For the first time in his illustrious forty-year career, Melchior was nervous. In his arms rested a pair of elegant cases which contained the fruits of the last two months of his labor. He had no concerns about their quality. They were the best pieces he had ever created, the product of a feverish obsession that had occupied his thoughts every waking moment. He had visited the library for new tomes on the subject of his craft, the first time he had done so since his apprenticeship. He had studied and learned every part of it, progressing from bewilderment to understanding to deep appreciation of the minds that had refined such a design.
It was the first time Alexander had ordered a new weapon for the Holy Armory in Melchior’s lifetime. In fact, he had ordered two. Melchior had awoken, stupefied, at the glow from the Midan Knot that carried the request from Alexander on high. It hadn’t been necessary to create a new weapon in three hundred years. All the bearers of the Creator’s Knot had been content with the treasures that existed: a sword-bearer here, another sword-bearer there, a spear-wielder now and again, one that liked a shield with her sword, and of course Saint Melija who had shaken up the armory for the first and only time with her preference for a mace. Two at once was unthinkable.
Melchior had lamented his talents going to waste on the routine bits and baubles and symbols of status that had been his role for the Midan Knot for forty years. In the whirlwind of his passion, he had never once stopped to think about the reception of his work.
Yet now he stood in the waiting chamber before the throne. There was no more time to think. It was the will of Alexander, Melchior assured himself. It was unquestionable. No matter what the king or court thought, there would still be that.
“Sage Melchior, head craftsman of the Midan Knot, entering!” boomed the guard on the other side of the door. Melchior raised his chin. He had everything to be proud of.
The doors flew open, and Melchior strode down the red carpet, the claps of the assembled court striking his ears like raindrops. The grand balcony at the far side of the hall showed a fine, sunny day over the distant mountains. The king awaited just before the balcony, resting on the throne. The Gordian Knot. A mass of bluish green crystal with elaborate gold brackets and fittings to render it into a sittable surface. The crystal was a gift from Alexander and was said to be unbreakable by any means. If the Gordian Knot ever cracked, it would be the ultimate rejection of the king’s right to rule.
The king was applauding as well, smiling, happy. Melchior hoped that would last. Beside him stood his recently appointed advisor, a thin and bird-like man with long red hair. His face was like the moon: white, flat, and gave Melchior the impression he might look out his window one night and find it staring back at him. Melchior misliked the man.
The king’s booming voice commanded the applause to quiet. “Sage Melchior, welcome! This is a joyous day!”
“As you say, my king.” Melchior took a knee before the throne, a task he found harder than in his youth.
“The first weapon in three centuries! And not just one, but two! The Creator has blessed us indeed.” The king paused to allow more applause from the court.
“As all members of the court know,” the king began, seamlessly transitioning from his celebratory tone to his officious, regal voice. “Our kingdom met with a great tragedy six months past, with the loss of Saint Lauria on the distant shore of Fortenburg. I thank you all for your confidence in this matter. You’ve all had many questions about the status of the Knot of the Creator, that was lost along with Saint Lauria.
“Our soldiers saw she fell in the midst of Fortenburg soldiers, and to keep it from falling into enemy hands, she cast Comet to send it away a great distance. If the Creator has requested weapons to be made, then even if we know not where she is, it seems that the Knot has found its way into the hands of a worthy bearer. The Creator be praised!”
The court erupted again into the expected applause. “Which brings us to the man of the hour. Sage Melchior has brought us the two weapons that have been crafted for this new bearer.”
With great care, Melchior opened the first box. He carried them one on top of the other, and he had ensured to place the one that would go over better on top. It was a bladed whip, forged in brilliant white with a gilded handle. It rested coiled elegantly on a cushion of red velvet.
A hushed sound of awe spread through the crowd, even from people behind that couldn’t have actually seen it.
“A whip!” the king exclaimed. “Why, nobody in Alexandria has ever considered such a thing.”
“It shall be called the Sacred Scourge, my king.”
“Ah, wonderful. I can see the day where our kingdom’s children play hero with lengths of rope instead of sticks… perhaps they’ll put less scratches on our walls that way.” The court returned the king’s joke with polite laughter.
Perhaps this would be the best moment, while everyone was enjoying themselves. Without waiting for the king’s request, Melchior opened the second box. The king leaned forward in his throne for a better look.
“What is this, Sage?”
“It’s a pistol, sire.” Eager to drown the revelation in talk, Melchior continued. “A weapon designed to launch metal slugs using explosive powder. It shall be called the Turtle Dove. Firearms have been rising in use in Midgard for some time. This style was particular to the natives of Landsoul, which was a recent acquisition of Fortenburg. It’s likely that the bearer of the Knot is there.”
“Pistol? Firearm?” the king interjected. His advisor leaned close to whisper something in the king’s ear. “A gun, you mean? The weapons of those Fortenburg cowards and assassins?”
Melchior lowered his head. “Yes, sire.”
“These weapons have cost us so many knights. Saint Lauria herself was a victim of these devices. Knights who were cut down without even seeing the face of their opponent!” The king pounded his armrest with a clenched fist. “You know the contents of the Holy Armory. We fight our enemies honorably, and well. What honor is there in a weapon like this? To settle a fight without bravery, skill, nor effort?”
“It was the will of the Creator through the Midan Knot that this weapon be made, sire.”
Without a counter-argument, the king sat back in his throne, drumming his fingers against his chin in irritation. With regained composure, he began again. “Well. Of course you are right. The Creator knows more than any of us, and we should strive to seek his wisdom every day.” The king raised his arms, spread wide. “Praise be to the Creator!”
The assembled court applauded, though more because it was expected than anything. They, like most of Alexandria, held much the same opinions about firearms.
“We will reconvene in just a moment. I’d like to share my congratulations with Sage Melchior personally.”
The courtiers were more than content to babble amongst themselves and file out. This was the reaction Melchior had been afraid of. Still, he had done the Creator’s will. He was not responsible and had nothing to be ashamed of. Moreover, he had to admit a fascination with the workings of firearms. The careful assembly of precision, moving parts presented him a challenge unlike any he had ever undertaken. In the time since completing his work, his thoughts had been filled with the gun designs he had read about.
“Now, what were you saying about Landsoul?” the king asked, when the courtiers had departed.
“This make of gun is from Landsoul. It’s the designs that Fortenburg has appropriated to make guns for themselves. It’s likely whoever has found the Knot resides there.”
“It goes without saying we need to recover the Knot.” The king sighed and rubbed at his brow. “Let’s get some of our agents in Landsoul right away. It seems as though a foreigner has gotten her hands on it. A gun… of all things.”
The king’s advisor bowed. “If I may, sire. The people’s faith has been shaken by the loss of Saint Lauria to those… savages. Now would be the time for the next bearer to be an exemplary Alexandrian.”
“Mm. I agree.”
“It goes without saying it will cause an uproar if the next bearer is a foreigner. Such a thing would be unprecedented.”
“If she’s Fortenbran, we can discount that right away,” the king said with a wave of his hand. “Not that I think the Creator would accept one of them as the bearer.” The king stayed silent for a moment, and his advisor didn’t interrupt him. “Alright. Find this person. Bring her here if we must, but don’t let people know about it just yet. If she’s not suitable, we’ll acquire the Knot from her.”
Melchior raised his head in alarm. To dispute the Creator’s choice was unheard of. What had changed the king so?
“Ah, yes, Sage Melchior. The whip is one thing, but don’t show that… gun. I don’t care what you do with it. Throw it into the sea if you must.” When Melchior hesitated, the king raised his voice. “Questions?”
Melchior quickly shook his head, packing away the weapons in their cases. If he wanted to preserve them, he felt he had to act quickly. As he scurried away, the king’s voice echoed through the chamber, a lament intended only for his advisor.
“Who’s filched our national treasure, Kahr? What strange person…”
* * *
The sun set over the prairies of Landsoul, so bright and so red it looked like it might set the land ablaze. The only person for miles rode her horse across the plains, stopping in the shadow of a tree in the shadow of a small hill.
She dismounted, running her hands through the horse’s chestnut fur. “What do you think, Tess? Think that gang will remember the name of Sunny Goodnight?” Tess didn’t answer, as usual, at least not in any way anyone but Sunny could detect.
Sunny pulled her hat off her head, shaking out blonde hair long tousled and unruly from the road. She quickly put it back on again when she turned toward the sun. “Redder’n those bandit’s faces when we turned them over to the sheriff. We better hope it don’t set the prairie on fire while we’re out here.”
She led Tess further into the shadow of the hill, where a small pond lay in a depression. Tess bent her head down to drink, and Sunny kneeled down to do the same. She looked up after her first couple gulps. “It’s bound to happen soon. It’s so dry the bushes will start following the dogs around. If we don’t get a proper gully washer soon…”
Sunny swiped her hand through the pond, splashing a bit of water onto the shoreline as if it’d do anything for the dry prairie. As her reflection cleared, she wiped some dirt off her cheek. That old lady in the last town had said she had a pretty and honest face. That old granny had been right pleasant. Maybe tomorrow morning would be the time to have the biscuits she’d given as a parting gift.
When Sunny and Tess had their fill of water, Sunny strapped the feed bag to Tess’s muzzle. As always, Tess’s feed supply was in better condition than Sunny’s. Sunny pulled her pistol from its holster at her hip. She’d fired a lot of powder today and it would need to be cleaned before it corroded her gun. She took also a kettle and a beat-up canteen of bomb oil from the saddlebag. The leaf litter and shrubs provided ample kindling to heat water in her kettle.
“Now let me tell you a story about Chocobo-Claw Pete,” Sunny began, referencing the bandit they had just put behind bars. She drew from the small tidbits she’d heard about his life and a generous amount of improvisation to sing Tess a song she’d composed in the hours since their battle. She pulled a harmonica out of her pocket to accompany herself between verses.
Chocobo-Claw Pete said to his papa
Strapped sixty pounds to my back all day,
Before that mine empties, I’ll fall down to the floor
Make me go on down and you will see me no more,
Pa said, Peter, you will go on down.
At sixteen young Peter gave it up for good,
Spat in pa’s face, shoved him down the stair
Of breaking rocks he was tired and he was sick
Pete threw down his shovel and he threw down his pick
Said no, papa, I won’t go on down.
At market a horse-bird fetched a fine sum,
A whole flock he thought would be his,
In the dark a whirl of feathers took his left eye,
Lord, he lost his eye in a worn-down horse-bird sty.
Said no, horse-bird, I won’t go on down.
Wore its claw ’round his neck every day,
As he roughed and robbed fine folk of Landsoul
His gang rode into town, all gunmen outta heck
Robbed ’em blind with a chocobo claw ’round his neck
Said no, Landsoul, I won’t go on down.
From the west rode Tess, a brown mare,
and Sunny Goodnight in her saddle
At noon Pete faced her on the high plain
Gun drawn, Sunny said, come quiet or there’ll be pain
Said no, Sunny, I won’t go on down.
Said no, Sunny, I won’t go on down.
Sunny paused with a sheepish expression. “Well. No more needs to be said, right, Tess? It’s his story, after all, not ours.” Tess meandered over to her usual spot behind Sunny where she sat. “Fun time’s over, I suppose.” From the saddlebag she produced the tools for cleaning her pistol: a cleaning rod for the barrel, powder soap to go in the warm water when it came up to temperature, and bomb oil to keep everything running smoothly. These were Sunny’s biggest expenses.
She kicked dirt on the fire after she was done. Tess settled down behind her, and Sunny in turn leaned back against Tess’s flank.
The moon was bright tonight. Sunny tilted her hat down over her eyes. Her hand stayed near the holstered pistol at her hip. It was rare to be attacked, but with those unbeatable “silhouettes” in these parts since the Fortenburg invasion, it was more dangerous now. Not that her pistol would help with those.
She remembered, with a cold feeling in her stomach, that none of this had brought her any closer to reuniting with her parents. As silhouette activity rose, something she could do nothing about, the sense assaulted her that her vigilante days would soon be ending.
Well. It wouldn’t do any good to think of such things in the middle of the night. She needed rest.
In moments she was on Uncle James’s ranch, with Mom and Dad too. She knew the setup: she had come to the ranch after fleeing the sacking of her hometown. Warm old Uncle James was there, and her parents had arrived shortly after. It was common enough that she recognized it as a dream right away. The real Uncle James had cashed in years ago, and her parents never showed up. Dream or not, she let it continue. It was pleasant.
It was her turn to make dinner. It was mouse pie. A nice, cheap dish that wouldn’t put a hole in Uncle James’s pocket while they were staying here. In the pot she boiled the macaroni, and beside it the field mice were frying up nice. It was a fine kitchen, with a full rack of spices and all the vegetables she’d need laid out on the table behind her.
She strayed over to the back door while she waited for everything to cook. Uncle James’s sheep were spread out in the field, like cauliflowers floating in broth. They were smaller and easier to handle than cows, less liable to run you down in a stampede. Who knows when they’d own cows again. For now, they’d escaped the Fortenbran violence, and that was enough. Tess was grazing alongside the sheep not far from the house. The simple life made you understand the parts that were really important.
Uncle James appeared in the kitchen doorway, rubbing his belly expectantly. Sunny smacked his shoulder. “I only just started, you mutton-puncher! Patience.”
Uncle James roared with laughter, and she heard her parents somewhere in the house do the same. She turned back to the stove. It was a special pain, to know she was the only one present who was real. She put a smile on it. A cowhand didn’t let her troubles show.
The mice were burning. She checked the pan. They couldn’t have burnt that quickly. What was that smell? The kitchen was too bright. She looked up. Something was wrong.
Sunny awoke, shoving her hat back on her head, just as Tess started up. A bright star burned in the night sky, huge and close. “What in tarnation? Have you ever seen a shooting star that big before?” Of course, Tess hadn’t. What Tess had seen was the same as what she had seen.
Sunny stood up to watch the spectacle. Mayhaps this was a good sign for her. After a few moments, she could swear the shooting star was bigger. The air grew hotter. The burning smell wasn’t just in her dream.
“Can’t be serious,” she muttered to herself, jumping into the saddle. “Tess, let’s move!” It was impossible to tell the comet’s trajectory. Sunny did the only thing she could do to dodge it, ride Tess in a circle around the backside of the hill they had camped at.
Sunny dismounted, and encouraged Tess to hunker down in the shadow of the hill. The comet was visible over the hill’s crest, now searingly bright at the tip of a long lance of flame across the sky. The flare was still visible over the crest of the hill when the shockwave knocked Sunny to the ground. A hail of mud and rocks pelted her back. Tess whinnied, and being knocked on her side was the only thing that kept her from bolting. Sunny rushed to soothe her as she kicked and snorted, struggling to get back up and take off.
The light was still visible over the hill. It’s going to set the whole damn prairie on fire. Sunny would just have to trust Tess not to run off too far.
She sprinted over the hill toward the impact site. It had landed on the other side of the pond, plowing a deep hole in the earth. Thankfully, only a few small flames were present, perhaps thanks to the shower of mud it had kicked up. Sunny stomped out the flames quickly, and kicked mud over where they were just for good measure.
The comet itself lay on bare earth at the end of a long ditch it had dug out, a ball of molten rock as big as her. Sunny looked back. Tess was standing some distance away in a stand of trees, gazing cautiously at her. All around echoed restless howls and the fluttering of birds that had been disturbed by the comet. Sunny allowed herself to breathe a sigh of relief.
This was a first. She’d heard tell of shooting stars containing rare metals and the like. If it was true, this could cover her expenses for quite a while. Carefully, she prodded at the rock with her boot. The molten rock slid apart in gooey chunks like a warm egg. At the core of the comet, she saw something white glittering.
Sunny shoved the chunks of glowing rock aside, bringing in the butt of her whip’s handle to assist with what she couldn’t reach with her boot. She wrapped her hand in her jacket to try to pull the glittering object out. It was so hot her eyes dried out getting close. Even through her jacket, the core was so hot it was all she could do to yank it free, immediately dropping it in the dirt. It was some sort of white crystal. She steeled herself to grab it one more time, barely holding onto it for long enough to hurl it into the pond. It landed in the water with a towering gout of steam.
Shaking her hand out from the heat, Sunny walked back to retrieve it. She’d been careful enough to throw it so it would land near the bank where she could grab it. In the water, it was bearable to touch for a moment or two. She swished her hand back and forth in the water, pushing away the warm water and bringing in the cool.
Finally, she lifted the crystal out of the water. She had very little sense of magic. The town healer teaching her the basics of Cure was her one experience with the art. Yet she could sense the crystal thrummed with power and felt, somehow, it didn’t belong here.
On one surface was carved a lengthy inscription, too fouled by mud from its dip in the pond to be legible. She would have to clean it up later. One word, however, she could make out writ large at the bottom.
ALEXANDER.
A smile spread across Sunny’s face. “Hey, Tess, look at this!” She rose and started towards where Tess awaited. She knew nothing about what this crystal meant. But she knew a sign when she saw one. Just when she was thinking her freewheeling days were over, the skies opened up and sent her a message. She wasn’t done just yet.
Caller's Legacy 