《The Twin Piers Youth Hostel》


 In Edrye

    The automatic double doors welcome you to a shuttle platform lit by too many LEDs. It is three in the morning and the air is like bathwater. It is late summer. You fish the sealed envelope out of your bag again and flip it over to read the scrawled writing on the back.


    "Deborah," the letter addresses you, for you are Deborah Tosteson, "I don''t envy you." This was going to be Neal Schultz''s assignment had you not volunteered. This is Neal''s chicken-scratch handwriting on the back of the envelope, scrawled with a dying pen in the bowels of the Pangua foreign affairs department, some five-thousand kilometers away. "On paper, your job couldn''t be easier; the bill is already passed, it''s just a matter of notification. They''re not the type to shoot the messenger, or anyone else. That''s really the problem. I''ve never learned anything particularly inspiring about Wilskenn. Not from the perspective of a war-monger." They have to know it''s coming after the losses in Humnoque. Surely.


    Why did you volunteer for this again?


    The shuttle to your hotel pulls in. You stuff away the letter.


    You haul your small suitcase onto the shuttle and take a seat nearest the front. The driver is Wilskenn. Forty, perhaps? Hard to tell; human age doesn''t translate well on Wilskenn physiology. He looks like a werewolf caught mid-transformation, or a particularly humanoid bear. Completely bald, as they all are.


    "Skenn," he says as you pass by. One flesh. Both the name of Edrye''s dominant religion and a mantra of biological community. It is the belief that every living thing is a splinter of some previous singularity.


    You are not expected to respond. Edrye is an aristocracy. Although it is not Pangua''s style to let class dictate piddling social interactions, it is Edrye''s. When in Rome, and all that. Still, you try not to be awkward. Perhaps you can strike up a conversation? You try to recount what you know about Edrye.


    Inkin af, one of the Daughters of Yan, has not been seen nor heard from for two weeks.


    Her title is political: the Daughters act as aldermen to the lord mayor of Athar. They are women of high birth who symbolically carry on the lineage of Yan Pkuuy, the father of modern--and ancient--Edryean political philosophy.


    She was also pregnant.


    "Has Inkin been found?" you ask.


    "Nay and she won''t be," the driver responds in Panguan tongue. His Skenyan accent is heavy and crushes the delicate syllables.


    You''re taken aback by his blunt nature. "Because?"


    He yawns and, for a moment, all the pointed and yellow teeth in his mouth are put on full display. "Can''t be anything right about it." He''s referring to the baby. "Otherwise we''d have seen it already. It''s a..." There is no Panguan word for Cagaskenn. Born under a sick star. Something that fought it''s way into the world when all of medical science dictates that it should have died before birth. The very mention of them is taboo, let alone whelping one.


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    The bus hits a pothole in the road.


    All you can think to say is "I see."


    The driver looked between you and the road a few times. An awkward silence falls between you two. Finally he offers, "Perhaps she will come home. After." He nods.


    After the child is discreetly rehomed to a farm where it can herd livestock and eat pests until its early death. Wilskenn can''t even kill the things that offend them; that ruin their reputation and hinder their political career. You sigh and sink into your seat.


    The shuttle arrives at the hotel. Hotel is the wrong word. It is a hostel. The Twin Piers. There is no body of water big enough for even one pier within thirty kilometres of here. Privacy is hard to come by in Edrye. Single-occupancy rooms are not common


    You haul your suitcase off the shuttle and, once again, the driver only quietly watches you. When you enter the building you are greeted first by a massive painting in the foyer of a lake you don''t recognize with a pier on either end. There is no one at the desk, nor anyone else in the room. You leave your suitcase by the door to inspect the painting, but the moment you turn away from the desk you hear a voice from the other end of the room.


    "Miss Tosteson?" A young Wilskenn man is standing behind the desk, wringing his hands. The glasses perched on his snout magnify his eyes.


    "Yes," you reply.


    "I thought you would arrive earlier." His gaze shifts to a tea set on a low table with no steam coming off the kettle.


    "My flight was delayed," you say. "The weather in Saberttho was quite violent when I left." You look around the small room and listen for anyone else''s presence. "Where is Bennett?"


    "Well, that''s me," the Wilskenn man says.


    You can''t help but hesitate. "You have a Panguan name."


    "My parents were assimilationists." He tilts his head and smiles to politely request that the conversation move on. Wilskenn have an entire language of facial expressions that Panguans often find difficult to interpret. This, at least, is obvious to you.


    "It''s nice to put a face to a name," you offer, and grab ahold of your suitcase again. "Where''s my room?"


    Bennett leads you down a hallway of wooden boards that cry out under the weight of every step. He stops at a door that you can''t help but notice is hand-carved and retrieves a brass skeleton key from his pocket. The door opens with a squeal. The interior looks to have been decorated by your grandmother, or perhaps your great-grandmother. The wallpapers are chintz and every surface is adorned with an ornate antimacassar or doily. Many delicate objects are mounted on the wall, including an oil painting of Jorg Fnun, second lord mayor of Athar, hanging above the bed. It is a very far cry from contemporary Penguan interior design.


    You cannot imagine feeling comfortable here. "It''s wonderful."


    "I have given you my room, Miss Tosteson. I understand that Panguans do not like to share beds or rooms and this is the only private room and bed in the hostel." Bennett smiles at you.


    You''re grateful, but first you must follow the appropriate procedures of refusing and questioning such a generous act. "I can''t take your room. Where will you sleep?" Perfect.


    Bennett laughs. "I am too busy to sleep." He takes off back up the hallway, waving at you before disappearing around a corner. "Goodnight Miss Tosteson!"

 To the Honking of Trumpets

    You wake to the honking of trumpets. Outside your window, a parade is kicking off the preliminary celebrations three days before Gathyote. Every member is on foot. Although the parade calls for the beginning of joyous festivities, the music and dress would make one think that this is a funeral procession.


    You watch a crowd begin to form in the streets, dead silent as they listen to what more closely resembles a strangely melodic alarm than any intentional arrangement. The ensemble is primarily composed of ancient horns that each mimic a wailing cry by virtue of both their original construction as well as having tarnished over time. In the middle of the metal bleating screams a single hurdy-gurdy played by an instrumentalist hidden in the depths of the crowd. The parade wanders down the street and is out of sight long before it is out of earshot.


    It is seven in the morning. You do not, nor cannot, return to sleep.


    *


    Later that day, in the lord mayor¡¯s office, you stand in the centre of the room. Your back hurts. There are no chairs, save for that of the lord mayor''s desk chair. Business is conducted on foot here, as is the business of drinking alcohol. Both are expected to occur in this meeting. Such is politics in Edrye. You stand for fifteen minutes, then thirty, then forty-five. You consider how leaning on the desk might affect the outcome of this meeting. Before you can find out, the door creaks open behind you.


    The lord mayor of Athar takes his sweet time crossing the room. He pours two drinks and does not wait for you to raise the glass to your lips before knocking his own back. His face is nearly devoid of collagen. His lids and eyebrows sag around his small, dark eyes. His lips appear to melt off his mouth. Every turn of his head is accompanied by swishing jowls. He is permanently frowning. The bloodhound resemblance is uncanny.


    It''s difficult for you to imagine that this is what every Wilskenn strives for. The mark of a very long life. "Lord mayor--"


    He holds up a puffy hand. The fastest movement you have seen him make yet. He pours another drink for himself. Carefully, with shaking hands. Then he speaks. "You want us to fight." Not a question.


    "Pangua requests Edrye''s assistance in the war," you say.


    He laughs, then wheezes. He wipes his long, drooping lips with an embroidered rag and takes another sip of his drink. "It is no request," he says into his glass cup. Although his accent is heavy, he is clearly making an effort to pronounce the Panguan words properly. "We fight, we die. We don''t fight..." He gestures to you.


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    You retrieve the envelope from your bag and open it. The letter inside states, among other things, the possible forms of retaliation Edrye can expect from abstaining. It is all worded so distantly, as if what it describes is as obvious and natural as the incoming tide and the landing rain. Yet, it is a list of threats. What Pangua has the power to give and what it can take away. You hand the letter to the lord mayor, who glances at it from down his snout at some strange angle where his eyes can properly focus on the words. He folds the letter back up and places it on his desk. He leans back against his desk, sets his glass beside him, and links his hands together over his stomach. "Miss..."


    "Deborah Tosteson."


    "Miss Tosteson. If you were to write all of Edrye''s policies on one page, nowhere would the word ''pacifism'' appear. Nonviolence is no nation, nor individual''s, definition. It is a symptom of a higher cause. What you would find on that page is a philosophy of survival. To fight in a war is not against Skenn, but the only wars this country is ever asked to fight are those that do not promote its survival. Is this war any different?"


    "I can''t answer that," you admit. "The worth of every war is decided retroactively."


    "But the cost is paid upfront."


    "I''m not here to tell you that our part in this war will be looked upon favourably by history," you say. "Or that your people won''t suffer greatly for having taken part. I can tell you that my people have already suffered, and will continue to suffer needlessly, without Edrye''s help."


    The lord mayor is quiet for a moment. Then he says, "It is not my decision to make."


    Fearing that you have just wasted your time, you ask, "What do you mean?"


    "Tomorrow I will be dead."


    You don''t answer.


    "I was hoping to eat at Gathyote one more time, but I won''t make it." He shifts his weight against the table. "The arrangements are already in place so your purpose here won''t be delayed. My funeral will be done with before the festival, and afterwards my replacement will be happy to sign over our people."


    "I''m not sure how to respond."


    "Now is not the time for response," he says. "I''m taking the last of the true old-world politics with me. Edrye doesn''t change on the surface, but this new generation of highborn Wilskenn have had plenty of time to decide what they like about Pangua. What Pangua has to offer them. Your country can be very generous to the right people. You can decide how to respond to that later."


    "I''m sorry you won''t see Gathyote."


    "Don''t be sorry. Go and eat enough for both of us. That is all I''ll ask of you."


    "Me? Why?"


    "It''s a saying: when you cannot do much else to help yourself, help yourself. We are the voices of our nations, and yet what can either of us do? We eat, we drink." He laughs. "You are a shitty politician, Miss Tosteson. You can''t help but care about the problems of strangers as if they were your own. For the same reason you are a good person. I''m afraid I frustrated the last diplomat you sent. He said¨Cand maybe you can help me understand what he meant¨Cthat ''you can''t teach an old dog new tricks.''" He looks at you in such a way that his coy understanding shines through.

 Royalty

    The day after your meeting, the lord mayor of Athar is found dead in his home. Coroners state that he died of natural causes. It is forbidden to perform an autopsy on highborn Wilskenn, so this is, at best, a professional opinion. Having been prepared in advance, his funeral is held the very next day. The population of the city collapses in on itself like a dying star. Wilsken cluster in dangerous density to catch a glimpse of the impossibly ornate casket as it is carried by foot to the royal mausoleum.


    As a foreign dignitary and the sole representative of Pangua in the city, you are standing among members of Edrye''s aristocratic devolution at the mouth of the mausoleum. Not a single member of the royal family is present.


    This is not a surprise. Most Wilskenn will never see one in their lifetime. Maybe in a painting, or on TV, but almost never in the flesh. Why a member of Edrye''s royalty will be present for one occasion but not another appears to have no correlation. It was over three years into Pangua''s acquisition of Edrye before it was even recognized as a monarchy. Prior to this, ruling aristocrats ran dignitaries in circles when asked for a leader. The lord mayor answered to the Daughters, who each answered to the head of their own family, who in turn all answered to the lord mayor. It was only when the Chancellor''s Grand Treasurer came to Athar to invite the lord mayor to Saberttho that Prince Vabek ? Otibir was present to accept the invitation. In retrospect, the only thing Wilskenn were more afraid of than Pangua''s retaliation was invoking their king who, as far as you know, has never made a public appearance.


    For ten minutes you have been watching the casket slowly approach the mausoleum. Now it is close enough to make out the details. It is a combination of metal and wood. Depictions of plums, Edrye''s dominant crop, are carved into every available centimeter of surface. Fixed on top is a marble bust of the lord mayor''s likeness, on the base of which is a quote in Skenyan that you cannot read. The only word you recognize is ''peacemaker'', the term the first Panguan diplomats here used to describe themselves in lieu of a better translation.


    The casket passes by you. It disappears into the mausoleum followed by the Mourners, who will live in the windowless building for three days until they are almost dead from dehydration. The lord mayor''s casket will be placed inside a sealed tube that provides the optimal preservation conditions to slow the decomposition of his body. In Skenn, flesh is believed to be ultimately finite. One day there will be no new offspring.


    *


    When you enter the hostel again, only room tone greets you. The floorboards under the disgusting red carpet creak as they rest. Water spills down old pipes in the walls. Rain pelts the windows and roof above. A lone plastic fan spins back and forth in the corner. There are no footsteps. No voices. You wonder how such an empty place can afford to stay open.


    Upon returning to your room¨Cto Bennett''s room¨Cyou meet a significant splotch of wet penetrating the wallpaper opposite the door. You decide to look for Bennett.


    You walk through the doorway behind the front desk in the foyer and come into a small kitchen. The cabinetry is yellowed, every surface appears to be covered in a film of oil splatter, dirty dishes are collecting in the sink basin, and each appliance looks to be at least a decade old. Collections of decorative plates are mounted between family photos, needlepoint depictions of birds, and an abused calendar. To top it all off, a fly strip is hanging from a dim light fixture above the island. The room is overwhelming, to say the least. As you take in the sight of the kitchen, you hear something hit the floor in an adjacent room. You venture further into the complex and find an office just off the kitchen that someone has crammed a desk and filing cabinet into. Paperwork is haphazardly strewn about the tabletop to the point that a stack has fallen off. As you bend down to retrieve the papers you see Bennett lying underneath the desk. Asleep.


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    *


    Gathyote, the great transhumance festival, begins in the evening. By now, the herds of Gathos have already passed through the streets of Athar. You see, Athar is wedged in the only significant break in a long and steep cliff face that stretches almost the entire width of oblong Edrye. When ranchers migrate their herds between the highlands and the lowlands, they must pass through the city. Old and injured Gathos are picked off and served in neighbourhood cookouts. For the particularly devout, this is the only time when meat is consumed. The celebration is almost as old as Skenn itself and occurs twice a year.


    You and Bennett stand amongst a throng of locals in a courtyard, watching an old Gathos pace back and forth on the cobblestone floor. The animal is somewhere between a bison and a moose in appearance. It¡¯s massive. The wool around its neck has been shaved in preparation for the slaughter.


    ¡°She is confused,¡± Bennett says.


    The animal stops and bellows but receives no reply. It pulls against the rope around its neck, tying it to a lamppost.


    An older Wilskenn woman approaches the Gathos. She speaks quietly to it in Skenyan and presses her forehead to the animal¡¯s. Then she turns and addresses the crowd in their native tongue.


    Bennett begins to translate for you, then pauses. ¡°Oh,¡± he says. ¡°It¡¯s the Heretical Song of Inea ??riol:¡±


    There is not a single reply to death,


    Though we all die.


    And though we have all accepted the burden of living,


    There is not a single life.


    So when we ask our last question,


    Let there not be a single answer.


    The Wilskenn woman unsheathes a knife from her waistband and runs it across the Gathos¡¯ neck. The animal stands still, facing the crowd, until it drops to the ground and dies.


    Later, after you have eaten your fill, you retreat to an alleyway and empty the contents of your stomach onto the ground. The heavy, twisting feeling inside you is not eased.


    *


    Later into the night, the drinks you lost count of begin to have an effect. You can¡¯t quite focus your eyes properly, nor can you coordinate your limbs quite so gracefully. Bennett tells you it¡¯s time to go home, and ends up carrying you after only halfway. The rest you don¡¯t remember so well. You recall being tucked into bed like a child, Bennett politely declining your drunken advances, and begging him to stay with you. Somewhere in between this you find the time to complain about the state of his kitchen.


    In the morning, you find him asleep in a wing chair in the corner of the room.


    *


    You arrive at Athar¡¯s city hall to meet with the new lord mayor. You are let into the office to find someone already there. A tall and strikingly pale Wilskenn man dressed in long robes is turned away from you, looking out the window behind the desk. The door creaks shut behind you. He turns at the sound and only then do you see the gold paint on his face. Atop his head rest circlets of gold and silver chains. His two animal ears are studded by many small gems and hoops of precious metals.


    ¡°I am here to sign your draft, dignitary,¡± says prince Vabek ? Otibir. His Panguan is perfect. He stands behind the lord mayor¡¯s desk and produces a plum heartwood pen from somewhere under his layers of robes. You notice that he has a ring on every finger.


    You waste no time in retrieving the documents and laying them out before him. As he signs on every dotted line, you take a moment to control your staggered breathing. "I''m sorry to disturb your highness," you say.


    "I am often called upon to run my father''s errands," he responds without looking away from the papers. He signs without pausing to read what the documents entail; how many Wilskenn lives will be sent to make up for the disaster in Humnoque; when they are allowed to rescind; what pittance they will be compensated with. After he has worked his way through every signature throughout a long period of silence, he stands up straight and looks down at you. ¡°Is that all?¡±


    ¡°Um, yes,¡± you say.


    He turns back around and looks out the window again. This is the only dismissal you receive.

 History of the Termite

    Two years after Edrye joins the war effort, you return to Athar. You note the garbage piling up along the side of the road. The graffiti on exterior walls. The overarching silence.


    A single car rolls down the road, swerving around potholes, and pulls up to the shuttle terminal outside the airport. Bennett gets out and waves at you. ¡°Miss Tosteson!¡± He loads your suitcase in the trunk as you climb into the passenger seat.


    The two of you don¡¯t talk much outside of basic pleasantries during the drive. Bennett asks you how Pangua is, to which you reply ¡°Hot.¡± You ask him how the hostel is faring, to which he replies ¡°Busy.¡± This is, as you quickly find out, an understatement. The hostel has a rotating door of occupants with many more camping outside, waiting for a room. It has effectively become a shelter for displaced Atharians.


    When Bennett gets out of the car, he unfolds a walking cane.


    ¡°Are you ok?¡± A stupid question, you know, but you can¡¯t think of what else to say.


    ¡°Ah, yes," he taps his leg with the cane. "A cleverly hidden shrapnel bomb in the streets of Larderngathern."


    "I''m sorry."


    "I''m sorry. It was my job to find them. I didn¡¯t do my job. Someone died." He shrugs.


    Once again, Bennett gives you his room to stay in. "Technically there is no vacancy," he says. "But you always have a room here. At least as long as I do." He leaves you to unpack.


    The room, for the record, has not changed one iota. Its surprising familiarity brings you some well-needed reassurance.


    As you unburden your suitcase you look at the painting of Jorg Fnun above the bed. The painting stares back at you.


    *


    At the Athar city hall, a building now covered in anonymous spray paint proclamations, you find no one at the front desk. ¡°Hello,¡± you call into the large and empty room. ¡°Anyone?¡± Your only answer is your own voice echoing back. Remembering the way, you walk to the lord mayor¡¯s office.


    Inside, a Wilskenn woman is sitting behind the desk. She is writing aggressively on the only paper on the entire desktop.


    ¡°Excuse me,¡± you say as you let yourself in. ¡°But there was no one in the front hall.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re always short-staffed nowadays,¡± she says, curtly and without looking up. She continues to furiously scribble out something in Skenyan before dropping her pen onto the table and letting it roll off and fall to the floor. The woman rises out of her chair with a huff and brushes a few wrinkles out of her clothes before coming around the desk to greet you. ¡°You must be the diplomat,¡± she says, outstretching a large and sleek hand.


    ¡°Nowadays I¡¯m more of a courier, but yes. Debrah Tosteson,¡± you say, and shake her hand. She has an incredibly tense grip. Your hand hurts.


    ¡°Lord mayor Nurm?f.¡± She finally lets you free of her handshake to retrieve a bottle of something dark from the cellarette. She pours two glasses, hers significantly fuller than yours, then sits on the table and crosses her arms. ¡°What can I help you with, Deborah?¡±


    Off-put but her demeanor, you stumble for words. ¡°Well, you see¨C¡±


    Nurm?f gestures to your still-full glass. ¡°Social lubricant,¡± she says.


    ¡°Right.¡± You take a sip of the dark liquor, and a breath. You find your footing. ¡°As you know, the war has carried on longer than anyone first imagined.¡± You pause to gauge her reaction.


    Her face is inscrutable. She shifts her gaze, unsure why you stopped, and nods for you to continue.


    ¡°Given that original predictions for the time and cost of our involvement proved incorrect, we now face the problem of continuing to fund our efforts overseas.¡±


    ¡°Oh,¡± Nurm?f says. She gets to her feet and swirls her drink around in her cup. ¡°And from what mouths shall I take that money out of? I already can¡¯t afford a receptionist.¡±


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    ¡°The grand treasurer has drafted a proposal for a modest donation, courtesy of the royal family.¡± You produce the envelope that contains the proposal.


    ¡°You want the king¡¯s money?¡± Wide-eyed, Nurm?f snatches the letter out of your hand and rips it open. ¡°Have you met him?¡± She pours over the contents of the proposal and rubs her forehead.


    ¡°No, but I have met the prince.¡±


    This catches her attention. ¡°The prince?¡±


    ¡°Yes, he signed the draft into law last time I was here,¡± you say.


    Nurm?f stares at you. She looks afraid. Slowly, her gaze wanders into the distance and she presses her fist to her mouth. ¡°I see,¡± she says. ¡°Please leave. I mean, please come back tomorrow. I will have your money then.¡±


    You hesitate, confused, but then make your way to the door. As soon as you grab the handle you¡¯re stopped.


    ¡°What is happening out there? In the war?¡± Nurm?f is holding hands together above her chest.


    ¡°You don¡¯t know?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not easy to find someone willing to tell you around here.¡±


    Unprepared for the question, you answer, ¡°What happens in every war, I guess. A lot of permanency. Maybe more than necessary.¡±


    *


    In the evening, you and Bennett sit down to tea in the hostel¡¯s tiny kitchen that you still hate. ¡°This is much nicer than the last time we spent time together,¡± Bennett says. ¡°I¡¯m not too keen to carry you home again. You¡¯re heavier than you look.¡±


    You¡¯re not sure how to take that. ¡°Sorry about that, it¡¯s not my usual style.¡± You take a sip of your tea. It burns your tongue. ¡°I felt overwhelmed by the circumstances of my visit, but that wasn¡¯t the right way to handle it.¡±


    ¡°Hm, yes.¡± Bennett appears to be lost in thought. ¡°Gathyote is often an emotional event. The weight of life and the responsibility of taking it. This is what reminds us why our own lives are so important; why we must live well.¡± His eyes seem to glaze over.


    You decide to change the subject. There is a question burning in the back of your mind, after all. ¡°Bennett, between the two of us, what is the deal with the royal family?¡±


    This appears to snap him back to the present. He cocks his head. ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°I mean, why do you never see them? Why does nobody ever talk about them? What¡¯s wrong with them?¡±


    He scratches the back of his neck, yawns, and takes a drink of his tea. ¡°As people? Nothing, really. I guess you could say they¡¯re a little self-important.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s an understatement,¡± you say into your cup.


    ¡°Some people think they never die, or at least live a lot longer than the rest of us.¡± He shrugs. ¡°It¡¯s more about what they represent. Politically.¡±


    Now he¡¯s piqued your interest. ¡°Go on,¡± you say.


    ¡°Well, you see, the monarchy in Edrye isn¡¯t the same as everywhere else. It appeared after a representational form of government had already been created. Some time after Cunio a Lvose popularized the idea of high birth, a coalition of wealthy merchants came to the conclusion that if they wanted to retain their status, they had to make themselves indispensable to the people. So, one way or another, they worked together eventually to eventually control a large swath of Edrye¡¯s resources, and an even bigger portion of its currency. Given this, they put the budding aristocracy into a chokehold and demanded absolute power.¡±


    ¡°And they formed the royal family?¡±


    Bennett clasps his hands together and leans on the island. ¡°Not so simply,¡± he says. ¡°Cunio a Lvose made a deal with them. For the continued flow of their resources, they would let the aristocracy continue to rule uninterrupted. However, on any occasion their wealth is threatened, they alone would handle the situation as they see fit.¡±


    Your tea is going cold now. ¡°How did he do that? To take so much less than they wanted?¡±


    ¡°He knew that money was not a means to power, but that power was a means to money.¡± Bennett takes a sip of his tea, then frowns at it. ¡°This is why sightings of the royal family are rare and quite unnerving. Their wealth is our wealth. It''s not much different than finding out that insects have been eating the foundations of your house, and that at any moment you might fall through the floor.¡± He rises out of his seat and pours the rest of the tea down the sink.


    ¡°Well, thank you for the history lesson. I appreciate that I could be more informed about Edrye.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s no bother, Miss Tosteson¨C¡±


    ¡°Deborah, please.¡±


    ¡°Deborah, of course.¡± Your name sounds nice in his accent. ¡°I understand what it¡¯s like to be out of your depths in a foreign place, even when your job is being there.¡± He smiles.


    The two of you exist in a comfortable silence for a few minutes as Bennett sets the kettle back on the stovetop to boil. You break the silence when you ask, ¡°How old are you?¡±


    ¡°In years? Thirty-one.¡±


    ¡°Younger than me then,¡± you say, being thirty-eight yourself.


    ¡°Wilskenn believe that age equates to intelligence. Do you feel smarter than me?¡± The look on his face gives away that the awkward phrasing is intentional. Not an affront but a joke.


    You laugh. ¡°Absolutely not. You have a way of making me feel very stupid, in fact.¡± Forgetting that it¡¯s cold, you take another sip of your tea. You can¡¯t help but continue talking. ¡°You make me feel like I¡¯ve gotten myself way in over my head coming here. Like¨Clike there¡¯s so much about this world just out of sight that I¡¯ve always assumed didn¡¯t exist only because it stayed quiet. Look at me, this is my job. I should already know. But when you give it a voice, somehow I feel like it¡¯s okay to keep learning.¡±


    He looks at you for what feels like a very long while, but is in fact no more than ten seconds. Finally he turns away and takes the kettle off the hot element. As he dips a new tea bag into the hot water, he says, ¡°Two years ago you asked me to sleep with you. Does that offer still stand?¡±


    As it turns out, it does. So goes the rest of the night.

 War of Two Piers

    ¡°Why do you have a painting of Jorg Fnun above your bed?¡± you finally ask.


    Bennett, who is lying beside you, looks up at the painting, as if to confirm that it¡¯s still there. ¡°No, you have to ask me what historical figure I would take to dinner.¡±


    You scrunch your eyebrows. ¡°Really?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, please? It¡¯s like no one ever asks that anymore.¡±


    You decide to humor him. ¡°Alright, go on. Who?¡±


    He smiles. ¡°Jorg Fnun, and would you like to know why?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m dying to.¡±


    ¡°Well, before becoming the lord mayor of Ayaming, he was a sort of sociological historian. He studied how Edrye¡¯s past affected the popular opinions of its present. In particular, he was very interested in the few dialogues between popular Wilskenn society and the Ireoskenn communities.¡±


    Ireoskenn. There''s a name you won¡¯t hear brought up in conversation very often. Pangua¡¯s information on the heretical sect is very sparse. It¡¯s another curious piece of Edrye¡¯s mosaic that is as touchy as it is interesting.


    ¡°Ireoskenn?¡± you ask, feigning ignorance.


    Bennett pauses his speech. ¡°Hm? Yes. Of the northern boreal forests, you know?¡±


    ¡°What is it they believe again?¡±


    ¡°That animals are not of the same origin.¡± He frowns. ¡°You know this.¡±


    ¡°Oh, right,¡± you say sheepishly. ¡°Them.¡±


    Undeterred, he continues his lecture. ¡°Communications have always been brief. It used to be popular to initiate a debate with an Ireoskenn to demonstrate one¡¯s steadfast adherence to Skenn. Not important. Jorg Fnun boiled down the conflict to a simple base belief underlying the disagreement: If animals are of the Flesh, then it is not appropriate to kill them. This would be akin to killing your neighbour or your mother. If they are not of the Flesh, then there is no problem with killing them, as they are something other than yourself.¡±


    ¡°Seems simple enough.¡±


    Bennett rolls onto his side to face you and rests his head on his hand. ¡°But is the world ever so black and white? He proposed a third worldview: that it is not our origins that decide whether our murder is just.¡± He rolls onto his back again and stares at the wall. Somewhere through it is the hostel¡¯s foyer. ¡°He said we are like two piers on the same lake. Which should be kept? The one that is made by the most adept hands, surely. But while attempting to decide the origin of each, does anyone point out that they both host boats just fine?¡±


    Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    A few minutes pass in silence. ¡°Do you know why I came back?¡±


    ¡°I assume not to tell us the war is over.¡±


    ¡°For money.¡±


    He laughs. ¡°Do we look like we have any?¡±


    ¡°Pangua thinks your royal family still has plenty.¡±


    ¡°Deborah,¡± Bennett is facing you again. He¡¯s looking right at you. ¡°Every time you tell me about your job, you look sick. Or as if you are about to be sick. Why keep doing it?¡±


    You take a moment to think about it. Then you say, ¡°I get this idea that somehow I can make it better. That I can break the news more delicately, or describe the circumstances in such a way that makes it all okay.¡±


    ¡°But it¡¯s not,¡± Bennett says. There¡¯s no kindness in his voice.


    ¡°I know. I know it¡¯s not okay. Maybe I want to believe it can be. What am I supposed to do about it anyway? I¡¯m just a cog in the machine.¡±


    ¡°Tell me about a machine that still works without its cogs.¡± He appears to be waiting patiently.


    ¡°If you think that me quitting will change anything, you¡¯re an idealist.¡±


    Bennett gets out of bed and pulls his clothes on. The morning is over.


    *


    On your way back to city hall, you are stopped by a funeral. These are common nowadays, Bennett told you. The city is stuck in a cycle of mourning. This is expensive, you think as you watch the procession pass by. The coffins are still ornate. The musicians are still playing artifacts. Flowers are strewn about the street as the event passes. Despite the struggling economy, the funerals have not become less extravagant. The biggest difference is that a lot less people are here to watch them. You sit on the curb and wait for the foot traffic to pass. You try not to think about your role in all this. You try not to think about what Bennett said. You think about it anyway. The self-loathing sets in.


    Then you notice the busts atop each casket. Not of Wilskenn likeness, but depicting human men and women. Looking for an answer, you follow the procession to a public mausoleum, an extensive building the size of Pangua¡¯s finest museums. The crowd follows the caskets inside. The interior of the building is sterile. Much unlike the usual crowded Edryean decor, the great hall of the mausoleum lacks any furniture. Speckled white and grey granite surrounds you from floor to ceiling. The caskets are placed down across two stone blocks rising from the floor. A few sentiments in Skenyan later, the undertaker drapes a flag over each box. Not Edrye¡¯s flag. Not even Pangua¡¯s. White crosses cut up a staircase of alternating yellow and blue. Red stars are sprayed across like splattered blood. You hold your breath. This is the flag of the enemy. These are the bodies of enemy forces.


    Why, you wonder. All this money for people they likely killed. For people who tried to kill them. Because they think every living thing was once a holy mass of flesh? Their people are starving. Their city is quite literally falling apart.


    The funeral proceeds regardless. You leave before it is over.

 And Civility

    Time passes again. This time it is barely one year until you step foot back in Athar. Yet, the city changes greatly as the war continues to take its toll. Plant life has taken over portions of what used to be concrete as if reclaiming abandoned land. Many buildings are shuttered completely, having lost hope their occupants will return. There is a foul smell hanging about the air.


    You stand in front of the Twin Piers. The stones of the building¡¯s exterior stones are covered in grime as collected over the course of multiple years. A number of the front-facing windows are missing shutters. Those that remain are in a sorry condition. At some point, the letters bearing the hostel¡¯s name leaked some sort of black substance, as evidenced by its now-dried trail on the wall below.


    You had to walk here yourself from the terminal. In your hand is a note once left on your desk from none other than Neal Schultz. Now here was a few mistakes in a row. You found out that Neal Schultz was a lot like drinking, and not just because one generally followed the other. Not just because you did a lot of both in between your time here in Edrye.


    The note reads more like a heartbroken love letter than anything else. Among miscellaneous laments and pleas, Neal writes ¡°I don¡¯t know who he is, but he¡¯s not me, and I don¡¯t even think he¡¯s a man in the same way that I am.¡± After laying out what you¡¯re sure was a very convincing argument in his head as to why Edryeans are not worth your time, least of all some know-it-all living in the back of his own failing business, he writes ¡°There¡¯s not much point in trying to talk to a soldier. Their whole business is what comes after talking fails.¡± You fold the note and stuff it back into your bag. You wish Neal knew nothing about Bennett so that he might not have the opportunity to say anything about him at all.


    You enter the hostel. It is busy, which is only to say that there are other people present in the foyer. Immediately you see Bennett. He¡¯s kneeling down to talk to an old Wilskenn woman sitting on one of the floral-patterned couches against the wall. You catch his attention. Smile. He smiles back. You pray that your last interaction is water under the bridge by now.


    ¡°Deborah,¡± he says as he approaches you. The two of you embrace. It¡¯s quick. It¡¯s civil. He pushes a key into your hand. ¡°I¡¯ve prepared a room for you on the second floor. It¡¯s private, don¡¯t worry.¡± With that, he walks on past you.


    It does not appear that your prayers have been answered. You turn around and grab the back of his sleeve. ¡°Bennett,¡± you say, quiet enough that only the two of you can hear. ¡°I¡¯m sorry about last time. I want to put that behind us.¡±


    This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    He stops. Turns a little. ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± he says, ¡°that I couldn¡¯t pick you up, I had to sell my car just last month. The walking is probably better for me anyway.¡± Then he continues on, the cane like a third footstep.


    *


    In the evening you become resolute. You find Bennett in the kitchen with a teacup in his hand. The kettle is nowhere to be found, but there is a bottle of vodka on the island in front of him. ¡°Is the kitchen serving alcohol now?¡± you ask.


    ¡°It¡¯s on special request,¡± he replies.


    ¡°Go on then.¡± you grab a teacup for yourself. He pours you a drink and says nothing more. His demeanour dampens your previous determination. The two of you coexist in silence for a while. It¡¯s uncomfortable. After a few drinks it slowly becomes less uncomfortable. Eventually you work up the nerve to speak. ¡°You were right.¡± The words hang in the air. Bennett doesn¡¯t respond, but he does look at you through the fog of his own intoxication. How full was that bottle when you first stepped in? You continue. ¡°We don¡¯t have to be swept up in machinations bigger than us. We can choose to stand against it. I¡¯m trying to end the war. I believe that if we can draft some Ireoskenn, I mean, think of what ten thousand soldiers of their hunting expertise could do. The forests outside Potander are no different than upper Edrye.¡±


    Bennett takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes with his free hand. Some agonized moan escapes his throat. He sets the glasses down on the counter beside him. His eyes look too small on his face now. They¡¯re nothing more than dark marbles sunken into the streaked brown mass of his head. ¡°You believe that the answer to war is more war?¡±


    ¡°We are so close.¡±


    ¡°More suffering?¡±


    ¡°It can¡¯t all be for nothing. All the people who¡¯ve died.¡±


    ¡°The people I killed.¡±


    ¡°Just because you didn¡¯t find that bomb¨C?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not talking about that!¡± You¡¯ve never heard him raise his voice before.


    You set down your empty cup. Your throat is like a clamp holding back a wracking sob. ¡°This is the only way I know how to make things better,¡± you manage. Your eyes feel heavy and wet. You want to¨Cneed to¨Cleave as soon as you can. You turn to the door.


    ¡°Don¡¯t go there, Deborah,¡± Bennett says. His voice is soft again. In your head you imagine him asking you to stay. You imagine his forgiveness in so many words. In thoughtful looks and gentle touch. You look back. His face spells only a deep sadness. A graveyard of smiles. ¡°We cannot afford many more funerals.¡±


    Heartbroken, you leave.

 Ouroboros

    The black outline of the trees gives way only to an all-grey sky. The stars do not twinkle above you. The moon does not illuminate the road ahead. Hundreds of years ago, Wilskenn refused to interact with foreigners. They locked their doors and stared through the windows of their homes. Although the people have changed, the lands of Edrye remain inhospitable to outsiders. You can feel it now in the stillness of the forest. You get the impression that stopping before you are clear of these woods would be a dangerous mistake.


    Your drive into the highland forests is taxing. Physically. Emotionally. It is hours of being alone with your thoughts. Your embarrassment. Your anger. Your hands are numb from gripping the steering wheel. Your jaw is sore from being clenched. Your eyes are long dry by now.


    Softly, with no more than a few glimmering specks landing silently on your windshield, the rain begins. It is not long before the road appears wet. It is not long after that before the precipitation is intense enough to warrant an audible clash with the surface of your car. Soon the thundering of falling water drowns out the radio. Your windshield wipers are doing their best. Water collects on the glass, distorting the shapes and colours before you in a wet blur, before being pushed briefly away. In between the swiping you see sheets of rain, as pushed by incoming wind, dance across the dark asphalt in front of you. The wipers pass and, before too long, the image is engulfed once again into bleeding shapes as illuminated by your headlights, presumably still out there somewhere, fighting their own battle in the downpour. You can no longer tell what side of the road you are on.


    Then, lights ahead. You startle, fearing a collision with the only other driver stupid enough to still be out at this time; in this weather. After a moment and a few sweeps of your wipers, however, you realize that the lights are coming from off the road. That they are attached to no vehicle, but a house. The only house you have seen since you entered this forest. You decide to try your luck.


    The building is nothing more than a small log cabin. Besides the electric lantern illuminating the porch, two lawn chairs are taking shelter from the rain next to the front door. You¡¯re already drenched just from stepping out of your car. A wet spot forms below you. You knock. Silence. It¡¯s late. No light is visible through the curtains on the other side of the window. If there¡¯s anyone home, they¡¯re surely asleep by now. You knock again. A little harder. This time you¡¯re answered by footsteps from within. The door opens and on the other side stands a human man. You can¡¯t help but be visibly surprised. Neither can he. ¡°Can I help you?¡± he asks. His eyes scan the porch behind you and the yard beyond.


    ¡°Sorry to catch you at this hour,¡± you say, ¡°but I¨C¡±


    ¡°Tosteson? Deborah Tosteson?¡± In a moment the man goes from looking skeptical to bemused.


    ¡°I¡­ yes?¡± You search his face for any scrap of familiarity.


    ¡°Alik Rowe. From finances. We worked together on the Potander budget.¡±


    You can only assume he¡¯s telling the truth, considering he knows your name and past work history, but you still don¡¯t recognize him. Maybe it¡¯s the beard. He looks like he hasn¡¯t shaved for years. ¡°Oh, of course,¡± you say, feigning recognition.


    ¡°Please,¡± he says, moving out of the doorway. ¡°Come in.¡±


    You enter into a small living room. To the right is an outdated kitchen with little more than the bare necessities. To the left, a dark hallway leading to other rooms. The furniture is in conflict between Edryean and Panguan decor. A floral-patterned recliner sits beside a green leather couch. A crocheted doily blankets a plain wooden coffee table. Despite its size and questionable taste, the entire place emanates a strong sense of love and warmth. This is in contrast to the empty picture hooks on the walls. You take a seat on the couch. ¡°What are you doing in upper Edrye?¡±


    Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.


    Alik sits on the recliner next to you. ¡°Kissinger told me to.¡± He means Sayid Kissinger, the grand treasurer of Pangua.


    The gears in your head are turning, but you can¡¯t guess as to what conclusion they¡¯re working towards. ¡°What do you mean? Are you exiled?¡±


    He laughs. ¡°No. She said I should let my heart guide me down strange roads.¡±


    From somewhere down the dark hallway, the floorboards creak under new weight. You become uneasy. ¡°Is there someone else here?¡±


    He hesitates. ¡°Yes. My wife.¡± He looks into the hallway. ¡°It¡¯s alright.¡± The assurance isn¡¯t for you.


    A Wilskenn woman steps into the light. Although you struggled to recognize Alik, she is immediately familiar to you. Your mind jumps tracks. Quickly the name comes to you. ¡°You¡¯re Inkin Af.¡±


    She nods with a nervous smile.


    ¡°When Inkin became pregnant,¡± Alik says, ¡°we knew she would be disgraced. Even if I was Wilskenn, I¡¯m definitely no highborn. No one in Athar, maybe all of Edrye, would ever accept our marriage.¡± He sits back in his chair. ¡°So we made a deal with her father: she would go missing and no one would ever come looking for us. No one would ever find out why. I built this cabin for us.¡± He smiles at her.


    You look down to the floor in silence, processing what you¡¯ve just been told. Then you say, ¡°and¡­ the baby? I didn¡¯t think it was even possible between¡­ I mean biologically.¡±


    ¡°Miss Deborah.¡± Inkin¡¯s voice is soft like a feather. ¡°Do you know much about Edrye¡­ before Pangua took it?¡±


    ¡°Very little,¡± you admit. Edrye has been a colony of Pangua since you were six years old.


    Inkin approaches the back of the fabric recliner. She rests a hand on Alik¡¯s shoulder and he raises his own hand to hold it. ¡°Edrye used to be claimed by Moderond. We worked their fields and built their houses. When civil war tore the country apart, we fought their battles too.¡±


    Moderond. You know the name from history books. It hasn¡¯t existed as any more than a radical reformationist¡¯s pipe dream for over sixty years. ¡°Nowhere is it recorded that Edrye was ever owned by Moderond. I would have known that by now.¡±


    ¡°It is,¡± Inkin says. ¡°History doesn¡¯t forget. It only fails to reveal what it remembers.¡±


    Alik chimes in: ¡°Moderond was such a disaster that the very memory of it is still volatile. The facts of what actually happened there no longer matter to anyone on the world stage. It¡¯s just a tool to use against political opponents. Any similarities, real or made-up, are disastrous.¡±


    ¡°What is true,¡± Inkin continues, ¡°is that the people of Moderond live on in Wilskenn genetics, whether we like it or not. There was no Cagaskenn before Moderond.¡±


    The mention of the cursed offspring brings the room to a silence. Alik is the one to finally break it. ¡°Her name is Orla.¡± The name hangs in the air a moment before he continues. ¡°She can¡¯t talk, but she¡¯s funny. And curious. And kind.¡± He points to a crude finger painting approximating the log cabin. ¡°She did that. She made that.¡± He leans over and wipes his eyes. Sniffs.


    ¡°You don¡¯t have to justify her,¡± Inkin says softly. Then she looks at you. ¡°It is not easy to stand against your culture. Not even when you¡¯re convinced that it¡¯s the right thing to do. I don¡¯t believe that love requires sacrifices. From where I stand, it is Edrye that has demanded sacrifices for my love.¡± She shakes her head. ¡°Please, let us change the topic now. What are you doing out here, Miss Deborah? In this weather? At this time?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± you say. ¡°I¡¯m not really sure anymore.¡±

 On the Other Side of a Failed Business

    You lose five months of your life to sleepless nights; to endless work days and disturbed meetings. You write until your pen runs out of ink. You write until your hand feels as though it will fall off. Neal Schultz is sent to Larderngathern. A letter appears on your desk shortly after. Not from Neal, but Alik Rowe:


    Deborah Tosteson,


    I keep thinking about our conversation that night. I know you didn¡¯t want to say it in front of Inkin, but I think I know why you found yourself in our neck of the woods. The war finds us out here too.


    I already told you that my friend and mentor, Sayid, told me to follow my heart down strange roads. I believe yours already has. I¡¯m asking you now to see it through.


    The latter half of the letter is in Skenyan. Below the writing is a child¡¯s scribble of a lake. It does not contain any piers.


    You find the strength to write a little more. Enough to draft your resignation. With your last paycheck¨Con which you are shorted days worth of work¨Cyou fly to Athar.


    You walk four city blocks with your bag in one hand and your little suitcase in the other. The wind has a bite and it¡¯s blowing head-on. You become less confident the further you venture into the rotten heart of the city. Litter and plant life are all that appear to thrive on these streets. You do not even hear the distant horns of a funeral procession. Your suitcase¡¯s wheels catch on yawning cracks in the sidewalk. You nearly trip over a forgotten shirt laying across your path. You pass by a building with all its furniture out in front of it. One of the pieces¨Ca winged armchair¨Ccatches your eye. You stop; look again at the building. This is the Twin Piers Youth Hostel. The windows are boarded up. The front door bears a notice of closure.


    Next to the door, a young Wilskenn girl is sitting on the ground. You approach. ¡°Do you know where the owner is?¡± You gesture to the door.


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    The girl gives you a wide-eyed stare. You¡¯re familiar with this panicked look. She has no idea what you¡¯re saying.


    You give up. You look up and down the street but no one else is around. Not anyone you can see. You fish a piece of paper from your bag¨Cthe letter from Alik¨Cand take a seat in the armchair. The relentless wind begins to numb your exposed skin. Though you stare at the letter for a very long time, the Skenyan remains uninterpretable to you. All you have is Alik¡¯s advice and Orla¡¯s drawing. The silence of Athar. The wind.


    Three footsteps at a time, the silence is broken. Bennett walks down the empty street. He stops for a moment to retrieve a crumpled bit of paper in his path. He is surrounded by a sea of litter that would require nothing short of an army to dispose of. Once he has taken care of the paper, he continues on in your direction, finally coming to a complete stop in front of you. He doesn¡¯t say a word. He only looks at you. His features are not contorted into a scowl nor cruel amusement, yet the look is hard. It is unsympathetic neutrality.


    You look up at him from where you are hunched over in the armchair. The letter is grasped a little too firmly in your hand. ¡°Edrye is free to withdraw from the war,¡± you say. You can¡¯t bear to sit under his gaze so you look back down at the pavement between your feet. ¡°It¡¯s not over. It won¡¯t be for some time. Pangua will see it through to the bitter end. Until there''s barely anything left to salvage of itself. There¡¯s not much left as it is. That¡¯s why.¡±


    He does not respond, but takes a seat in a chair next to you.


    When you look at him again, his face has softened. You hand him the letter. ¡°Please.¡±


    He grabs the paper from you and looks it over. Then he reads from the page:


    Most of us were silent. To not laugh was about the most we could do. A long time ago we learned, or rather we were taught, that empathy for one ought to mean apathy for another. And if you could bear to feel bad for both, then there better be someone else entirely that you can blame for the suffering of each. Pain was understood as being man-made, as opposed to originating from a cosmic beam blasted from the depths of cold space. If this was true, we decided, then we can discover who created pain. We can destroy the source. We searched high and low. We found perpetrators in all sorts of strange lands. We strung them up and burned their homes. We wrote promises for peace with their blood. Only when we returned, weary from our work, did we never ever ever see ourselves as both treader and trod. We prayed to definitive decisions.