“Avana, would you set the table?” said Wellworn.
She stepped out into the middle of the clearing and unsheathed an elegantly decorated palm-leaf manuscript from a sheath at her side. It was long and thin, like a folded hand fan. Sheets of narrow parchment were strung together, held tight between two pieces of dark, polished wood. Holding it aloft, she allowed it to unfurl like a roll of blinds, and then she twirled. Her movements were arabesque, like a bird cutting through the air; her shawl catching the wind through her twists and turns. There was a quick spin, and she cracked the manuscript like a whip.
As it struck the ground, several pages dug deep into the dust, spiralling around each other to form paper pillars. Three more times she struck the ground. The pillars were laid out in a rectangular arrangement about a metre and a half by three metres long. Snapping the manuscript back, she broke off several pages of the delicate parchment. Her hands criss-crossed over and around each other like a weaver’s beam as she folded the sheets of parchment. With a flick of her wrist, the sheets suddenly exploded in length, growing to the size of a large door.
She spun around once more, flinging the long sheets horizontally. They spread out over the seven pillars, gliding down gently before settling on top of each other. As they came to rest, they solidified, melding with what became table legs below. The completed table was low enough for everyone to sit comfortably on the ground and still reach the top.
Dawit and Kai rushed to take their spots, Avana shaking her head as she watched them go. Shem tried peeking at the delectable delicacies awaiting them, but Wellworn blocked his view. He took a seat at the bottom of the table. Jonas sat at the opposite corner.
Keon stood staring until Zahara beckoned him with a nod. His eyes roamed across the surface of the table as he approached, running his hand over the gritty, fibrous textures. The tips of his fingers dipped into the ink filled swirls and spirals of a foreign script. The text crisscrossed the entire surface of the table, adding layer upon layer of depth to an already striking piece of furniture.
“How d’you guys do that?”
Wellworn paced around the table towards its head, arms clasped behind his back.
“What you just witnessed is called ‘Forging.’ Torchbearers forge using a Codex; formed the moment he or she sets foot in Underland.”
“Formed?”
Keon felt around under his shawl for the satchel fastened to his back. He could feel the spine of a cloth bound, hardback book, held in place by a clip-on strap. Though attached to his back, the satchel was rigged to a harness, allowing it to be swung round to his side at a moment’s notice.
“There are things in your world that the eye does not see. In Underland, that which is unseen takes physical form; such as your Codex. A written record of your memories, your thoughts, your dreams; even your fears. A physical manifestation of your mind and conscience.”
Keon quickly withdrew his hand. She could never read this.
“Using what’s written in their Codex, a Torchbearer can fashion tools or weapons; make armour or even furniture. They are limited only by their imagination.”
“That sounds pretty cool.”
“It is…if you know how to use it wisely.”
Wellworn gestured for Keon to sit opposite Jonas, next to Zahara. He’d read that, in some cultures, such a spot was considered the seat of honour; sitting at the right hand of the host. Was that the case here, and if so, why was he the guest of honour? The Millionth and Fifth had welcomed him of course, but the first thing Wellworn had done was accuse him of something he was pretty sure he hadn’t done. And now, here he was all smiles and gestures, inviting him to sit and dine at his side. What was his game and how had he hoodwinked so many people into following some King they’d never even met? Was this all part of some ploy, the ‘choice’ he apparently had to make, or just—dinner? What kind of King kidnapped his subjects with the threat of enslavement if they didn’t enlist in his army anyway? A king just like every other corrupt tyrant, president and dictator he’d ever read about it seemed.
Then, just like that, those thoughts subsided, and he was left wondering why he’d gotten so heated and whether he’d been standing there gawping for an obscene amount of time. A glance back at the table showed that they were patiently waiting for him and that Wellworn had gone to serve food with Avana.
There were no utensils save for some walnut cups and bowls. The bread was laid out first in the middle of the table. One bowl of fruit, another of nuts, was set on either side. Next, Wellworn brought two corked, wooden bottles and placed them north and south of the bread. Keon walked round the table to the space saved for him.
Wellworn beamed with a smile that seemed to melt away the scars on his face. In his hand he held a platter of—something. Keon couldn’t quite see it from his vantage point. Necks strained and stretched to catch a peek before it was laid down to exultant gasps on the table.
There was a spread of fried chips made from the roots Avana had brought. Shem’s seaweed had been cut and dried; turned into something glistening, crispy and light; mixed with an assortment of honey-roasted nuts, courtesy of Kai. For the main course, Wellworn had fried a selection of thick omelettes cut into burger sized circles; enough for everyone. Keon could hardly believe that three eggs had produced that much omelette. Then again, they weren’t normal eggs, right? In fact, the group’s haul seemed to have produced far more food than Keon thought possible. Not that he was complaining. He wasn’t about to turn down a free meal when his body was screaming for food.
Avana went around the table filling their cups with a dark crimson liquid. Raising it to his nose, Keon quickly held it back. Was that wine?
Wellworn lifted a piece of bread, broke it and distributed the pieces around both sides of the table. As he raised his cup, they all followed suit. Keon questioned whether to raise his own, so as not to stand out, or stand firm in defiance? He decided to go with a healthy medium; raising it just enough so as not to look odd, but not so high as to affirm whatever they were toasting.
Wellworn looked from side to side, content; and with a voice as soft as a summer breeze, said—
“To the King…”
“TO THE KING!”
Walnut cups knocked, threatening to splatter the merry battallion with blood red droplets. Outside the forest of outstretched arms, Keon glanced at Wellworn who neither sipped nor supped. Not even a drop. He simply raised the cup then set it back down on the table.
Keon held his close to the lips, watching from the corner of his eye before finally setting it down. If Wellworn wasn’t drinking, neither was he.
No sooner had their cups hit the table then the Millionth and Fifth were making for the food. Wellworn eased himself up, took his cup and poured the contents over the fire still burning in the oven. He stopped to savour the smell as a reddish column of steam and smoke rose with the rush of the flames; its life reignited by the spark of ethanol. His gaze followed the cloudy pillar as it rose into the air.
He closed his eyes and smiled.
Comments (0)
See all