Theobroma: Child of Fire and Blood

FIVE

Alone, King Tural ascended the hidden stairway that carried him from the den behind the throne dais up to a stone wall inscribed with ancient sigils. Putting thoughts of the festivities behind him, he raised a unique obsidian dagger and steeled himself before slicing open his left palm. Taking a final step forward, the monarch pressed his hand to the wall, moving it from one arcane symbol to the next. He solemnly recited each symbol’s name as he anointed it with his blood. Then, with the ninth, the wall faded and vanished.

Before the king, the Celestial Temple and the Circle of Nine stood revealed. King Tural felt a fluttering in his belly as he stepped into the presence of the wizard-priests. He noted that the air was cooler than he expected, then noticed the precipitation of tiny hailstones falling from one of the glowing clouds wafting across the room. Each hailstone burst as it tapped to the stone floor, exploding in a spray of colored light. Setting his awe of the temple aside, the monarch realized the magic users were oblivious to his arrival.

“I bring you salutations of the Crimson Throne,” King Tural said, looking about for any sign of acknowledgement. “Your regular Speaker, Chief Minister Araka, has died as a result of illness. A new Speaker has yet to be chosen, but we must converse. By the Blood Rite of Malechis, I bid you hear me.

“Tshan’casai, long-thought dormant and locked away, is loose in the world,” Tural explained. “It is in the hands of my son and I feel that he is in the thrall of its powers. You know the sword’s potential for danger is beyond measure. You must tell me some way in which it can be stopped. I am a warrior and king, but I am also a father and I do not wish to seek Lar Kwa’s end. Tell me there is some way to save us all from--”

“You demand much of minds so strained as theirs,” a familiar voice greeted the king from the doorway to his rear. “That is the way of a ruler, I suppose, always insistent upon having things work just the way you want them to. You have always sought to rule with the strength of your fathers.”

The troubled ruler faced his polished prince as he glided into the chamber with a comfortable pride. King Tural saw the persuasiveness of the charismatic image that draped his son as elegantly as the black silk cloak hanging from his shoulders. His shining gray eyes and practiced smile were crowned by neatly trimmed golden locks. The king was nearly entranced by the radiant confidence and winning beauty he projected. He struggled to resist the magic’s cloying influence, fighting to perceive his son beneath his persuasive aura.

“You know nothing of either the strength or the sacrifice,” Tural snarled, “needed to maintain crown, throne and kingdom.”

“My strength has come to me,” Lar Kwa said, stepping forward, “through other struggles beyond your experience.”

“What are you doing?” the monarch asked of his son as he entered. “You do not belong in this sacred space.”

“Belong? Of course, I belong,” Lar Kwa insisted, his unyielding smile clearly disturbing to his father. “You would know better if you could only hear the call as I do. I know, father, how loathsome you find the burden of sharing with me, but I won’t begrudge you that. I’m sure it comes from your warrior’s heart, so determined never to surrender anything.”

“You have drawn a bloody red line in the snow,” Tural said, his ire building, “and it is a challenge that will not go unmet.”

“Ultimately, you are a wise man. You will come to see that this is what must be. I am the divine instrument of inevitable change.”

“I will not allow you to have this kingdom,” Tural told his son. “You have fallen under an unnatural influence.”

“Certainly, father,” the younger man said. “I have opened myself to its glory. When I told you I could hear the call, what did you think I meant?”