The Empire of Ytilaer

Chapter Nine - The Clockmaker

  The air inside of the store was dank and musty – a stark contrast to the typical scents that reigned on the island of Ecnamor (light perfumes of citrus, cedar, rose and hyacinth). Espen glanced around him, surprised at the dark and dreary light, and noticed a pile of broken clocks laying at the far end of the store. Working clocks were ticking upon all the walls, and grandfather clocks stood in a row on the other end. In a back corner, a black and white spotted cat lay sleeping upon a worn blanket amidst a small section filled with sundials.

  "Hello?" Espen inquired, glancing at the lengthening shadows and at the small window on the wall of the shop near the broken clocks. "Is anyone here?"

  There was no answer, and therefore, the king felt emboldened to look around the store a bit, pausing to study some intricate clock hands, jeweled sundials, and the cat sleeping peacefully upon her makeshift bed. He suddenly realized that there was a second floor to this shop, for, above his head, there was a large wooden balcony spanning the longest wall, with an open door beyond that.

  "Yes, that would be my living quarters," a voice spoke up from behind Espen.

  With a gasp, the king turned around, and laid eyes on a tall, striking man with silver-white hair framed in a small door next to the pile of sundials. His leather jerkin was stained with oil and dusted with wood shavings, although his long hair looked completely spotless.

  "You are King Estevan, am I correct?" he inquired, his ice-blue eyes showing no emotion as he stared intently at his visitor.

  "Correct," Espen responded, standing up taller so as to make himself look more kingly. For, this man carried an air with him that made the king feel a deep desire to take a few steps backwards.

  The clockmaker regarded the king for a moment before thrusting out a smooth, pale hand. "Vassil Alexander-Demitrius La Riviere," he introduced.

  Espen's eyes widened as he took the man's hand. "La Riviere?" he breathed. "Are you... would you happen to be the same man that gave Tarquin Hollingberry the amulet?"

  Vassil's mouth broke into a smile for a split second before resuming its unidimensional position. "That would be me."

  "Please, I hope my intrusion isn't a burden, Mr. La Riviere. It's just that-"

  "The war raging outside my doorstep. I am perfectly aware," the clockmaker answered, striding over to a large bin of tools to free his pockets of wrenches, hammers, and screwdrivers. He brushed his hands upon his olive green pants and turned his attention back to the king. "May I relieve your thirst with a drink, Your Highness?"

  "Oh, no, I'm all right," the king replied, marveling at the strange appearance of this man.

  For although his hair was silver-white and hung down to his waist, his complexion was flawless – no wrinkles, no blemishes, and he also seemed quite physically fit.

  Finally, the king couldn't help himself, but blurt the question which every adult loathes to hear: "How old are you?"

  Once again, the flash of a smile appeared on Vassil's face. "Fifty-three and a quarter," he replied, sitting down in the nearest armchair and beckoning Espen into the one beside it.

  The king's eyes widened. "You look so young," he commented, lowering himself into the chair.

  "Everyone in Ecnamor retains their physical beauty until they die. And even if one were to dig up their corpse from the grave, I would not be surprised if their skeleton was also beautiful. We are a vain, appearance-centric island."