzled. “Tell me of this god.”
“Lord, there is little to say, for little is known. He resides in his tower, apart from the other gods, who are to him as ants to a great beast. He brushes them aside with a wave of his hand. His name cannot be known. His face cannot be seen. Perhaps he is not a god at all, but Fate or Chance, or some other force not yet imagined, for his ways are mysterious and hidden from men.”
“But how was he carven then, for surely his image was carven?”
The nameless man paused, then looked at the others about him and said, “This is a secret only the King may know.”
The physician, the leech, the magician, and all the others were sent away, even the two massive eunuchs who stood perpetually on either side of the throne. Then when they were alone, the holy one continued.
“Know, O King, that of old a carver in Rembathene was touched by a madness, and his slaves took him to the top of the highest tower in the city, and they gave him his tools, and stone to work with, and they drew a curtain around him. For a month he carved, as the moon waxed and waned, and when the moon was gone he shrieked horribly, and staggered out, his face ashen and wide, and when his slaves beheld him they knew their duty, and slew him. They touched not the curtain, and none shall, until the ending of time, when one shall tear it back, look on the face of the God of Mysteries, and bring nonexistence to all things.”
“But if we cannot see his face, how can we know his nature? Is he cruel or kind? We cannot know if he mocks us.”
“Even so, O King, for his ways are hidden from men.”
“Still I must go to him. Where is his tower?”
“From a distance, it is seen by many. Close by, by very few. Its base I touched for the first time in the fiftieth year of my contemplation, and I have been there so many times since. I can take another with me, for I have gained this strength.”
At sunset, when the way he was to walk had been purified as far as ordinary men could follow it, King Anahai went with his guide through the streets of Rembathene, until they took a turn no others could take, and the city grew dim around them. They came at last to a tower glimpsed often by travelers who look back on Rembathene against the western sky, but seldom discerned by anyone else, and the King alone entered. He climbed a stairway of a hundred spirals, looking out windows at each turn, and saw the dark and quiet rooftops sink away below him: saw the sun burning low and golden, the purple on the horizon; and at last, when he neared the top, the stars appeared, seemingly below and round him, as if he had left the earth altogether.
He came finally to a room at the top of the tower, which the old man had described to him, wherein resided the god he sought. It was dark in there, dimly lit by tapers and without windows. The air was heavy with incense and dust and the stench of slaughtered offerings, making the place very holy. At the far end lay the crumbling skeleton of the mad carver, whose remains had never been touched, and beyond them was a curtain.
The King prostrated himself before the curtain, but presented no sacrifice, for when a ruler seeks rescue for his people from a god, the only thing he may offer is himself. Thus he rose empty-handed to his knees and spoke humbly to the god, telling how the folk of his country had suffered, and begging that some cure to the disease be revealed.
Whatever was behind the curtain remained still. Anahai remained on his knees for many hours until his legs were numb, and still no answer came. He wanted very much to leave, but dared not, fearing the anger of the god, and hoping that the god was only thinking, and about to speak. Also he knew that if he were to leave, and return to his people without some solution, there would be no hope at all, and he would have failed in his duty. Kings who fail, he had always been taught, are seen in the corner of the eye as dim shapes which vanish when gazed upon directly. They are phantoms. Wisps of smoke, sounds in the forest when no ear listens, unworthy to walk either on the earth or under the earth in the land of the dead.
The musty air made his eyes and his whole body heavy. He first sat back on his ankles, then brought his feet out from under him after a while and sat cross-legged. Later he slumped to the floor, asleep.
