Chapter 32: Interlude 4, Ch 1: Lost History

“She… died? Jesson, Meln, they died too?” I ask, not knowing if the ending is sad or happy.

“I said they died, did I not?” Eelian asks, finishing the mysterious song he’d played on his flute and putting it into his cloak pocket.

“Then I can see why the Prophets wanted that history to be lost. It shows how they made a mistake. And if the Prophets made a mistake, then people would question their leadership. And if people questioned their leadership, it would make them hesitate to unite with them.”

“As a prince, I had no doubt you would understand the political implications of this story.” Eelian turns toward the door, walking in his unstable way. “And now I must leave. As you said, this was our last tale.”

“Wait,” I say, and stand up. All this time, all this indecision, I know exactly where it came from, and he’s standing in front of me. That son of a Nardorish.

Eelian stops and turns his head back toward me.

“I’m not stupid, Eelian,” I say. “I don’t know why I haven’t thought of it before, I guess I was too taken in by the story, but I know now. You’re a Prophet.”

“Am I now?” Eelian says with a grin, turning around.

“A White, probably. As you said, they’re the ones with knowledge and can shift. That’s how you got in here without anyone noticing before.”

“It seems you’ve figured it all out.”

“Which means that there are other Prophets here. And you’re trying to make me see the bigger picture in life, see that unification with other planets is a good thing. And that’s why you’re telling me these tales. It’s all part of a big plan.”

“And what’s that plan?” Eelian asks, swaying.

I lick my lips in thought. As I realize what’s going on, it’s like a veil suddenly being lifted. The gray picture Eelian was painting now becomes clear and it makes me furious.

“You want me to stop the war against Nardor!” I say. “You want me to betray my country and deny this victory to us!”

Eelian raises his eyebrows.

I sit back down and cross my arms. All this time I’ve been hesitant to go on. I was never in doubt that I would make the war, just hesitant to begin it. That whole time Eelian was trying to convince me to stop it, of all things.

“Very, very clever, Eelian,” I say. “I can see right through your plan, can’t I? You told me about The Ambassador so I’d learn about peace. You told me The Great Achievement so I’d yearn for something new. And you told me The Blood and the Soul so I’d see how war can be stopped.”

Eelian stands, swaying like normal. I clench my fists, upset he’s not more shocked by me figuring out his plan, the foolish Prophet.

“I should never have let you manipulate me like this. And to think that you made me stress out so much about this kingdom. Hah! Well I’ll tell you one thing, Prophet,” I say, and stand up, walking toward Eelian and scowling. “Grundar will not be manipulated. We will unite this planet under Grundar, not Sevens. We will not bow to Prophets. Now get out!”

Without changing his expression, Eelian walks toward the door. He stops and turns.

“Don’t say anything,” I say. “Just get out and go try your tricks on another kingdom.”

Instead of speaking or even leaving, Eelian begins taking off his clothes.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

He removes his shirt, showing scarred skin covered by thick gray hair.

“Stop that!” I demand.

He shakes out the clothes as coins and other objects, papers and the like, fall out and clatter on the floor.

“Listen to me, Prophet! Tell me what you’re doing now!” I say.

“I’m showing you!” Eelian shouts as he empties his pants pockets.

“Showing me what? Put your pants back on!”

“Grundarins have always been too proud, too proud to admit that they’re wrong, even when they see it in front of them to be true. I want you to see that I have no weapon or object on me that’s been Blessed,” Eelian says.

I see that all his pockets are emptied and he’s shivering with nothing on but an unfortunately small pair of under shorts.

“There hasn’t been a Prophet in Grundar for a very long time, Millar,” Eelian says. “If I wanted you to let the Prophets help you, I wouldn’t have told you a part of their tragic lost history. If I wanted you to stop your war I’d have told you The Path of Gold. But you’re not ready for that tale, no, not ready yet.”

Eelian dresses quickly, virtually throwing his clothes on, and heads for the door.

“Wait, what?” I ask. “You’re not a Prophet?”

“Like I said,” Eelian says, and walks out the door.

“Then who are you? And why are you telling me these tales!” I shout and kick over the chest.

Eelian pauses, waiting for me to calm down. “I am a storyteller, telling you about history. And I’m afraid you won’t understand why until you find Grundar’s lost history.”

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Letting the door close itself, Eelian walks out and leaves me gaping.

Maps of Nardor and the northern Warrite Mountains lay scattered around my work room. Bigger maps hang on the walls and behind me is a large table with wooden miniatures along a map of Nardor and Brill.

“Lost history,” I mumble as I scratch notes on troop rations with my pen. “Prophets.”

Today is Len’s day off. He usually doesn’t like to leave me and always waits for me to reassure him I’ll be fine before he does. He didn’t believe me when I told him I was fine. He sees his family every night after my schedule is finished, and has a happy home-life. Though he’d never admit it, he always looks forward to this day of the week when he can spend more time with his own children.

I’ve been working feverishly all morning on my battle plans. My father expects them to be finished by nightfall and I’ve still got a lot of work to do. Leaving the supply lists for a moment, I stand up and look at the miniatures table. I have over fifty thousand men at my disposal, ten divisions. I’ve worked the plans up to the point of the siege of Brill itself. The whole time, I haven’t been able to get Eelian out of my head.

“There’s no lost history of Grundar,” I say, looking down at the miniatures and moving them around the city of Brill, trying to figure out the best line of assault. I have all our great units, from my brother Eldar’s Elites battalion to the Bowomen, arguably the best shots in the kingdom and fiercely proud of it. I once had a connection with a bowoman but we didn’t get along after a few months together. Len jokingly said I went on my trip across the kingdom just to get away from her.

I tap my measuring stick on the miniatures table as I try to force Eelian out of my mind. “We have great records from the people who experienced history firsthand. They’re all at our history library, nothing’s lost.” I pick up one of the wooden soldiers, representing one thousand men.

I look at the soldier’s painted blue jacket and brown pants and its little ball-shaped head. Squeezing it for a moment, I hurl the soldier across the room. It breaks into three pieces against the stone wall.

“Sander-loving son of a Nardorish,” I say, and grab my coat.

“You want to see what?” the historian asks.

“I want to see any lost history,” I say.

Victor Mens has been the top historian in Grundar for thirty years. He’s a little slow moving around nowadays, with his cane and large robe covering his thick body, but his mind is sharper than ever in his middle years.

“Greatness, we have no such thing,” Victor says, taking a book I’ve been thumbing through and replacing it in its spot on the shelf. “And even if we did…” Victor laughs a big laugh, his whole body shuddering. “Wouldn’t the idea of ‘lost’ history imply that it cannot be found?”

“Yes, I know,” I say, looking around the library. It’s a huge, square structure, basically a giant, hollowed-out cube. Large windows line all the walls to let in as much light as possible. All along the remaining space, up the entire three floors, are books on shelves. The top floor is records, lists of taxes, census lists, troop amounts, and various other records. The second is family records and a history of events in the lives of people across the kingdom, including tales and legends from all over. The ground floor is made up of military and political history. All the interesting and boring tales of Grundar’s conquest and rise to power are here. “There’s just something I need to know.”

The ceiling, open all the way to the top floor and known all over the kingdom, is painted showing the story of Mendar Steel, Grundar’s first king.

“I’ve tutored you on everything in Grundar’s history, Millar,” Victor says, and walks over to the line of bookshelves in the middle of the building. They’re surrounded by dozens of tables and chairs where many people, workers and military personnel, sit reading. “But I’ll tell you one thing you need to know, my boy.” Victor puts his arm around me with a smile. “You need to know more about Mellar Grundarin. Did you know that his brother tried to kill him over the name change? Apparently after the civil war, he wanted to keep Steel as the royal last name. I just read a journal found in the cellar of an old shoe shop and—”

“I’m not here for a history lesson, Victor,” I say.

A little shocked, Victor pulls his arm back. “Yes, well…” He clears his throat. “I’ve read each and every one of the old texts and I can tell you, if there’s something that’s lost, I’d have found it by now.” Victor moves the shelves around on their tracks to reveal a stairway leading to the basement. “Here, I’ll show you. Now where is that table?” He thumbs through the shelf, trying to find something. “Axle! Axle, you dim-witted far-sear, where is my order table?”

“That’s not necessary,” I begin.

“You had it last!” Axle, Victor’s apprentice, shouts from upstairs, his voice echoing throughout the building.

Victor, seeing Axle high on top of a shelving ladder on the second floor, walks to the middle of the room to shout. “Oh no I didn’t. It was you who tried to find last spring’s Nardor bandits casualties list. Don’t tell me when I have or haven’t lost something. I know — oh, there it is,” Victor says, and walks over to a table, picking up a thick, leather-bound book and taking it over to me. “See, if there’s any history that’s lost, it’ll be found in here.”

I chuckle politely and say, “I think I’m satisfied, Victor. Thank you, though.”

“My pleasure. And any time you want to hear about where Mendar got his bronze sword I’ll show you the book. Here, I’ll show you now.” Victor runs toward the stairs leading to the basement.

“No, that’s…” I begin, but Victor has already disappeared down the stairs.

Most of my guards have fanned out around the building, some thumbing through books while scanning the area. A few stand close by. I sigh, thinking about how to leave the library without yet again being hooked into another of Victor’s lessons, and look up at the painted ceiling. It’s always fascinated me. The story is my and many others’ favorite event in our nation’s history.

King Mendar Steel had finally united the sporadic tribes of the area under his name. But one man, known only as Sander, didn’t like his leadership, and said that the people shouldn’t give themselves to just one man and one tribe. Sander liked having the tribes split. He challenged the king to a battle, the way the old tribes had settled conflicts.

Mendar accepted and took his bronze armor and iron-hilted, bronze-bladed sword to combat. The battle lasted for a long time, both bronze swords chopping and cutting at each other and bashing against shields and armor. After deflecting a strike with his shield, Mendar found an opening and plunged his sword into Sander’s chest. Sander’s armor caught the bronze blade between chest plate and shoulder and the man twisted with the wound, breaking the sword. The painting shows this moment.

His sword broken, Mendar fought on till he eventually wore out Sander, and with a fine strike to the head with his iron pommel, killed Sander.

“Here it is,” Victor says, dropping an enormous book onto a table. It makes such a loud noise that Axle drops a book from the shock. “Careful up there, you twit! Now, Millar, Mendar had—”

“Unless there’s something about what happened in Grundar before Mendar Steel,” I say, “I think I’ve fallen into a dead end.”

“Before?” Victor begins moving his mouth around, trying to fit an idea into his head and realizing it simply doesn’t belong. “Mendar Steel is the beginning of civilization, greatness.” Victor moves an out of place book back into its right spot then returns to focusing on me. “Now, Mendar killed Sander then tried to forge a new sword—”

“Out of iron because it was the sturdiest part of the sword,” I interrupt, and continue the story. “It was too heavy, so he heated it and beat it so much the iron became steel.”

“The more you push a man, the stronger he becomes. So the more you punish metal, the stronger it will become,” I quote. “I know the story, Victor. I’m just looking for what happened before it.”

Victor taps on the bookshelf for a few moments. “There isn’t a history, not even a story or legend. Now, about the sword itself…”

“Maybe some other time.” I nod to my guards and begin walking toward the door.

“There is one thing,” Victor says.