Chapter 2

II.

In the distance, over the hill and above the city, fireworks were cracking and streaking the sky with pink and red stardust. It was late summer and the air was thick and sweet. The grass underfoot was lush and so high that it was easy to imagine a million different species living and surviving in its vastness. The city was exploding with laughter and the songs of old times sung by all generations in unison.  The smell of all types of market food filled the air and the wind carried them for miles. Tonight was a night of celebration and Artemis was running as fast as he could away from it.

He could feel the seconds tick steadily away as the piles of leaves under his feet turned to hard, cool manor stone. He had reached the main gate. His lungs ached in his chest but he knew that he had no time to even catch his breath. He was no longer in city limits but he wasn’t safe yet, this gate was his first stop. Turning to assure he wasn’t being followed (though the idea was comical as any citizen wouldn’t dare cross over to manor limits unless they had an invitation—which they never did) and minding to stay in the cover of darkness, Artemis ran his fingers along the outside stones until he found the loosened place he had discovered only a few weeks before. He pulled the stone out of the wall and in just as swift a motion, removed several items of his clothes.

The first to come off was his newly acquired coat. It was military issue, you could tell because it had several hooks and pockets where you would store knives and bombs depending on whom you were facing. Artemis loved the way the wool felt on his shoulders, heavy and important. He liked that the entire length of his arm and body to the calf were covered under it and he especially liked that at some point it had been worn by soldier, which meant that a breeder had made it. All his life he had wanted one, though he had never asked, for among royalty any clothing once worn by common soldiers would have been strictly forbidden in manor land.  He found it in a shop far from the city center. An elderly man, who could barely see a foot in front of him, owned the store. He sold mostly war relics of which Artemis had no use for. The coat was what he desired and he traded his pocket watch for it. At the time, he didn’t think much of it. The pocket watch had been a gift but he didn’t like it very much. It never seemed as if it belonged to him. It had the distinct feeling of a piece from a world he didn’t know. He assumed that blood had been spilled over it, as most of his families relics had been and he didn’t wish to carry that particular honor with him.  

The old man must have known that the watch was valuable, it was gold and even now in the New Country where currency was almost a thing of the past, gold still held significant monetary value, though the exact amount he did not know. However, Artemis was happy the man was basically blind because he hadn’t noticed the insignia on the front and (purposefully) he hadn’t stayed around long enough for the man to open it up. The moon, he knew, would be his giveaway and Artemis had gone to great lengths to keep his identity hidden. The city was dangerous enough, but if they knew that the heir to the throne were a tourist he was certain that it would mean unspeakable trouble.  

Artemis folded the cloak as small as he could and set it gently in the hole in the wall and promised himself he would come back for it.  It was something Artemis had learned to do. If he made a promise, he would keep it no matter what it cost him, no matter how dangerous it would be. A promise was worth more than anything, even your life.

The next item of clothing: his knit cap.  A common one he had picked up on a previous city outing. Before he had gotten one he had worn a hoodie pulled tight over his head. He realized pretty early on that, looking like a hood wasn’t always the best course of action in a dangerous city.  The stocking cap allowed him more freedom. As he pulled it from his head he shook his hair, it fell just below his shoulders in thick waves. Soft and slightly damp from sweat it glistened in the moonlight. Silver hair; a genetic mutation and also, just like the gold pocket watch, a sign of the King and dead giveaway if anyone were to see him. He cursed under his breath, now that the moon was out he would be easier to spot, but he had no choice, he couldn’t risk wearing city clothes into manor territory for if he were spotted he would be shot on sight without a second thought. It was a week before The Courting and the guards would be on high alert.

With care, Artemis pressed his body to the wall and peered to the other side. The scene was familiar. A vast stretch of stone pieces created the floor as far as your eye went until the castle rose, almost unexpected, like a beacon. The closer it got to the castle the neater the grounds looked. Out here by the main gate, grass had managed to sneak its way in between the stones at the front. He guessed that in 100 years the grass would take over the entire courtyard. He wished he could be around to see it. In the center of his view stood the watchtower (which at the moment stood empty) his second stop, and beyond that, the East gate where the stairs to his room spun in a tight spiral. He saw no one and he knew that if he had timed it right, he would have 5 minutes to get from his spot at the wall to the East gate, up the stairs and into his room before the guards made their way across the West lawn.

This was not the first time Artemis had snuck his way back into the castle. It seemed as though his whole life was one escape after another. He knew that if his father had his way, Artemis would never leave the grounds, never step foot in the city and certainly never alone. He wasn’t even sure anymore whether it was just about his safety. Artemis knew that if it were, he would probably obey his father more. However, he knew from a young age that himself, as a person, was not his fathers concern. His father was not an affectionate man but he was smart. He saw Artemis as an investment in the future of their name. Nothing more.

The sadness crept up his throat but he pushed it down as he always did, took one quick inhale of sweet summer air, and he was off, darting in and out of thick Cyprus trees only taking brief moments to glance at his surroundings. He knew these grounds like the back of his hand. Every tree he passed he had climbed, every bush hidden in. He felt as though he could identify every single leaf that fell. How many summers had he spent here? How many games played? How many times had he closed his eyes to the castle and let himself believe that he was some wild jungle beast that lived among the people guarding them from the terrible, horrible King? To him, these grounds were his upbringing, in many ways his family. He knew them better in some ways than he knew himself.

He had finally reached the watchtower, yards away from the East gate when he saw them—two guards heading around the west wall and making their way to the tower. He hadn’t timed it right. He instantly regretted trading the watch. How stupid he had been, how arrogant to decide that he didn’t need it anymore. How wonderful it felt to slide it coyly on the desk without giving it a second thought. He was paying for it now. He knew the guards; he recognized their faces as they got closer and closer with every stride. The big one on the left was Curtis, dumb as a rock but just as solid and with about as many feelings. He had had problems with Curtis a few times in the past and Curtis was the type of guy that didn’t like to have to repeat himself to anyone, including a prince.  The one on the right, taller and nimbler walked with one hand on his knife hilt so it had to be Larze.

Larze had actually been a friend, if you can call it that, growing up. He was a little older than Artemis and was issued the task of teaching him how to fight. Larze was much more proficient at shooting and knife fighting than the others. His father had been head of the armory before he died in the war and had taught Larze well. Larze was on his way to becoming the head if he stayed alive long enough. The current head guard was Arch and he was a potbellied idiot that spent most of his time asleep in the tower. As Larze and Artemis grew older their “friendship” dissolved. It was inappropriate to begin with, even as children, and as young adults practically forbidden. It was Larze who had pulled away initially, only speaking to Artemis if he needed to and addressing him only as “Your Highness” though Artemis had insisted he not. Finally, Artemis stopped trying and allowed the bond to fizzle into nothing like a supernova or a falling star.

The two of them still advanced and Artemis had very little time to figure out what came next. He steadied his breath and urged himself to think. He ran his fingers through his hair and realized that he was sweating heavily. He reached in his back pocket for his handkerchief and instead found the tiny velvet pouch he had gotten at the armory store. “Yes!” he almost said aloud. He had completely forgotten that the old man had given it to him.

Before he could stop to consider the consequences, he reached into the velvet pouch and pulled out what looked like a handful of white ash. He closed his fist around it and shook it and with and almost instantaneous motion he opened his hand and blew the contents into the air behind him. The next moment was extraordinary. Where there had just been ash was now one long, fiery streak that ripped across the sky like a shooting star. The thing about fire powder is that as soon as the wind takes it there is no controlling where it goes. This particular gust sprayed out toward the main gate and trickled out with pinks and orange hues so bright and beautiful that the sun was easily a runner up to its majesty. Even the guards, who are trained to shoot at any disturbance without asking question stood for a moment wondering if they were witnessing an act of the divine. In fact, it was safe to say that every living thing that saw that sight paused to take it in—every living thing but Artemis who was running full speed to the East gate and clamoring up the steps and who was already in his room by the time the bullets sounded.

The room was large. Not what you’d expect at the top of tower steps. It stretched wide and carried all sorts of mismatched things. Mostly Artemis had chosen what to keep and what to pitch. He enjoyed the haphazard way the pieces came together. Some things, like the desk and chair had always been in the room, longer than he could remember. However, the rug on the floor was made of wool and stretched across the room with thick blue colors some so dark they looked like ink. This rug used to be in the downstairs study but he dragged it up himself when he was ten and had had it ever since. He didn’t think anyone had even noticed. He would lie on the rug and dream of ocean voyages that the explorers used to take. Sailing for months at a time and not stopping until they found a new place to call home. If they didn’t like what they found they would pack up and sail more. He often dreamed of sailing away, though he had never been on a boat. The only time he saw water was in the bath or the duck pond that sat lazily in the outside garden sadly waiting for its ducks to return that never did.

He collapsed to the floor only for a second. He could feel the wool from the rug on his cheek and he wanted more than anything not to move. He knew, however, that he only had minutes. He pulled off his boots and the remainder of his clothes and gathered them up into a tight ball. He ran across the rug to the far corner where his bed sat as always. This bed, along with everything else, was a relic of war. It was made of rosewood and was almost 8 feet long. The corners had carvings of grapes on it and the oval headpiece reach up so high that it almost touched the ceiling. It was a truly impressive piece. It once belonged to a man named Lincoln, whom Artemis learned, had been heralded in the Old Country. He often thought how Lincoln would have felt if he knew where the bed had ended up and under whose reign. He didn’t let himself get caught up; instead he quickly shoved everything under the bed and grabbed his dressing gown. Flinging it over his shoulders and was only just in his armchair by the fireplace when the door opened once more.  

The King was not an impressive man to look at in stature. He was slight and reaching only a meager 5’ 8” it was almost comical to see him wear a crown. He often looked like a child in his father’s clothes. However, to Artemis, there were few scarier sights and none that carried so much power. To him, his father may as well have been a hurricane or a forest fire, always inwardly raging.

He didn’t speak at first he simply glided in as if he were on skates, softly putting one foot in front of the other. He was wearing a suit, light blue seersucker, which only added to the ridiculousness of the crown. His tie was a sleek navy and he wore a soft orange rose in his lapel. His left hand gently stroked his well-groomed goatee while his other hand lay at his side clasped in a ball. He was standing in the center of the room facing Artemis and still hadn’t spoken. Artemis was on edge but he tried to make his breathing sound normal, willed his chest from heaving up and down and kept very still in the chair. He was about to open his mouth when the King spoke.

“Have I ever told you about Carmichael Strubb?” He continued without waiting for answer because of course Artemis knew who Strubb was, everyone in the World knew, but the King went on “he was one of our engineers working with your great grandfather Beaux during the war. Genius fellow, terrible acne. Anyway, he had had too many drinks one night after work and he came up with the craziest idea. ‘I know how we can win the war’ he said ‘we become Gods’. Now Beaux thought he had just been hitting the sauce too hard but since laughs were hard to come by he bit the bait and said, ‘well sure Strubb that’d be a nice development wouldn’t it? You got any more bright ideas?’ and Strubb stood up and looked at him with so much sincerity that it actually startled him and he said, ‘No, really, Beaux (he wasn’t King then) ‘imagine it. If we could harness certain things from the Gods we could be unstoppable. Immortal, even.’ ‘Like what?’ Beaux asked ‘Well, like creating fire out of thin air, for one’”

With that the King opened his right palm and blew a small amount of white ash into the fireplace sending a burst of flame in and out the chimney. Artemis began to panic, trying not to let it show, his father slowly advanced towards him: He knew, he had to know.

“’Oh yeah?’ he said to Strubb, ‘What else?’ and Strubb said ‘How about a genetic mutation so that everyone would know that we were Gods? Like hair that glowed bright as the moon.” The King grabbed Artemis’ hair in his hand and twisted his head back hard so that he was face to face with his father.

“Why are you doing this? I haven’t done anything” Artemis pleaded. He knew it was a last ditch effort, there was no fooling the King.

“Damn problem with that white ash is, it leaves a stain on your hand for hours after you use it, see?” He briefly held up his hand and showed the ash mark that coated his right hand and fingers then with an inhuman swiftness he grabbed Artemis’ hand and exposed the stain that shone like a scarlet A across his palm.

“’But Strubb’ Beaux says ‘how can we guarantee victory? Our troops are dying. We’ve sent in men, women and children we barely have anyone left. What can we do when we run out of soldiers?’ and he says to him, ‘We do what the Gods would do. We build them.’”

Chapter One

I.

The sound of the bell on the door sounded and Mr. Gellerg rustled awake and sat up stiffly on his stool behind the counter. He was noticeably grumpy, having been jarred awake from a particularly compelling dream involving a girl he used to know back home. It had been non-stop busy for the past two weeks as city dwellers prepared for the following days festivities. Little children running amok in the streets pulling their tired and labored fathers by the hand through the crowds of tourists bustling up Main with packages of food and party favors they couldn’t afford. Gellerg hated this time of year. He hated crowds. He hated the frenzied idiots who would no doubt sully his shop front in their drunken debauchery but most of all he hated being interrupted from his afternoon nap.

He hastily stood up placing his hands on the small of his back and giving a slight wheeze as he fiddled his vertebrae back in their place. Gellerg was too old, particularly to still be running this shop on his own but help wasn’t cheap and he had no family to speak of anymore—not after the war. So this was life, fitting in naps when he could and dealing with the teenage hooligans. The store had been his life for the past 65 years. It had outlived 6 brothers, 2 parents, a war and a girl (the one from the dream, in fact, the one from many dreams). He had given everything to maintain it and though it had always been a tough road, this year had been particularly bad, he thought bitterly—though he thought that every year. He had inherited it from his eldest brother who had inherited it from their father. He never really thought his father would have wanted him to have the store. Ideally, Gellerg wouldn’t have wanted it either. It sold mostly war relics: compasses, swords, maps and gunpowder. There were some items that were handmade by soldiers in the trenches for their families’ back home, items they never thought they would be able to deliver themselves and were mostly right about. Gellerg hated the war and wanted no part of it. His father, a retired colonel, never understood his son’s distaste and thus would never have left the store, a monument to the very thing Gellerg hated, to him. However, after the death of the Colonel, war waged again and when men go to war, especially when they are so very outmatched, they rarely come home. Gellerg lost all 6 brothers in the span of 3 months. A terrible waste.

It wasn’t out of honor that he kept the store alive but, for a more selfish reason, it was all he ever knew. There is something that happens to a man who loses his family, he attaches himself to other things. Some men choose the drink, some men choose the gun, Gellerg chose the business. In recent years, now that “peace” had fallen on the World, the store became more of a museum than anything else. Little boys with soda sticky fingers would wander up and down the aisles looking at the blood stained shields and smile to themselves.

Is that real blood?! Cool. How much?

Bastards. No real idea of what had been sacrificed. Gellerg never said a word. Gone were the days of protest. Now he could barely see and his only solace was the brief time he could shut his eyes entirely and dream of a woman’s smile and a moonlit stroll.

The clearing of a throat awoke him. He had nodded off again, this time standing up. It was getting worse and worse. Before his blurry eyes stood a boy dressed all in black. He barely came up to Gellerg’s chin and he stood a few feet away. He was wearing dark pants and a dark tunic. On his head he wore a black skullcap and even though Gellerg could barely see, this boy's eyes were so blue they seemed to pierce him right through the heart. He must have been standing staring at the boy for too long because the boy asked, “Are you ok?”

“Yes,” Gellerg stammered, “I’m sorry, it’s been so long since I’ve met anyone with blue eyes.”

“Oh,” the boy seemed nervous. He shifted his glance immediately and turned away.

“Are you robbing me?” Gellerg asked point blank.

“No! Why would you think that?”

“You’re dressed all in black and you’re wearing a skull cap. Not to mention, you’re in here when everyone else in town is watching the parade and acting like idiots.” Gellerg calmly stated. Then with perhaps a little hopefulness in his voice he said, “They wouldn’t hear me scream, you know.”

“I’m not here to rob you. I was hoping you could help me with something. I understand this is a military outfitting store.”

“Used to be. Not much need anymore.”

“Right, well, I was hoping you might” he paused, looked down at his hands and then up to Gellerg again and continued, “I was hoping you might have Breeder clothing”

Gellerg’s heart began to beat. He hadn’t heard that word in so long he had almost convinced himself that it didn’t exist.

“I don’t use that word, boy, and I would appreciate if you didn’t use it in my store either. If you feel differently you can see your way out.” Gellerg was angry. In a twisted way it almost felt good. Anger makes you feel alive and so often these days he just felt indifferent. The boy on the other hand became noticeably agitated and upset.

“I’m sorry,” he stammered “I don’t understand. I didn’t know it was a word that I shouldn’t use. We are talking about bearers, correct?”

Mr. Gellerg felt himself coming alive. He puffed up his chest and strode toward the boy with such conviction that it made him think for the first time, that he was his father’s son.

“They are not breeders. They are not bearers. They are women. Now, as I said, if you have a problem with my rules then…”

“No! Honestly, I don’t. I apologize.” The boy had his hands raised instinctively to protect himself. This was a boy who was no stranger to fighting. Worse than that, he seemed the type who was no stranger to losing. “Honestly, I, I didn’t know. I’m sorry”

There was something about him. Perhaps it was the apology that got Gellerg, so sincere, so easy. Could he have honestly not known the history behind his statements or was he like the other boys mindlessly walking down aisles of blood seeing only glory and not pain?

“Sir,” the boy started again “I came here to see if you had military clothing made by w-women. I know that that was law during wartime. Women” he struggled with the word as if it were entirely new to him “made the men’s clothing—for luck—for honor. Do you have any?”

He was not the first to come into the store requesting this item. Many people over the years had come and asked the same thing. It wasn’t always so rare to come across, but now, in these days anything even rumored to have been touched by a woman was worth more than some people’s entire estate.

“You can’t afford it.” Gellerg said quickly and then turning back to the counter he sauntered to his stool and sat.

“I assure you, I can.” The boy said coming to the counter and laying down a sack of coins.

“Coins? For women’s thread?”

The boy took the coin purse back and stood for a second. He was obviously figuring something in his head. His hand went to his pocket and stayed there.

“Can you assure me that you have what I want?”

Gellerg thought about turning the boy out, but there was something about him, the eyes that burned so blue that Gellerg could not turn away. He rose from the stool and went into his back room. When he returned he was carrying a coat box. He set the box on the table.

“This was my brother Samuels. He died in the war.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not as sorry as Samuel.”

Gellerg opened the box and cleared the purple velvet away from the coat that sat inside. It smelled musky: blood and neglect. He pulled it out of the box and it hung perfectly. The craftsmanship was unmatched. It buttoned at the left shoulder and then down the flank of the coat. Each button perfectly spaced. Each swath of wool that cascaded down perfectly stretched and woven into a military style captain’s jacket. The brass buttons were tarnished but still shone impressively in the light from the dim bulb of the shop. Gellerg gave it a shape. He could almost see Samuel saluting the men, burrowing into the rich folds of the coat against the winter wind and finally lying in a heap with all the others with only fabric between captain and private. There are no ranks amongst the dead.

The boys’ eyes shone. He had never seen anything like it in his life and he obviously wanted it.  

“May I try it on?” He asked.

Gellerg hesitated only for a second and then came around the other side and slid the coat on the boy’s shoulders. When he stepped back and looked at the boy in the coat, it was as if his brother had finally come home to take over the business. Gellerg had to put his hand to his throat to keep from weeping. Instead he quickly shook his head and said, “You’ll need to take care of this. It doesn’t really fit you but you’ll grow into it. God willing. How much do you have?”

The boy, overwhelmed at Gellerg’s change of heart pulled something out of his pants pocket and laid it on the counter. It was a gold pocket watch. Gellerg had to keep from gasping; gold hadn’t been seen around these parts in years, maybe even decades. It was a commodity he only remembered from his youth and had since come and gone. Gold of this size would allow him to retire and close the shop for good.

“Did you steal this?” Gellerg questioned.

“Not everyone in a skullcap is a robber, you know. You gave me a part of your family’s history and I’m doing the same for you. That’s been in my family for years. It’s a fair trade.”

“Indeed.” Though Gellerg knew it wasn’t. The coat was worth a large sum of money but nowhere near the price of the watch. “Is there something else in my shop that you want? A gold watch, after all, is hard to come by.”

The boy smiled a little bit and, almost wryly asked, “Do you have fire powder?”

“For guns?”

“For wind.”

“Ah, yes” Gellerg also smiled, “The wars secret weapon. Most commonly used amongst spies. Yes, I do have a small amount.” He wandered to the far left corner of the shop and grabbed a small red pouch from the top shelf. “Be careful with this, it’s dangerous.”

“So are the people it protects you from.” The boy turned and in a few quick steps was at the door.

“You should know,” he said as he turned the knob to the shop “you shouldn’t sell that watch in this city, unless you trust the right people. Family heirlooms rarely go unnoticed.” And with the tinkling of the bell, the boy was gone.

Mr. Gellerg thought that was a strange thing to say, especially because it was such a false statement. Family heirlooms were always bought and sold on the market. It was the major currency of the day. Silly boy. He picked up the gold watch and felt the weight in his hands. The boy had no idea what he had given up, if his father knew there would surely be Hell to pay. He chuckled to himself as he palmed the watch and then with a click of the fastener he opened it.

As soon as the gold shield lifted from the clocks face, it was if lightning had struck Gellerg through the heart. If not for his stool, he would have gone straight back onto the floor when he fell. Shaking and clutching the stool with his right hand he stared at the open watch.  The crescent moon printed on the porcelain finish shone openly at him, the sign for silver. The thick brush stroke that swirled around the clocks face to mark the numbers and the diamond like precision of the hands that jutted out from the center were undeniably royal. With each tick that the second beat out, Gellerg felt his heart clang loudly in his chest. He couldn’t stop staring at that moon. Even when it hung in the sky, citizens of this city never thought of it as a celestial masterpiece but rather what it had become for them: the King’s symbol, the sign of war and the symbol of blood. The boy in the shop, with his fragile way of speaking and his piercing blue eyes like the eye of a flame, the boy who now wore his dead brother Samuel’s coat, was no ordinary young person spawned and raised in the cities shackles and dirt. This boy, who so easily set his watch on Gellerg’s dusty old countertop was the son of the moon, the heir to the throne. This boy was the silver haired Prince Artemis, the one whom all the celebrating was for.