The Poems of Madam Albithurst: The Two Monarchs

Oh, the Apex, the beautiful and winding words that descended from the base of the cervical vertebrae to the occipital.

Heresy. Damnable heresy for one such as I, a Sensate in good standing of the Grandiose Guild, to say I still find myself at a loss for words. What could be said to convey the glory and horror of the hallways, stairways, and byways of the Apex.

For the beauty was not in its sweeping archways, its Ivory palisades, its golden buttresses, nor its marbled cloisters. The strong tendons of the Apex shone in the silver light, yes, and the broad trapezius glistened with glamorous charm.

But this was not its beauty. Indeed, beauty being subjective, I find myself unable to put into words the things that made the Apex such a wondrous display for me and mine.

But magnificent it was, and we stood in abject wonder for a goodly time, each of us both aghast and awed by its splendor. The well-dressed and finely-shaped folk of the Sibilants wandered back and forth chatting in charming and familiar patter, a sign of civilization far more soothing than any sign of a side-walk cafe.

As we walked, we found ourselves funneled, as one often does, along a particular walk. For that is how many paths are laid across the Myriad Worlds, I have found: that if you wander without concern or conscious desire, your feet wind their way to places considered by others. Your feet have no will of their own, after all, and if you do not guide them, something else will. This is how the grand secret order of architects rules the subconscious of us all.

Funneled we were towards the base of the Apex, where sat what I know now were called the Two Majesties. Seated atop their thrones on a flickering sea, the monstrous shapes towered over us, as grand and mighty as any thousand-year-old tree.

On our left as we descended the iron stairs, sat a phoenix of resplendent gold on a throne of dried blackened skin and chipped bone. Again and again the great bird burned to ash in flames that shone a brilliant blue, then white, then red, only to form again, shining and magical in its beauty. The skin throne, black as soot and cracked as desert rock, was lashed to the throne of skulls with iron chains and manacles. The ever-generating phoenix spread it’s golden arms far and wide over the room, covering us all with its shadow. It’s bald head turned and twisted, searching everywhere like a hungry hawk, eager to snap up some small and helpless morsel in its blood-soaked beak.

On our right coiled a dragon of winding scales. Its paws were like a falcon’s, its muzzle that of some great ursine folk. Its talons picked gently at its chair of stone, where it was held aloft by thousands of bent-backed slaves, eyes downcast and limbs caught tight between the floor and the dragon above. Black smoke billowed from its mouth, as it tossed coal and pieces of bent iron into its mouth. Even from so far away, I could feel the heat when it turned in our direction.

The two Majesties sat apart, staring at each other as their sharp claws reached to the sea, plucking up men, women, and children alike to wrap them in chains, tie ropes about their limbs, and slipping large swords and shields into their weak hands.

It was then that I saw the sea on which their thrones rested was not a sea of water, but a sea of bodies. Screaming and shouting, roaring and laughing, the rolling waves of humanity crashed back and forth against each other, kicking, biting, feasting, and mating in ongoing bloody life.

Now, I am not a particularly emotional person, as a rule. When one has lived for as long and experienced as much as I have, one develops what I can only describe as emotional callouses for certain sensations. I fear even strong tea holds little pleasure for me, as I have relished in teas ranging from water with a single dried leaf to chewing the very leaves themselves and swallowing the spit.

Nevertheless, I had to turn away from the broiling sight, lest my stomach provide great offense to the proudly seated monarchs.

Good Mr. Porist patted me on the arm, in sympathetic recognition of my suffering, for he too was swallowing most bitterly, forcing his bile to remain seated in its proper place. Sir Juhrooz, however, was of quite a firm constitution, and so took a step, not backward, but forward, and placed his hand on his chest in a proud solute.

“Mighty Monarchs,” he cried above the raucous din, “We beg an audience to ask a boon.”

But over the chaos, the Monarchs could not hear us. Mx image tried next, bowing as low as xer multi-limbed carapace allowed. “Oh great and glorious Majesties of the Sibilants,” xe chittered most handsomely, “we are but humble travelers who have come to seek your guidance in our hour of need. Will you grace we weary penitents with your wisdom?”

Again, the Monarchs did not make a single move in our direction, but continued to reach into the mass of flesh and pluck adult and child from their place to bestow their misappropriated gifts.

Mr. Porist shook his head, and I myself took no step forward. We seemed doomed to be ignored in favor of the Monarchs’ amusements. Then, the Archonarchian Agent stepped in front of us all and spoke in her hushed hiss: “Lords of the Epex, I em e treveler from beyond the door, citizen of the Archonarchy, and I must speek with you.”

Though her voice could not have been any louder than Sir Juhrooz’s mighty bellow, much less the roaring cacophony that spilled out from the sea, the two Monarchs swung their mighty heads towards us, their bright burning eyes skewering us with their gaze.

“Someone from beyond the door? An Archonarchian?” the Phoenix snorted. “How long it has been since they sent us an emissary?”

“Centuries,” the Dragon rumbled. “How remarkable. Well met, emissary of the smooth lands. Judging by the vestments you wear, I should say you are a priestess of some kind, or perhaps a clerk. Are these your servants?”

“My…friends,” the Agent shuffled. “I heve only recently leerned of the word, I mey be using it incorrectly.”

Mx. Image spoke then, “We are allies and companions, and we come in all humility to ask a favor of you both.”

“We are very busy,” the Phoenix hissed. “We are Majesties, you know.”

“What strange combat is this?” Sir Juhrooz cast his eye about the carnage. “I see no tactics, no battle-lines…just a pit of bodies and blood. How odd, too, that it should be here, as every monarch I have ever known has spared no expense to keep fighting well away from their throne room.”

“You speak truth, little man,” the Dragon belched industrious smoke into the air. “Had I my way, this there would be no fighting at all, but since it must be fought, it shall be fought under my watchful eye.”

“Speaking of which,” the Phoenix cast a sharp eye over us. “Let’s see who else we have here…A Knight and a Nob and a maiden fair from quite a long way away, I see.”

“We all have traveled a great many miles,” Image continued, mandibles clacking and limbs gesturing wildly, “My name is Image, Marq of the Circumvexing Hill, and have come to speak with you on a matter of great import, your Majesties.”

“Can it wait?” the Phoenix sniffed. “While we do not wish to insult anyone as illustrious as your Queen, this is a very important business we’re about.”

“I cannot make out the opposing sides,” Sir Juhrooz continued, staring intently at the battle. “Am I correct in surmising that this fight is a war between your two illustrious selves?”

“War?” the Phoenix coughed, reforming itself from the ash. “This is no war. What are you talking about? War? Where is there a war? This is no war.”

“Don’t mind them,” the Dragon said, its voice echoing through the room. “The fool can’t see the truth in front of their eyes.”

“I see perfectly well,” the Phoenix snapped. “I simply see no war. I see people fighting, yes, and that some fight for me, naturally, and some fight — for a reason I cannot fathom at the moment — for you. But I see no war.”

“Surely, is that not what a war is?” Mr. Porist asked, scratching his head.

“No,” the Phoenix clacked its beak. “It’s just the way things are.”

“Old fool,” the Dragon returned its attention to us. “The thing is, we have fought for centuries, we two, such that I can no longer remember what has caused our quarrel.”

“Fool am I?” the Phoenix laughed. “There is no feud, there is no conflict. Fighting simply must be a good thing, else why would we do it?”

“A fair question,” Mr. Porist admitted, “Why fight if neither of you can remember the original slight? Surely there must be no more cause to fight?”

“There is great cause to fight!” The Dragon roared, sending burning hot air over our tender flesh. “If we stop fighting, then neither one of us will win.”

“But why,” I asked, looking down into the pit once more, “do you force these people to fight for you? If your quarrel is with each other, surely, it is you who must fight?”

“No, no, no,” the Phoenix laughed as it burned away in a riotous blaze. “We cannot fight each other. Not at all. Can you imagine? Why, see how big we are, how strong and how mighty? If we fought each other, our mighty steps would crush those who toil beneath us. They would be burned by our flames and crushed by our claws.”

“Then,” the Dragon continued, “if one of us killed the other, our mighty carcass would crush thousands of them. Perhaps millions. And those who survived would feed on the carcass, and perhaps get a stomach-ache. There is nothing worse than a servant with a stomach-ache. No, this way we get to have our fight without putting these charming people at any undue risk. It is the only kind thing for us to do.”

“We are very kind,” the Phoenix said.

“Then we beg you, kind Majesties,” I said, calling up to their giant faces, “Please grant us a boon.”

“No,” they both said in unison. “We can’t do that.”

“Why not?” Sir Juhrooz shouted back. “We are not a part of your war, and you certainly have the means to grant a boon for us.”

“What’s in it for me?” the Phoenix’s eyes narrowed.

“I would gladly give you a boon,” the Dragon shrugged. “If you come and hold up my throne, I will give you the boon of being my servants.”

“Oh,” the Phoenix nodded vigorously, shedding flashes and sparks over the battlefield, “that’s good. Yeah, I can give you that.”

“We seek the council and company of Lady Song,” Mr. Porist clasped his hands. “Please, oh great ones, can you not at least tell us where she resides?”

“She of the Backward Days?” the Phoenix let out a low whistle. “That takes me back. Or is it forward?”

“Such a pitiful creature,” the Dragon snorted. “Or is it pitiable? I care not. A wisp of a thing, quite unfit for our great kingdoms. Always talking nonsense about this and that. What do you want to speak with her about?”

Image bowed low again, xer chittering bringing both Majesties to a halt. “Dear illuminated Majesties, whose presence we are not worthy to inhabit, we find ourselves lost, seeking the lost Encinidine. Our quest has led us here, on the cusp of our Lady Song’s wisdom. Please, great majesties, in your wise and noble counsel, we seek guidance.”

“The Encinidine?” the Dragon cocked its head. “Missing, is it?”

“The Duke of Ten Vials was slain, hadn’t you heard?” the Phoenix blinked before leaning down lower, “and I do believe it was this Madam in front of us who did the dirty deed.”

“Ah HA!” the Dragon bellowed green flame across the tall ceiling. “A trick! A most clever trick, to bring this murderess within range of our beloved Lady Song, so that she might plunge her assassin’s dagger into the poor child’s soft flesh! Vile trickery!”

“I protest,” I said, perhaps less forcefully than I should have. “I did not kill the Duke of Ten Vials, and though I desire to sample of the Encinidine, as do all my kin, we would never slay another to achieve it.”

“Lies,” the Phoenix crumbled away before returning as young as before. “Nothing but lies and putrid disgusting scornful falsities. Were we not busy, we would cast your murderous skeleton to the winds!”

And it was now, when I felt despair at having come so far only to be stopped at the last moment, that the Archonarchian pilgrim spoke. “She is no essessin,” she said, her soft whispery voice carrying up to the ears of the two Majesties.

“Eh?” the Dragon coughed. “What’s that?”

“She is no essessin,” the pilgrim continued, stepping forward once more. “She cennot hold a knife, she cennot use e needle. She cen do nothing but telk, end look, end listen. She did not kill this men.”

“Hmm…” the Dragon’s muzzle twisted in a deep sniff. “You smell like you’re telling the truth…but you are Archonarchian, just the same.”

“An enemy to the entire Myriad Worlds,” the Phoenix’s beak scraped the floor in front of us. “I don’t know if I trust your word over my own eyes.”

“Does she look like e essessin?”

Two pairs of giant eyes turned to me, then to the agent again.

“I suppose,” the Phoenix admitted, “she’s less assassinly than most that I’ve seen.”

“But word is said,” the Dragon shrugged as it settled back on its throne of stone. “Gossip is passed about like canapes, and we all must sample a taste, if only to be polite, mustn’t we?”

“It is in the air,” the Phoenix nodded. “And they wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true. Why, surely someone would say otherwise if it were not.”

“I do,” the Agent said.

“As do I,” Mr. Porist stepped forward.

“We all do,” Sir Juhrooz stomped his metal foot. “Madam Albithurst is no killer, and Lady Song has nothing to fear from us!”

There was a moment before a circle of smoke puffed from the Dragon’s nostrils. “I am convinced.”

“As am I,” the Phoenix burned before spreading its wings high into the air. “Let it be so.”

And that was that. The proclamation had been made, and judgment passed. I clasped my hands to my breast, and said: “Your Majesties are incomparably just and wise. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart. So grateful am I, yet I must ask again for your aid. How can we harmless and not-at-all-assassins reach Lady Song?”

The Phoenix gave a slow toss of its head. “I think she’s around here somewhere. I won’t tell you, of course.”

“Must we barter for your information, then?” Sir Juhrooz crossed his mighty arms. “What cost is the answer, good majesties, we will gladly pay it.”

“Now, now,” the Dragon shook its head. “Information is not goods or services. Secrets are not currency. Secrets are munitions. To share a secret is disarmament, and I will not disarm while this fool continues to resist my army’s might.”

I could not help but find myself annoyed at these two Majesties and their games. “If you will not tell us,” I said, drawing my not insubstantial self up to my most fullest of heights, “then who will? Who can guide us to Lady Song’s domicile?”

“Everyone knows, I’m sure,” the Dragon sighed. “You could ask around, but they all look a bit busy to me at the moment. There is a war going on, you know.”

“Absurd,” the Phoenix laughed. “Can’t even keep the world in order. I’ll bet you don’t even know where she lives.”

“Of course I do,” the Dragon spat flame. “I always know where everyone is in my kingdom.” There was a pause as smoke leaked out from behind the Dragon’s eyes. “So she must be in your kingdom right now.”

“She is not,” the Phoenix roared. “You take that back or I will send another phalanx to your rear flank!”

“Go ahead and try it,” the Dragon bellowed. “I have a full legion there, ready to turn your phalanx to mincemeat.”

“We’ll see about that!” The Phoenix pointed, and a group of soldiers began to march.

Perhaps they are marching still.