Kean felt old. This was not surprising; when a man got to be of a certain age, these thoughts were only natural. A man began to think of the friends and family that no longer walked beside him, began to wonder how much further his own road would continue on. Kean had reached this age some millennia ago. Now he just felt...old. Not that his face or body gave any indication of his years; this had ceased to age when he had been but twenty-eight. His brown hair showed no signs of grey although it did show signs of purple and green as was the custom among the crowds he mingled in.
Kean paused his scribing mid sentence and, with a sigh, put down his pen and tried to shake the cramps from his hand. Perhaps his friends were right. Still, the computers and high technology did not feel as personal, as real as a pen. And neither did the stories. On a screen the letters were blocky, impersonal things – symbols with no true character. In script, the stories became alive with secrets. There was a certain magic to them – the only magic he could find anymore and he clung to it; the dig of the pen into the paper, the thickness of the ink in one place, the sloppy, hasty writing in another added depths that people nowadays….
People nowadays. Kean let out a short bark of laughter. People nowadays were the problem. They had become like those words on screen – plain, blocky things, one the same as the next. He sighed at his dark mood and shook his head; when thoughts like these began to take shape, there was only one remedy that would suffice.
Kean pushed back his chair and reached for a garish jacket. As he pocketed the keys to his small condo, a sardonic smile passed his lips. The late night streets of San Francisco were just the place to find a good story. And a good story was just what he needed.
Hours later, Kean found himself in a dingy karaoke bar in lower San Francisco. He dismissed face after face and song after song. He could read their stories immediately and had heard them too many times to find them interesting. A broken heart, an attempt to find oneself or to loose oneself, another who had just received a promotion at work, these he dismissed. He needed, craved something new. Something worth scribing into his journals. Something worth recording.
There was a lull after a particularly screechy young woman. Kean took the opportunity to order another drink at the bar. He had just taken his glass in hand when a loud crash from the stage behind him caused him to slosh the cheap drink onto his shoe. Cursing, he looked to the stage and was surprised to see a group of youths setting up speakers and related musical gear. Kean turned to the bartender and said, “Thought this was a karaoke bar?”
The bartender glanced at the stage and shrugged. “It is except for them. The bass is the son of the guy who owns the place. Lets them play here on weekends for an hour or two before close. They play for tips.” She leaned over the bar and in a mock conspiratorial whisper said, “I’d leave now if I were you.” Kean looked around and saw that, while several people were doing just that, most of the crowd was staying put. He made a non committal noise to the bartender and returned to his table.
The noise when it started was horrendous. Although Kean had long ago lost those special abilities that allowed him to twist a man’s emotions with a note, his ears had never lost their sensitivity to sound. He considered the sound that this band produced to be nothing short of an assault on his ears; not the normal polite kind that happens in a dark alley but the kind that involves tanks and missiles. As he tried to shield his ears he noticed that his foot was tapping; this invasion came with beat.
Doing his best to ignore the mortars of notes blasting against his eardrums, Kean focused his attention on the drummer. His appearance was nothing unusual; probably early twenties he looked exactly as one would expect a young punk drummer to look.
But there was an intensity in his play that was unusual in that part of town or with that class of band. He was clearly meant for larger venues. Larger lights. Crowds shouting his name. Girls falling at his feet. Kean had once had those things and knew the kind of talent it took to get them.
At his age, few things peaked his interest anymore but the incongruity here did. He waited patiently for the end of the show and approached the young drummer.
“Great set.”
The young man slouched in a chair, one arm slung across its back. He raised a shot glass in acknowledgement and then tossed it back. The glass thudded against the table as he set it down. “Thanks.”
Kean considered his next words carefully. Once upon a time talent like this had been, while not exactly common, more widespread. Suppressing a sigh, he regretted once again that he lacked the patience to train a skill he had once had through other means. He hated to see true skill like this go to waste and he intended to see that it didn’t. In as casual a tone as he could manage Kean said, “I could get you a better gig than this. More money. Fame. Girls. I know some people.”
The boy shook his head.
“Come on. A boy your age should be chomping at the bit. Your name in lights and all.”
“I like it here. It pays enough.”
Something sparked inside of Kean. A puzzle. He had always been a sucker for a good puzzle. He let a bit of polite confusion into his voice, “It doesn’t pay at all.” He paused and continued, “Maybe you don’t think I’m serious; I’m not talking one record deal. I’m talking lots. We’ll have to hook you up with a real band, of course, not the guys you were playing with tonight.”
The drummer shook his head. “I like the guys.”
Kean pushed on. “They couldn’t find a note if it were sent in the mail. They’re weekend warriors. You’re the real thing. I know. I make it my business to know.”
The boy smiled politely. “I don’t want fame. I don’t want money. I don’t want the girls.”
Keen nearly laughed out loud; this kid wasn’t just a puzzle, he was a story. Something new something he couldn’t read at first glance. He considered again. He could offer this kid a lot of things and there was much he would give up for a good story. “What do you want? I’ll get it for you…?”
“Adam. And I don’t want anything.”
Kean paused. Of all the things he knew, and given his age he knew quite a few things, there were two facts he found to be absolute and unyielding; everyone wants something and everyone has a price. The first made his life bearable; it was that driving desire inherent in all name givers that gave him his stories, and the second made those stories accessible. Some stories, however, were more expensive than others. “Adam, everyone wants something.”
The boy grinned. Something about that grin caused Kean to pause. He’d seen it before and his subconscious was not associating it with good things. “You can’t give me what I want.”
A challenge. Kean pushed his unease aside to be analyzed later. “I can get you anything.” He paused and continued carefully and in a softer voice, “If it’s a legal matter…“
Adam waved his hand dismissively. “No. Look, friend, you’re wasting your time and mine. I’m glad you enjoyed the show. Now please go away.”
Kean leaned over and placed his hands flat on the table. “I didn’t say that I enjoyed the show. I said that I enjoyed your playing.” He left it at that.
The next day he did a bit of digging. Adam Khalid. Came into town about a year ago, asked around, and found a band. No one knew anything about his past except that he claimed to come from “back east.” He had also cultivated a reputation as an affable charmer whose unthinking impulsiveness occasionally got him into trouble, the type of
wannabe punker or dreamer who would be working the same dives in his 40’s with an extra fifty pounds and no hair. But despite rumor and despite appearances, Kean’s instinct for a story told him that wasn’t what this really was.
Kean went back. Several times. He hung in the back and listened to the sets. Adam would nod at Kean and Kean would nod back. After the shows Adam usually drowned himself in alcohol. Months passed before Kean approached they boy again.
“I can get you a good agent. You’re wasted here.”
“Not yet but I will be in a moment.”
Kean sighed, the price on this one would be very high. Still, it was time for him to put a few cards on the table. “You said that I couldn’t get you what you wanted. What if I promised that I could? Would you sign?” Kean referred to it as his devil’s deal.
Adam closed his eyes and Kean saw a look that he hadn’t seen in a long time. Not in these parts. Not in these days. In a voice soft enough that Kean barely caught the words, Adam said, “Can you give me the past?”
Kean shrugged, probably not but there were a few nodes that flared occasionally so who knew? “You’d be surprised. Give me specifics and I’ll see.”
The boy shook his head. “No. I’m done with that part of my life. I’m not that person.” Adam tossed back the rest of his drink and then held the shot glass in front of his eye, letting its contours fragment the world around him. “I was never that person.” He stood and weaved a bit.
“You’re drunk.”
“Not a bit.”
Kean looked at the number of shot glasses scattered on the table before him. “You are. Let me help you home. This is not a good neighborhood to be walking through while inebriated.” He paused, “Better yet, let me take you to my place. It’s clean at least.”
“Not a bit. You wouldn’t believe what I can hold.” Adam swayed again, “I drunk a flaming bird once. It was Sam’s idea of a joke.” His face broke and he brushed a hand over his eyes. “Gods how I miss him. Him and his asinine jokes.”
Kean took his arm and led him out to his car. “I’ve never heard of that mix.”
“Huh?”
“A flaming bird.” Kean buckled the boy in securely and closed the door. By the time he had reached the driver’s side he had missed most of Adam’s reply.
“…with fat. So you can see why no one in their right mind would want to drink it.”
They were a few minutes away from the condo when Adam added, “Except for Sam, of course. On account of his orc stomach.”
Kean’s spine went cold. The boy was drunk. Fantasy and the like were big right now. Completely coincidental. People didn’t know better. They didn’t know how hard it was to pretend. To smile and nod or to look on with a slight air of confusion. He could do nothing more than bide his time. They would learn. And soon. Kean could feel it coming back. Or at least he could feel the anticipation that something big was coming. Like the feeling that pricked at the nape of his neck moments before a lighting storm. It had him on edge.
Still, something about this guy made him want to dig. “Orc?”
Adam blinked and paused for a long moment. Too long? “Dungeons and dragons. Orcs. Pig looking things.”
“You’re a gamer, then?”
He waved expansively, “We all play the game whether we want to or not. We all play the damned game.” The boy sunk lower in his seat.
“Bit cynical.”
“You have no idea.”
Kean parked the car and helped him out and up the stairs to his condo. “Your music isn’t cynical.”
“I hit a box with a stick. How can you tell?”
Kean wanted to say because it is wild, frantic, and full of pain yet still an affirmation of joy. I can hear it in the beat and I can hear it in between the beat. But instead he said, “You can have my bed, I’ll take the couch.”
“I won’t sign.” He crumpled into the couch and shouted, “I don’t want to be in your damned play, Sam!”
Kean slept in late the next day figuring that Adam would need to sleep off last night’s binge. He was surprised to find the boy in his den looking through his rather esoteric book collection.
Adam fingered the spine of an older volume. “A lot of stuff about magic.”
“Yes.”
He turned to face Kean. His eyes were bloodshot. “Complete load of bunk.”
“Yes.”
“Then why collect it?”
“It amuses me. As much as anything does nowadays.”
“Is that it?”
“What?”
He sat on the edge of Kean’s desk. “This fascination with me; I amuse you in some way?”
“You are a puzzle and a story. I can’t abide a puzzle and am a collector of the later.”
Adam cracked that odd smile again, the one that sent warning signals through Kean’s nerves. “I’m afraid that I am merely a man who wishes to protect his privacy and nothing more.”
“I doubt that.” Kean paused. “If I might ask, how did you come by that unusual surname?”
“It’s not unusual.”
“It is from someone who obviously bears no Arabic blood.”
“Isn’t this the melting pot nation?”
“You don’t exactly fit the stereotype you try to portray, either.”
“And what stereotype is that?”
Drummer. Playboy. Trouble. Light hearted and somewhat flippant attitude. But it didn’t fit; Kean could see the fire in the eyes of the pale drummer. Could hear the potential for Adam Khalid’s voice to turn from light and gently mocking to something far more hard and commanding.
Oh dear.
In his many, many years of wandering, Kean had made a study of languages. In fact, he could be said to be something of a genius with languages. And now, one of the little details that had been niggling in the back of Kean’s mind for some time finally came to the fore. Kean cleared his throat and tried to push the thought back. A coincidence, surely. Still...
He tried to affect a posture of nonchalance. “Incidentally, did you know that your name is synonymous with earth? Although I have also seen it written as son of earth.”
The boy stiffened. “So?”
“A common enough name. But your last name isn’t. Khalid – immortal or eternal. Rather poetic, don’t you think? The immortal son of the earth?”
“And your name. Is it as poetic?”
“Mine?” Kean waved a hand in dismissal. “Unfortunately not.” Realizing that he was not getting the rise he had hoped for, he decided to lay all his cards out and hope he was playing the right game. “I’m really better with titles, you know. Hobby to pass the time. For instance, I once heard of a fellow with quite a list.” He began to tick them off. “Killer of nations. Defiler of temples. Destruction incarnate. The unstoppable madness. Freer of Death. Destroyer –“
The interruption came as an urgent whisper, “Don’t say it –“
“Destroyer of peoples. The Chetshenya.” Kean paused and then, “I was there, I saw you die.”
“Who are you?” Adam’s eyes were wide, his fists clenched.
“How is it that you are still alive?”
The boy shrugged, defeated, and then looked up with haunted eyes. “It doesn’t matter. It was a long time ago. No one remembers.”
“There are still some who do.”
“Fine.” He stood up.
“Where are you going?”
“Out. Away.”
“No. We know. We’ll find you again.”
His hand on the door, he whipped back around. “And do what? Kill me? Torture me?” He laughed. “Go ahead. You think it hasn’t been done before? That they never found me? That’s rich.” He yanked the door open and stormed out of the den. Kean followed. This wasn’t going right. “I’ve had enough. One death, two deaths, a thousand; how many is enough? Why won’t you leave me alone?”
“Then tell me your side.”
The youth paused. He turned. “What?”
Kean swallowed hard. “Your story. Tell me your side.”
“Why?”
Kean shrugged. “Why not? What have you to loose? As you said, no one remembers but for a small few.” He gave the boy a small half smile.
“I’ve told it. And I don’t,” he made a slashing motion with his arm, “intend to tell it again.
“But they don’t listen,” Kean guessed the thought in the boy’s mind.
“Because of those damned prophesies.”
“Yes.”
Adam sighed. He tapped his foot. “Ok.” He pointed to the sofa. “Sit.” Kean sat. Adam moved to stand in front of the fireplace. As he did, his entire demeanor changed from cutting edge punk drummer to something larger. His steps came with balanced grace and his voice echoed with strength through the condo. He was the Chetshenya.
This is his story. The other side of the truth.
“Back then I was still searching. I knew who I was in the sense that I knew who I had decided to be and what I wanted from life. That in itself is a rare thing, even today. Especially today. But I did not know why I was; what was the purpose of my birth? I would not have minded this except for the fact that I knew that this mysterious purpose had not been fulfilled and that there were powerful beings working to see that purpose fulfilled.
“If it hadn’t been for those prophesies.
“All I knew is that whatever happened, someone wanted me to create unspeakable horrors.” A brief smile passed over his face. “Pun unintended.
“I searched. I studied. I found out a few things but those things only lead to more questions. Did you know that I am half dragon? Most of the Wagoneers had dragon blood. An interesting coincidence, don’t you think?” He shook his head. “At any rate, I finally began on a path that would lead me to all the answers I had been searching for.
“There are a number of things that I cannot tell you because they are not my secrets to tell. Suffice it to say that my egg was stolen from Cathay and brought to Barsaive. I was raised among the Pale Ones under the watchful eye of Earthroot, their king. Most of the prophesies originated with him. Him and other dragons who wanted to get their hand in the pie.
“They all had plans. I knew that. It was the scope that I underestimated. It took me a long time and much study. Did you know I became a wizard expressly for that purpose? I found my answers in an arcane piece of dragon lore.
“You raise your eyebrows. I tell you, obtaining this lore was not easy and is an entire story in itself; it came with quite a price.
“At any rate, the lore. It seems that they too had prophesies involving an albino half dragon. That he would lead one of the dragons into godhood. A draconic Passion, can you imagine? So they played their games with me. The thing is, the funny thing is, none of them knew how I would do it; they had no idea how to bring this thing about. They planned they schemed they manipulated and they had no idea what they were doing.
“You can imagine my thoughts when I found this out.
“Whether you believe me or not, I never wanted to be the Chetshenya. I did not want to be the destroyer of peoples. I wanted simply to be myself and whatever that brought with it. But I couldn’t be that person. I had to be innocuous. A pretender. Someone with little wisdom and no foresight; someone safe.
“Don’t get me wrong, initially I was that naïve person. But I was young. As with all name-givers, experiences molded and shaped me and lent me wisdom.” He smiled. “Most of this occurred during my long search to discover my true nature. In this, the dragons were right to not hand feed me all the answers. What that early Chet would have done with such knowledge I have no idea.
“Regardless of this, I had the knowledge now. So ironic. In the end it didn’t matter.
“Did you know about the other worlds that we had access to? We never thought. It was in front of us but we never thought.
“If we had access to these other worlds and their riches and knowledge, why would we assume that the horrors would not? Or maybe we thought that it wouldn’t matter. Well they did. And they found new knowledge. Knowledge that would let them come back even in the low mana field.
“When we discovered this, we didn’t tell anyone. Can you imagine the panic? So recently out of the kaers… only this time even the kaers wouldn’t be enough. We had to find a way to stop them.
“Samwise and I went to the world where they had found this knowledge in hopes that we could find a way to counteract it. You have no idea. We found a civilization of techno blood mages. They had formed alliances with the horrors. The mages were outfitting the horrors with their gadgets and gismos and supplying them with the knowledge necessary to operate them. Great machines that would allow them to create rifts directly onto our world. Machines that could distill magic from the blood of life and thus give the horrors what they needed to survive on our world.
“To make a long story short, the two of us managed to find a way to counter their blood machines. We fled back to our own world. We nearly died.” He smiled at an inner memory. “I was brought back to health by…well, never mind.”
His demeanor shifted; his eyes became haunted. “That we had found a means to counter the horrors at all was amazing. But the method. We took our news to a few of the dragons hoping that they could offer a counter solution or a modification. There was nothing. The machine that we had to build was monstrous, an abomination. But we had to build it. We lacked the time and the knowledge for anything else. A few horrors had already begun their rampage. Samwise and Ashley took on the task of destroying these as quickly and as quietly as possible while Nephran and I began constructing our salvation.
“We built frantically. Soon we had the machine constructed but it lacked the activating ingredient. Blood. Vast, unimaginable amounts of name-giver blood.
“I did the only thing I could think of. I cashed in on my name. I became the Chetshenya. I gathered Barsaive beneath my control and pointed them at the Therans. And then the other nations, one after another. I couldn’t even lessen the devastation of the battles; it would have been antithetical. We soaked the lands with blood. I took my armies all across the planet. I saw lands I had never heard of, peoples I had never met and destroyed them. It was necessary to the machine; it could only protect those lands that had been saturated by the blood of its people. I did what I could to leave governments intact behind me. Not enough so that they could counter my campaign but enough that they could try to perform vital services and aid for those I left behind. The best thing I could do was to strike hard and fast and then leave. Like a plague.
“I was ruthless, I had to be. If we left even one hole…
“Of course, it took time. Too much time. They came anyway. The other Wagoneers did what they could to halt them and to protect our machine. They allied with the dragons and fought them tooth and nail. I severed my connections with the Wagoneers. It wouldn’t do for us to remain connected; I had to be the villain and they the heroes. They couldn’t have done what needed to be done otherwise. Nor could I.”
Adam paused for a long moment before continuing on. “We forgot. At least I forgot. I doubt the others did; they probably refrained from reminding me because they knew that it would be too much. What I was doing was already bad enough.
“I had forgotten about Death.
“It was never my intention to free him. The others saw the risk and decided it was worth the gamble. They lost. We all lost. We had stopped the horrors at the cost of freeing that thing that had driven Passions mad.
“I wasn’t finished yet with my path of destruction when I heard the news. I had to continue on. It was up to the others to do what they could to fight. I had to finish. I had to. But in so doing I helped Death. We met. He welcomed me into his folds. I said nothing; I needed his help to finish what I had started. He knew it. I knew it. So we allied.”
The two fell into silence as they thought back on those dark days.
“The others were moderately successful. With the aid of the other Passions and their dragon allies they managed to curb the worst of Death’s work.
“At last the day came when my pogrom of destruction had reached its end; I had bloodied the grounds of every land and nation on this world. Finally, I could turn my attention elsewhere. I re-allied with my old companions. Those who were still alive. Ashley had died a few years earlier when the horrors had made a concerted strike against the machine. By draining her blood into the machine, she gave Nephran enough of a magical boost to destroy the horrors.
“Death knew that when I had finally reached my goal I would turn against him. But what did he care? I was but a mortal, powerful as I had grown. True, while I worked for him he had granted me a stay from death; I was unkillable. But he knew the tides would turn and it would be a simple matter to revoke his blessing. The others, with great aid, had managed to keep our true plans a secret.
“The time had come for me to fulfill the other half of my destiny.
“You see, we didn’t know how to protect the machine. Eventually, in the fullness of time, something would give. A part would wear out. Sabotage. Theft. Any one of a number of things.
“So the dragons performed their ritual magic. The passions lent their aid. They merged me with the machine. I became the machine. I was the only one who could; because of Death’s aid, however temporary he intended it to be, I was the only one that wouldn’t die in the process.
“The second reason behind this decision is that Nephran had calculated that such a blending would release a brief flash of unimaginable power.
“The trouble we had been having was the same one the Passions had at the original binding; Death was too strong. It took all the Passions and was barely enough. What we needed to rebind death was more Passions fighting against him. Four dragons were chosen.
“I directed that brief flash of freed energy. I took the magic distilled down from the deaths of millions of name-givers combined with the power of dragons and the grace of the Passions and created four new passions.
“The battle was struck. Death was bound. I did, in truth, die. But he couldn’t hold me. I am the strength and might of the people of this world. I am the hopes and dreams and the will of millions of name-givers. Death cannot hold me.”
He stepped closer and Kean felt the intensity of his gaze..
“I am still that thing that I was made to be. I am still that thing which holds the horrors at bay. So do what you want. Tell your friends. Kill me. Torture me. It doesn’t matter; I am deathless. I will return.”
He finished. Kean could do nothing but sit, incredulous. Was it true? Or was it simply another story told by the master of story tellers? He swallowed hard, “The passions, which dragons where they?”
Chet smiled. It was not a nice smile. “That was my best jest of all. Only one of those was a full dragon. And not any of the dragons they chose. In the end it was my power and my choice. The ones I ascended? Earthroot, the only father I knew. He raised me in the guise of a t’srkang and when I needed a kick to jump start me on my path he gave me the impetus to do so. He alone among the dragons gave me what knowledge he could, when he could. The others? Who else? Nephran, Samwise, and Ashley.”
“But you said Ashley was dead?”
He smiled again and shivers ran down my spine. “She was.” He stood back and Kean could almost see the façade drop back onto his shoulders. “So you see, I too, have a few friends in high places.”
Later, Kean sat at his desk idly doodling on his writing tablet, debating what, if anything to report. From his own accounting Adam was an abomination, a killer on unspeakable terms, and the freer of Death. But he also had a nobility of purpose far beyond Kean’s scope to judge.
With the moon low in the sky and the eastern horizon turning grey, Kean decided on a few simple words. Just enough to remember.
I don’t believe in destiny, preordination, fate or what have you and I know that Chet feels the same. But I do know this, that Chet chose his actions. He could have done otherwise. Would doing nothing have been better?
If there is a God as the people of today believe, perhaps one day he will come to stand before Him and perhaps He will know how to balance such a life.
Or, if Chet is right, perhaps he and God will never have the opportunity to meet.