Chapter 9 – Anrik

“Grinner!” the Mister of the Kitchens screamed as Anrik deposited the empty tray on the shelf. Anrik froze.

What have I done now?

Darnell Pasa gave Anrik a cutting, lasting glare. It spoke volumes about the man’s disdain for Anrik. He really does hate me. Every time I see him he makes that face, as if he can’t stand the smell of me. Once Pasa had given sufficient glare the Mister waved angrily at Anrik. “You are to report to Alumina’s Chamber.”

Alumina’s Chamber?

The world around Anrik spun. He had been close to Alumina’s Chamber. Once. But after more than four years as a ward of the Minds of Metal, the Holy Father Church, he had never stopped hoping he would one day be offered a robe. Be offered a place within the Church.

Like Jester.

But to be called to Alumina’s Chamber was the first step. Other Acolytes were often called to a Chamber and when next seen wore the robe of the Metal which had selected them for membership. Alumina was the Highest metal in the Father Church. Of course Gold, Silver, Platinum, and Mithra were higher metals – but they belonged to the Mother Church and were the province of women. To be called to Alumina’s Chamber... the moment seemed to drag out for Anrik.

I am going to be a Father of the Church. One day I am going to be Alumina Himself! I hope Jester is alive then. He will be forced to bow to me and it will be as grand as the weather was on Friday March 25th when I was fourteen.

Pasa must’ve seen the dreamy look overtake Anrik’s features. The Mister of the Kitchen’s voice cut through Anrik happy dreams like a serrated knife in yesterday’s bread, swift and messy.

“I wouldn’t be so damned happy if I were you, Anrik.” Pasa said, his face consumed by hateful mirth. “Lord Alumina sent Merrick Kilgore to fetch you.”

Anrik froze. Again.

Merrick Kilgore? Merrick Kilgore? The Brazer?

Before Anrik could speak, Pasa added, “The last time a Metal sent a Brazer for an Acolyte they used his bones as cement.”

It was true and Anrik knew it. He had known the man. Omar Dister. The official charge had been Worshiping the Sun, but rumor had made it clear that Omar had been branded a traitor but one of the Metals. Because Omar talked about Elves and said they were real. Because Omar said there was more knowledge and it was being kept from us. Because Omar criticized the Minds of Metal. Anrik had been in the dormitory, a sunny Tuesday in February, during his sixteenth year, when they took Omar away. They had been friends. Suffice to say Omar had never been seen again after a Brazer escorted him to Lord Brass.

But that Lord Brass died shortly after himself. I wonder...

Anrik’s thoughts were cut off. Again.

“And that was only Lord Brass, the old fool. Everyone knew that man was daft, but even he didn’t tolerate indolence and stupidity like yours. How Lord Alumina came to even know your name is beyond me, but we both know you haven’t done anything to earn it. Good luck, and safe travels!”

Pasa turned away, laughing.

Anrik stood, unmoving.

I could run.

To where? A nasty voice said to him.

To what?

The Father Church is everywhere! They will find you.

What will Dad think? Jester will probably laugh.

Anrik made the decision to run. As if some perverse magic had been activated the door leading from the Kitchens to the rest of Ithgar compound swung open and Merrick Kilgore walked through it.

The man was so tall he had to duck to pass under the lintel, which was itself nearly seven feet tall. Despite this height Merrick was not at all slender. The man was shaped like rather an entire bull stuffed into a sausage casing. But he didn’t appear fat for all this, instead seeming solid. Massive. His knuckles were sunken and his fingers so thickly calloused they looked misshapen. Where his hair should have been was only a bald pate covered in scars and scratches. Deep-set eyes of caramel brown and black shone from those hollowed recesses above the man’s slightly wrinkled, round, scarred cheeks.

“Ahh. Grinner. Just the man I was looking for. I take it that buffoon Pasa waited for you to return to answer my summons rather than sending for you as I asked?”

Anrik’s words caught in his throat. Kilgore stared down at him, impassive. A thickly muscled forearm attached to a calloused hand reached out for Anrik’s shoulder and squeezed. It took every fiber of control in Anrik’s being not to shrink from that hand. The strength in Kilgore’s grip on Anrik’s shoulder was immense. For a moment Anrik was afraid the man was going to squeeze his should so hard it snapped. When Kilgore finally relented, Anrik could not hold back his sigh of relief.

“Come on then Acolyte. Time’s already been wasted on you and though I can do many things I cannot mine Time for more.”

Kilgore shoved Anrik, not as forcefully as Anrik assumed the man could, not even close, out the door of the Kitchens towards Alumina’s Chamber.

All the Metals were represented at Ithgar, of course. Alumina, Steel, Iron, Bronze, Brass, and Tin, all had large, well maintained chambers at the complex, as Ithgar was the largest city in Erdall. But the Metals traveled extensively, visiting other locations, mines in the mountains and far plains, and other places of which only they and their closest knew. Though a Father Metal was free to travel as he wished their word was not law, nor as strong in civil society as that of a Mother Metal. Mother Mithra ruled everything. A word from her could see the head of Lord Alumina mounted outside the rudest village. Not that Anrik had ever heard of such happening. The Mother Church was tremendous, but it had its own concerns, being the core of Erdall’s government among the most. Mother Mithra probably cared little what Lord Alumina did, as long as he produced enough metal for her needs.

Thoughts about Mother Mithra occupied Anrik’s thoughts as Kilgore walked him through the expansive hallways towards Alumina’s Chamber. They passed stair which led down to the Coven of Brazers, its way permanently blocked by a portcullis of pure mithra, the value of which must have been enough to buy a small city. Kilgore didn’t even glance at it. They passed Tin’s Chamber, then Brass’s. As he walked past the door, Anrik couldn’t help but think of Omar.

I wonder if he died easy. They wouldn’t have tortured him, would they? They aren’t going to torture me, are they?

Anrik shook with fear. Kilgore noticed.

“None of that now, Grinner. This can go the easy way, or the hard one, but you alone must choose which. Do not make me call forth the Heat.”

the Heat.

The Heat was the magic employed by the Brazers. It was said they could melt steel in an eyeblink, turn alumina into a pool of sludge at at word, all using the Heat. Rumor also said there were metals they could not burn, such as that which made the Tower of Ithgar, among others. Relics from some lost age of power and knowledge. The Brazers probably said differently, Anrik had know way of knowing. He had never spoken to one before Kilgore.

“Hurry along then.” Kilgore said, giving Anrik a shove past Steel’s Chamber. “Lord Alumina is waiting and he is not known for patience. Remember what I said, Grinner. Easy or hard, the choice is yours. It is often so in the Shaping.”

The Shaping. This was what the Minds of Metal called their use of metals in creation of works, from swords to carriages, to bridges and buildings which dwarfed even Ithgar. Though the Ancients had clearly had secrets which even the Minds of Metal knew little, if anything, the Minds of Metal had far surpassed them in sheer size. The Dorman, when the Mothers Mithra, Platinum, Gold, and Silver ruled the nations of Erdall was so large it was said the entire Tower of Ithgar could be a large column inside its central chamber. Anrik had seen paintings of course, but he gave them little credit, assuming they were fanciful works of art which enlarged reality.

“And here we are, Grinner.” Kilgore said. They had reached Alumina’s Chamber. The door of solid alumina was closed, but it still shone dully in the gaslight. Kilgore rapped his sunken knuckles against it three times, the contact making a clang as though a bell tolled.

I’m going to die.

I hope somebody tells Mom.

Kilgore snorted, for all the world as though he could sense not just Anrik’s hesitation but his very thoughts. “You would do well in Alumina’s presence not to be so... fidgety. He’s not the kindest of men to such.”

It was a kind word from Kilgore, but Anrik could not hear it so. He heard only a threat. Still a word from a Brazer demanded a response from any Acolyte, even one heading to his death. I can’t dishonor everything I am. Even if I’m not meant to be an Engineer or a Father. I can still die Anrik Grinner. That’s something.

The great doors of alumina opened and a blinding light spewed forth, almost liquid in quality. Anrik hesitated. Kilgore shoved him forward into the widening gap between the doors. “Go on then boy. Time isn’t metal. It can’t be mined.”

Anrik stumbled forward into a chamber of such opulence he could hardly credit its existence. How does this exist and I haven’t known? How? How? How?

All around him were signs of Alumina’s power. The chamber itself was deceptive – it appeared it must be much smaller from doorway, but the great alumina doors lead down a superbly lit hallway, the entire length of which was plated in alumina. The stuff was worth almost as much as gold. How is it possible to use it so? Anrik turned around to ask Kilgore, if he was going to die at least he was going to die with good information. But he managed only to catch the closing of the two great doors. They slid gently into one another making hardly a sound, so smooth was their housing in the alumina brackets which held them. The light, which had seemed blinding from the dim hallway was nothing more than a pair of fractured gaslamps near the door. It was effect. The rest of the hallway was dimmer, but still covered in alumina. Why? Anrik noticed Kilgore was not there.

He left me alone! I could escape!

To where?

Somewhere?

There is no escape.

Anrik sighed and turned back forward, down the hallway. He only took ten or fifteen more halting steps before he was stopped by yet another door. This one was also made of alumina, or seemed to be, but it was half the height of the previous pair and a single panel. There was no obvious handle or manner of entrance. What would Dad do? Can I even call him Dad?

Anrik tried to think logically, like his father. It was exceedingly difficult. Anrik could remember the weather on a random Tuesday when he was five years old but for the life of him he had a great deal of trouble being logical. His mother had called it “common sense” but to Anrik it seemed anything but common. How can common sense be common if everyone doesn’t have it? How is that logical? But Anrik had never asked that question of his mother. He had loved Dierdre Grinner as effortlessly as a second son can, and as fully as the final child of any woman does. While she had also been tender with Anrik, his constant disappointment to his father had become something of a sticking point between the Chief and Dierdre, who would secretly push her husband to be more inclusive of Anrik and focus less on the elder Grinner, Kyril. Jester. I bet he’ll be happy I’m gone.

All the while as Anrik waited nothing managed to open the small door of alumina. Minutes had ticked by while Anrik was distracted by his own thoughts, while he tried to think like his father, and failed. Instead he became lost in catalogs of memories, of weather on odd days versus even, and ten other unimportant things which filled his head when he was nervous, which slowed his thinking to the point he could do little but seem idle and wasting. A gleam of something brought Anrik out of his reverie and back to his situation.

The door.

Alumina.

I’m going to die.

It didn’t feel real. Or possible. Which led Anrik down towards another round of questions and reveries. Could death ever seem real to anyone? What would it be like to not die? Like the elves Mom used to tell me stories about. They were immortal. Did that mean they feared death more than humans do?

Yet another gleam drew Anrik back to the moment, to his situation. But it was only the flicker from the gaslamp at the other end of the hallway. Think like Dad. Think like an Engineer. How do I get past this door?

Wait.

I’m going to die if I get past this door.

What’s the point of figuring it out if it’s going to kill me?

You’re going to die anyway, might as well do it smartly.

That doesn’t make any sense.

Remember that thunderstorm on October 7th? Anrik didn’t have to think about what year it was, he knew it was a particular October 7th when he was thirteen and a thunderstorm had rolled over the Mist Mountains like the sky itself was made of grey marbles suspended in some kind of solution being slowly poured over the snow-capped peaks. Anrik could, of course, remember the weather from every day of his life, so he had no need to note which October 7th it had been. Though Anrik had been able to do this particular thing since he was young enough to speak he had never realized others could not, so he had simply taken it for granted they could.

The door.

Well. It’s a solid piece of alumina.

Anrik ran his hands down the length of the door. Tried to imitate his perception of his father. He pressed, very softly, his fingers against the metal, all ten of them. With falsely practiced effort he pulled his arms downward letting his fingers drag down the slick surface until he was bent double and he face was near the floor. More alumina. Anrik sighed and made to straighten when he noticed something. A slight change in the color of the alumina, near the base of the door. Hidden in the shadow of the door itself it was not visible from a standing position. One had to get down on the floor, or bend double as Anrik had, in order to see it at all. He stood back up straight.

It looks like a knob of some kind, but tiny. Why would anyone put a tiny knob under an alumina door?

Why would anyone have a door made of alumina?

It’s a bit too dim in here, with such wealth they could surely afford to put gaslamps on this end of the hallway as well, couldn’t they? It’s like that day when the clouds...

Anrik shook his head to push the thoughts of weather away.

Focus, Anrik.

Before he could question it, Anrik bent at the knees and pressed the knob. The little protuberance gave slightly, depressed and remained. With a gentle a caress Anrik probed it, then leaned forward to look again. It was gone, sunken now into the alumina plating of the floor and only an imperceptible difference in the shadow showed it had ever been there at all.

Nothing happened.

Anrik stood back up and looked back towards the double doors. From this side they seemed one large, square door, instead of two rectangular slabs. No crack in the square showed where the two pieces came apart to open up. If Anrik had not entered from that very door he might not even be able to distinguish it from the rest of the alumina plating on the walls. The effect was highly disorienting.

Focus, Anrik. There has to be...

An audible click went through the hallway. The small, single door swung away from Anrik, giving him an exit from the hallway. Anrik smiled, and felt pleased with himself. I did it!

Good job, moron! A voice eeriely similar to Jester’s sounded, now run along to your little death like a good moron!

Anrik swallowed and stood still on the spot.

I don’t want to die.

When the small door finished opening, Anrik could see the room ahead and he was shocked.

It was full of books.

Where is the alumina?

Spellbound by the sight of so many books, Anrik walked forward. As he looked around further he noticed there was more than books on the shelves. Many shelves held jars labeled in a precise hand on strips of white paper glued to the glass of the jar. Each seemed filled with some variant of grey powder. But these jars were few. The books were far, far more.

There must be a thousand of them!

Who has a thousand books in one room?

If there was ever a Faerie King in the South he might have. But that’s just a story Mom used to tell. These books are real!

Anrik ran a probing finger down the leather spine of a particularly thick and large volume. He wanted to pull it from the shelf but before he could he was distracted by another, even more odd-looking. Smaller, but with a reddish tint, long worn with age, tucked between two much larger volumes. Faint gold lettering ticked up the spine, too worn to be read, even the gold seemed more shadow than gleam. Anrik had to squint just to be certain they were letters at all, and not old scrollwork or some other decorative touch. Biting at his lip, fascinated by the volume, which was itself quite large despite being dwarfed by the two surrounding it, Anrik touched the spine.

“You were not granted permission to enter this chamber, Acolyte.” a piping, slash of a voice said.

Anrik whirled around, tripping over the hem of his robe as he did so and crashing to floor. His knee slammed into the cobbled stone and sent jolts of pain up his right leg, but he managed to not shout. As he pushed him up from a prone position Anrik caught the first glimpse of the lower half of a short, stubby man, thick ankles followed by worn knees and a tunic of frayed leather just above. When Anrik reached the face above the pair of exposed shoulders knotted with muscle, he could not make sense of what he saw.

Dad?

“No, Acolyte. I am not your father.” the man said before extending a hand to help Anrik to his feet.

“Lord Alumina?” Anrik said, bowing his head and in the process catching a glimpse of the gleaming chain of alumina around the man’s neck.

“Aye.” Alumina said. “But you may just call me Alumina. Everyone else does. The formalities are for the Mothers.”

Alumina reached out and dusted off Anrik’s shoulder, the man’s exceedingly rough hands surprising in their ability to touch softly.

“Why...” Anrik stuttered, still looking at the floor. He peeked upward, again shocked by how much this man looked like a wider, slightly taller version of Peremus Grinner. “Why am I here, Alumina? Are you going to burn me?”

Alumina made a chortling sound, deep in his throat, almost a cackle.

“Burn you? King Above! What are they teaching you foolish boys these days?” Alumina said as he turned away and walked toward a smallish desk and chair, neither of which seemed appropriate for such a bulky, rough-hewn man. Alumina sat in the chair with practiced motion, it groaned beneath his weight.

“The Father Church has not burned anyone in a century or more, Acolyte. The Mother Church, perhaps, still engages in such foolishness, but we learned long ago it served little purpose. There are many, many other things which light the fires better than the flesh of Men.”

Anrik had no response for this, but he did finally look directly into the eyes of the Lord Alumina. They were the same forceful brown of not just Peremus Grinner, but Anrik Grinner himself. He has my eyes.

When Anrik offered no response to Alumina’s comment about burning Alumina chuckled. “Still, it does serve our purposes to let such rumors remain. I simply thought you would have been better informed. Does your brother not teach you anything?”

Anrik could not resist responding to that. “My brother is an ass who can’t stand the sight of me.”

This made Alumina laugh even harder and with more force. “Well do I know the sting of that particular thorn, Acolyte. The hate of a brother can be a torture device or powder which propels the shot forward.”

“The what?” Anrik asked generally confused. The shot? What is that?

“In time, in time. Now. I am sure you wonder why you have been called here today. Clearly you assumed you would not leave this chamber as an Acolyte but instead as condemned man. In some ways that is quite accurate.”

Alumina paused, but only long enough for anxiety to send Anrik back to counting past Wednesdays with full moons. “You will never again be an Acolyte of this Church, Anrik Grinner. Nor will you ever be a Father among us.”

Anrik wanted to collapse into himself. He wasn’t going to be burned, but rather it seemed he would sent away, packed off back to his Mother and Father. Both of whom would likely slam the door in his face, perhaps with some regret in the case of his mother. Either way Anrik’s entire life plan was gone, his slow but forward momentum stalled and his trajectory now thoroughly uncertain

What will I do? Where will I go?

Next Chapter: Chapter 10 - Masaan