Chapter 21

It is not so much the physicality of his encounter with Lord Dalu which worries Curator of Ecid. His unsettled feelings go more toward the intangibles. Long lost memories dragged out from dim lairs of the past.

His many prayers and deep meditations in the early hours lead him to one conclusion: A spirit of evil is being manifested in and through the young royal.

In spite of all his prayers and meditations, Curator of Ecid cannot recall the ritualistic chants he will need to phrase, in defense against that evil when it finally begins to reveal itself.

Even more troubling, the location of the sets of chants in the archival tablatures are locked away in his memory.

“I have prepared a small breakfast for us, master,” Algot says.

Shem Seven Algot places a tray of sweet rolls, juice, and hot coffee on the floatable, then sits and pours. He worries for his high philosopher’s well-being.

Curator of Ecid sips quietly and nibbles at a sweet roll. His eyes are wells of sadness, and he says, “I have never been so displaced by any one man, Algot. I wish you could have been there. Lord Dalu was… words escape me.”

Shem Seven Algot peers over the top of his coffee cup. “What ails you, master? Something I have done… or not done?”

“Oh, no. No, Algot. You are not the cause of my consternation. It is my age, my memory. I have so many blank spaces, instances for which I am at a complete loss to explain.”

Algot smiles tenderly. This is not a new episode for the old man.

“You are too hard on yourself, master. After all, you are a thousand sars of age. Not many men achieve so many sars, I might add.”

The curator smiles and reaches to hold his aide’s hand, taking comfort in the wisdom of his words, saying, “Perhaps it will be later this day, with you at my side, that I will converse confident and able with our king.”

“I feel there is something else though, curator,” Algot says. “Not just your meeting with the king, but a matter weighing heavy on your person.”

“You could be a wealthy fortune teller, young man,” Curator of Ecid says. “A very good reader of faces, you are.”

“I am satisfied with the fate you have inspired me to,” Algot says. “But you avoid my counsel.”

Curator of Ecid drops his shoulders and sighs. Chewing another bite of sweet roll, he washes it down with a few sips of coffee.

“I never could get one past you, Algot. I do not know why I even try. This matter as you call it, takes the form of our royal heir apparent.”

Pushing away his empty dish and finishing the dregs of his coffee, Algot leans on steepled hands and looks curiously at his master. “How so?”

“I remember when Lord Dalu was just a child, still in diapers and highly rambunctious at the age of three. His royal nannies would entertain him on occasion with small pets. Cats, dogs, even a talking parrot now and then.”

Curator of Ecid rises and steps to a pair of cushairs, facing each other over a small, illumined floatable against the wall, directly under the window. He sits down perpendicular to the cushair, leans back and crosses his legs.

Shem Seven Algot claims the other cushair.

At a slight angle toward his curator, he says, “Please go on, master.”

Curator of Ecid picks at imaginary lint on the sleeves of his robe, and a veil of sadness descends over him.

“His nannies could not prevail, much less stop him. He had, by rights of his father’s royal blood oath, a small, short, blue steel mist stiletto. One he was taught to carry properly, in a sleeve strapped to his arm.”

The sadness fades away; in its place vexation. Eyes welling with tears, heart heavy with memories, he continues, “My priestly cautions made no difference, to his royal parents or to Lord Dalu. At that tender age, in his so-called playful moments, he was already of a nature to kill.”

Curator of Ecid grips Shem Seven Algot’s hand, trembling and in agony, his discomposition spilling out.

“Those poor creatures, Algot! I was powerless to intervene. Even Catma, one of the king’s closest advisors, stood by and could do nothing…”

“…I watched him slit their throats, gut them. His hands wet with their blood. Swinging their bodies and organs around and up, splattering substance and viscera everywhere, on everything—On me!…”

“…Like a great cat, that one. A cat who by its nature shakes, slinging sprays of blood, tearing at quiescent prey, finding its own life in killing.”

Shem Seven Algot kneels silently next to his crying senior, calming, gently touching his face and hands, caressing his arms and shoulders. He knows of no words he could offer, having the potency needed to heal the deep wound of his master’s trauma.

* * *

“If we are to be in the king’s presence at 04:00 we will need to leave soon master. You know how he is about late callers.”

Shem Seven Algot packs their compads and e-rods in his shoulder brief, then moves to help Curator of Ecid finish dressing. His fingers stiff with age, Curator of Ecid pushes Algot’s hands away and glares at him.

“I can do this, Algot. I am not that old. It would be better if you pulled my hair back and tied it. My arms are not as limber as they used to be.”

“Of course, my curator. Will you be wearing your suketo today?”

Hair tied, belt tied, Curator of Ecid stands with his hands on his hips, eyeing his second suspiciously. Wondering why he would need the tall hat at all.

“Mmm, I think not. I am not in such a dignified mood this day, of late being offput by royal antics. A skull cap should be sufficient.”

The door chimes sound, the mesh shield disappears into vaporshift, and the royal guard snaps his e-spear in salute. His dark skin shines in the portalway light and his beard glistens, infused with a crystalline dust.

“Curator of Ecid. Shem Seven Algot. The king awaits your sacredness’s arrival, if you would surely hasten your ashes.”

Algot looks askance at the soldier and confronts him, his eyes blazing with outrage and indignity.

“First you violate our privacy, then you slash at our dignity. Your choice of words betrays your lack of respect for my master, guardsnib. You will address my master in a proper fashion.”

“Cleave, philosopher. I was not taught to respect anyone other than a blood royal. My loyalty is to my king. Not to you, not to your master.”

Both are coils of anger, waiting to spring. Curator of Ecid steps between them, hands up in conciliation and says, “Do your duty royal guard. Please escort us to the king’s presence.”

He turns and winks at Algot, then shakes his head sadly.

Oh, you young men, he thinks. Too soon to anger, too late to love.

* * *

Escorted into the royal chambers, Curator of Ecid looks to both ends. The king is nowhere to be seen.

He notes various pieces of clothing, man and woman alike, strewn about the furnishings and on the carpet. Some even have royal emblems.

“Are we not on time, Algot?”

Shem Seven Algot moves further into the chamber, and peeks behind a three-fold partition, standing to one side. Nothing.

“Actually, we are early, master. I wonder what could be keeping him?”

Suddenly, a voluptuous young girl-woman appears from the rear. She is wrapped in a large bath towel, has her hair up in pins, and is dripping wet.

“My Curator, King Endal wishes you to join him at his bath. If you will follow, I will show you the way.”

Both philosophers raise an eyebrow to each other. Highly unusual.

At the end of a long, carpeted and softly lit corridor, the sounds of a deep and drunken voice, singing a bawdy song, issue forth from a brightly lit portalway.

Shem Seven Algot whispers to his master, humor glinting in his eyes.

“My, my! The king is already at his drink, curator, and Apsu is not yet over the ramparts.”

Curator of Ecid laughs out loud, then breaks off into sniggers.

“This should be interesting, Algot, to say the least.”

The soft-skinned girl beckons from the portalway, then disappears inside. Her towel lies in a pile at the entrance.

Hand over mouth, Algot pretends shock, but is smiling.

“Oh, dear!”

“Well, Algot. Shall we see what the soap bubbles have to reveal?”

A spectacle is in progress, and the two philosophers turn wooden chairs nearby around to face the wall, then sit quietly, trying not to listen.

Puffs of steam rise off the soapy water, and King Dal is up to his neck in suds, eyes closed and arms outstretched. His head is leaned back on the round tub’s collar, and he moans between lyrics, growing more lugubrious each moment.

The young flaxen-haired and beautiful woman has her eyes closed also, and her head and one shoulder are squeezed against the king’s hairy chest. Her free arm is busy ministering to her master, jerking in short quick strokes up and down under the water’s surface.

Elbows on knees and head down, his mass of wrinkles scarlet with embarrassment, Curator of Ecid coughs, then speaks in a low voice.

“Correct me if I err, Algot, but there can’t possibly be a precedent for this kind of behavior.”

Algot leans in to speak softly and fails at suppressing a grin.

“If I may, my curator. There actually are precedents to this occasion. Dozens in fact, some of them far more disturbing than this. The royals, it seems, have a proclivity for sexual indiscretions.”

Disgusted, Curator of Ecid suddenly sits up in his chair, then stands.

“We have to do something, son. We can’t continue to make special trips from the mountains at the king’s beck and call. Not without making some kind of worthy amelioration.”

Shem Seven Algot nods in agreement and stands. Screwing up his courage, he roars, “My king!”

King Dal’s head snaps up and his eyes open wide. Sputtering incoherently, he suddenly realizes where he is and what he is doing, in front of two witnesses. Sacred philosophers, no less.

He pushes the girl away, then struggles to stand, his member at full attention but starting to droop. He reaches for a gold-trimmed, royal blue robe nearby, and nearly slips. Donning it, he steps out of the tub, blots at his soapy wetness with its folds, then ties it closed.

“Well. It appears I have embarrassed myself once again, my Curator. Can you forgive me? My queen is afar visiting her grandmother, and I am a lonely man in her absence.”

Glancing at him casually, Curator of Ecid simply shrugs. Having an advantage over a royal is not to be spurned, yet he is sympathetic. After all, the man is doing nothing more than satisfying a base need.

“My king. To the degree that I, a lowly man, can forgive a blood royal, you have it.”

“You are a true diplomat, Curator of Ecid. For that I am grateful. Shall we proceed to my offices? Please allow me ten minutes to dress appropriately and I will follow.”

* * *

“The reasons I requested your counsel are two-fold, Curator.”

Wearing a royal, blood-red emblazoned black silk jumpsuit, tucked into tan calf-skin boots, King Dal dries the moisture from inside his ears. Slinging the towel around his neck, he combs out the wet tangles of his black hair.

Curator of Ecid notes there is no visible remorse in his features, nor is there any laxity in his posture. It seems as if the kings’ discomfitures related to his earlier activities have already faded to nothingness.

Leadership is nothing more to him than a necessary evil, along the course of greed and excess, the curator thinks.

“I am at your service, my king.”

Finished with the comb, King Dal sits back in his cushair and flips his hair, refreshed and relaxed.

“As we touched on at our last foreshortened meeting, so many Nibiruans are deeply disturbed by the cataclysmic events that occurred during sar one-eleven, plus. Costs for associated mental health problems are growing at such a rate as to nearly rupture our royal talen resources.”

Shem Seven Algot inches forward on his seat.

“If I may my king? Are not the local psycheval techs able to resolve these issues? Their chapters are, their entire organization is, after all, supported by private interests, giving them nearly unlimited resources for problem resolutions.”

Curator of Ecid puts his hand on Algot’s arm, signaling a pause.

“True, Shem Seven, as far as it goes. The underlying issue is, and please correct me if I err, my king, Nibiruans are becoming ill at a pace far beyond what our professionals can cope with, in terms of skills, time and talens.”

The king scratches his beard and nods at his curator.

“Very true, Curator. Which brings me to my second assessment. Our lives’ psyches, our spiritual sensibilities have become so overwhelmed by interpersonal bickering, wars and evil deeds, as to be almost non-existent.”

“My sentiments, exactly, my king,” Curator of Ecid replies.

King Dal chuckles and flaps his hand dismissively. “Drunk that I am, Curator, I do have my moments.”

Algot’s enthusiasm has been stirred, and he releases it in a rush. “My king, if I may? Our sect has been far too long without real purpose, as my curator will confirm. What say you, my king? Would a renewal of all of our sacred vows to our Abwoon, each in our temples, to each other, not be an honorable and peaceful path to a spiritual reckoning for us all?”

King Dal grins and slaps his worktable. “Shem Seven, I could not have said it better! Good man you have here, Curator. Him, you will want to keep.”

King Dal rises, and both philosophers respectfully rise with him.

“I trust, Curator, you will draft a magna carta to that effect for me to sign. I am happy to provide any additional talens necessary for your sacred sect to move the various building blocks into their proper order.”

Curator of Ecid beams. The shallowness he felt earlier has dissipated.

“I am at your service, my king.”

* * *

“I am diverted by frustration, Algot. My memory fails me once again.”

Both men have slept the entire leap home from the royal castle. The one thing Algot could say about sector leap was, it left him feeling disoriented, more tired at its end than at its beginning. So too, his curator, it seemed.

Curator of Ecid sits at his desk, poring over four ancient tablatures he has spread out before him. Two have between them, eight formative elements of the magna carta he is preparing for the king.

The third, addresses the implementation of the charter. The fourth, is an advisory concerning royal duties toward maintaining the charter’s effectiveness among Nibiruans.

“Perhaps you should rest for a time, master,” Algot says.

Curator of Ecid puffs and chops a hand. “I will have plenty of time to sleep when I am dead. I will drink another cup of coffee, though…”

As Algot pours, Curator of Ecid’s thoughts wander to the young man, Tezra, and his amazing gifts. Similarities to his own nature, dampened by age and worldly turmoils.

The narrowing of his focus, to the exclusion of all other things. The attunement of his being, with all life, animate and inanimate alike. The gentleness of his character, and his second sight.

The identification of himself as a seeker. By his master. Nearly a thousand sars past.