“Do you see that, idiot boy?”
“It’s night-time, momma.”
She cackled at that. “That’s right, fool child, its night time. And do you know what happens to little boys who go wandering out into the city at night?”
“They…they get lost?”
She slapped him, and he cried out as much from the surprise as the pain of it. She knelt down then, her eyes on level with his own, and he thought that she might hug him—she did, sometimes, when the drug was in her system, usually after an unexpected slap such as the one he’d just gotten. She didn’t hug him though, didn’t whisper that she was sorry, that it wasn’t his fault he’d been born an idiot, as she sometimes did. Instead, she grabbed his face in her hands, squeezing his cheeks so that her nails dug into them painfully. “Oh, yes boy, they get lost, and that’s the least of the things that happen to them. Maybe better to say that they come up missing. Either way, their families never see them again and that’s a fact. Maybe not such a bad thing for their mothers, but bad for the little boys, I can promise you that.”
“What happens to them, Momma?” he asked, his voice breathy and panicky, not just with pain, but with fear.
“Oh, many things,” she said, releasing him and rising, suddenly looking bored. She shrugged. “The lucky ones are killed and that’s the end of it, the end of them, but there aren’t many lucky ones. The others…things are done to those little boys that you cannot even imagine before they’re finally allowed to die.”
He’d studied her face with wide, frightened eyes, and even now, thinking of it, he found himself growing afraid all over again. “I won’t go out there, momma,” he’d said, “not in the night. Not ever. I promise.”
She leaned close again then, her breath soured and smoky. “And you won’t have to go out,” she said, “because if you ever steal my wine again, boy, I’ll throw you out there myself, and the kiddie fiddlers can have their way with you. Do you understand?”
“But I didn’t, Momma. I swear I didn’t,” he said, wanting, needing her to understand, the thought of being thrust out into that darkness where anyone, anything, could be waiting terrified him. She slapped him again, almost casually, before going back to her pipe, and she said nothing more about it, at least that night.
In the nights and years that followed, she would threaten him with it, sometimes, when he was stupid and did something wrong, and he always lived in fear that she would follow through on her promise. She never did, though, and he had managed to stay safely away from the darkness. At least until now.
Caleb found that he was moaning, a slow, desperate sound, and he couldn’t seem to make himself stop. He stared down the street and at the openings of the alleyways, and it seemed to him as if they grew darker even as he watched, their shadows lengthening, stretching out as if they would pull him into the waiting night.
He decided then that the switch was better, was a thousand times better than being out at night alone. He turned to go back into the tavern, actually had his hand on the door, when suddenly it flew open, and he stumbled backward, tripping and falling on his backside with a startled yelp. He looked up to see the man with the black scab staring down at him, a wide grin on his face. “Well, if it isn’t the idiot.” He snorted. “Look at this here, lads. Looky what I found.”
Caleb scooted away, heedless of the dirt that was getting on his only good pair of trousers, as three more men came out behind the scabbed man. “S-s-sorry, s-sirs,” Caleb said, barely able to get the words out past the stutter that often took over when he grew nervous or afraid.
The scabbed man threw back his head and roared in laughter. “Well,” he said, studying Caleb, “I’ll say this for that bastard, Alder, he knows how to train a dog, anyway. What are you goin’ to do, boy? Sit there all night in the road until your master lets you back in?”
Caleb glanced from one man to the other as they laughed. “I-I-I… s-sir,” he said, straining, his face turning red with the effort of getting the words out, “I…w-want to go…b-b-back. B-back inside.”
“Oh?” the man said, grinning. “Back inside, is it?” He shook his head, “Nah, not for you, lad. Not tonight. You see, you cost us our drinks now, didn’t you? Because of you, the ale we were gonna buy is soakin’ into the floor of this shitty little tavern even now. I think that you owe us for that don’t you?”
“O-owe you, sir?”
The scabbed man grinned. “That’s right. Now, boys,” he said, turning to look at the others, “what do you think this idiot here can do to pay us back for all the trouble he caused us?”
A thin man with a bent nose and crooked, black teeth, drew a cruel-looking knife from his waist, a hungry look in his eyes. “I think I’ll start by cutting his little stuttering tongue out, Darrin. Can I?”
The scabbed man rubbed a hand thoughtfully over his chin, seeming to consider, then he glanced back at Caleb. “That seems fair to me.”
The thin man with the bent nose started forward, and Caleb screamed, jerking to his feet and running toward the nearest alley. He heard the men laughing behind him, but he ran as fast as he could, ignoring the aches and pains that the switch had caused as he sprinted deeper into the darkness.
He wasn’t sure how long he’d been running—he’d never been good at keeping track of time. His mother had always told him it was his idiot mind that wasn’t able to remember things. What he was sure of though, was that there was a sharp, biting pain in his chest, and he felt like he couldn’t draw a breath. Still, he ran on, terrified of the men and terrified of the darkness both. He stumbled and fell more than once, but he only lurched to his feet and ran on. He might have very well kept going until he’d made it out of the city altogether, but he’d no sooner turned down another alleyway than he heard a scream from the other end and froze in place, his heart hammering in his chest.
At the far end of the alley, he could see what looked like three men standing over the prone form of another. The night was quiet, the only sound that of the men, and Caleb’s gasping, whooping breaths. He did his best to steady them, scared that the men would hear him and decide to beat him up instead, but they didn’t seem to notice him and that was good because try as he might, he couldn’t seem to get his feet to move.
“You ought not have cheated us and run out that way, Castor.”
“I didn’t…cheat,” the man on the ground gasped. “I just…knew.”
The standing man snorted. “Just knew, is it? What are you then, some sort of mind reader, is that it? If that’s all, then why’d you run?”
“Wasn’t…running…from you,” the prone man gasped, and even in the poor moonlight, Caleb could see what looked like blood coming out of his mouth. “The…man…in the cloak.”
The three men looked at each other, confused. “What man in a cloak? The fuck are you goin’ on about, Castor?”
“The…king,” the man said, and it was obvious that each word was agony, “he isn’t…it’s…obvious if…if you know.”
“Alright, I’m tired of listenin’ to his bullshit. Somebody shut him up.”
One of the other two men stepped forward, drawing a long blade. The wounded man tried to rise, but he seemed as if he could barely move the way Caleb sometimes felt after he’d done something wrong, and Alder punished him with the switch. He’d only managed to lift himself up to his hands and knees when the man jammed the blade into his side. Castor screamed. His attacker growled, giving the blade a jerk, and the wounded man’s cries abruptly grew silent.
“Check him for our coin,” The leader of the three said, “and be quick about it.”
Caleb watched as they rifled through the man’s pockets, too shocked to think to hide or run, and it was only dumb luck that saved him as the men turned and left the alley the other way. When they were gone, he waited several minutes, his heart hammering an unsteady beat in his chest. Then, slowly, he started forward, sure that at any moment they’d come back and see him, would hurt him the same way they’d hurt the man.
They didn’t though, and soon he was kneeling beside the man who did not move.
“Oh, m-mister,” he said, “t-they must have hurt you r-really bad.” He felt warmth on his knees and looked down to see that he knelt in a spreading pool of blood. “P-please, mister,” he said, shaking the man, “you have to wake up. You ha—” He cut off, falling backward with a scream as a bright light shot out of the man’s body. It floated in the air above Caleb, a blue orb trailing smoky tendrils of all the various shades of blue that somehow made it look as if it was in constant motion and, not knowing what else to do, Caleb screamed again.
“I really wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” came a voice, “there are some places where such screams will bring help, but this is not one of them. To those who live here, such screams are like the sounds of a wounded animal, the promise of an easy kill.”
Caleb cut off, gasping. He spun, looking for the owner of the voice, thinking the men must have come back after all, but there was no one there. He turned back to see that the blue orb was still floating in the air and he moaned, his arms breaking out in gooseflesh. He snapped his eyes shut, as he sometimes did when he’d had a bad dream, and shook his head. “No, you’re not really there. C-can’t be. Stupid, Caleb. Stupid,” he said, hitting himself in the head in a futile attempt to make his brain work.
“Of course I’m really here,” the voice said, “you’ve seen me, after all, haven’t you? There’s nothing worse than a man who refuses to believe the things he is seeing only because they do not fit with the reality he wish for himself.”
Caleb opened his eyes and saw that the orb was in the same place. “W-w-what…are you?”
“What am I?” the orb responded, swaying back and forth in the air. “That is a question not easily answered. Say, perhaps, that I am the success of a great failure. Perhaps the greatest failure of all time. I am the remnant of men attempting the impossible in an effort to fend off a reality that they found probable.”
Caleb blinked, rubbing his head where he was beginning to get a headache the way he sometimes did when he thought too hard. “I...I don’t understand.”
“We can talk about it later,” the orb said dismissively. “For now, you may call me Palendesh. And what do people call you?”
Caleb rose warily to his feet, keeping his eyes on the orb, not daring to even blink. “I…people call me idiot, mostly. Or stupid boy, sometimes. Other times, they call me words that I don’t understand.”
The orb stopped its swaying, and Caleb felt as if it were watching him. His stupid mind, again. Of course, the thing couldn’t watch him—it didn’t have any eyes. Though, it didn’t have a mouth either, but it was talking… He rubbed at his head again as the orb spoke; “No, that will not do, not at all. Tell me, what is your name?”
“C-Caleb,” he managed. “I…I think I need to lie down.”
“Very well, Caleb,” the orb responded, “but not here.”
“But what about the man?” he said. “I…I think he’s hurt.”
The orb bobbed up and down as if agreeing. “Do not worry for him, Caleb, for he is as hurt as he will ever be. Besides, the man was a poor choice, a gambler and a lecher and worse. Still, I suppose I cannot fault myself too much. Needs must and all that. Now, I do believe it’s time we left.”
“W-why?” Caleb asked, terrified that the creature was some demon—his mother had told him stories of such things when he’d been a child.
“Why?” the orb said, hovering closer to him, and Caleb winced as if expecting a blow. “Because you, dear Caleb, are currently standing over a man who is very d—hurt, and you just so happen to be covered in blood. It is unlikely that any guards should come—I calculate the odds at no greater than eleven percent—but intelligence is taking risks only when they are necessary and this one, at least, is not.”
“I-I’m sorry,” Caleb said, because he couldn’t think of what else to say.
“This is not a time for apologies, dear Caleb,” the orb said, “this is a time for haste.” Caleb started toward the orb then paused to glance once more back at the man. “D-do you think he’ll be okay?”
The orb hesitated, then finally spoke. “He will be as okay as any of us, in the end, dear Caleb.”
“C-Castor,” Caleb said, “they s-said his name was Castor.”
“And so it was,” the orb agreed, “though I called him ‘prison,’ as I do all men. Another in a long line of them and one that I am not sorry in the slightest to leave.”
“Prison?” Caleb said, “Like, the place the guards send you if you’re bad and don’t get bath water for your mom or have her pipe waiting when she gets home?”
“Ah…something like that, dear Caleb.”
“Am…am I a prison?”
The orb floated closer until it was only inches from his face, and Caleb could feel some sort of heat on his skin. “Yes, Caleb, you are. All men are prisons, their prisoners thought and reason, their jailers cruelty and willful ignorance. Still, prison though you might be, you appear as if you may yet be an agreeable one. Now, let us leave this place and quickly. The night draws ever onward to its conclusion, its only possible conclusion, but we need not share it, not yet. The wheel has been spun, the die has been cast, and the pieces begin their plodding movements across the board. Soon, very soon now, the final confrontation will be at hand, and we dear Caleb, will take our own place on the board, among the other pieces. But not yet, not now, for there are things we must learn first, the both of us. And so many, many things to do.”
Caleb gave one more glance at the man, Castor. “I’m sorry, C-Castor,” he said, “I hope you get better.” Then he turned and followed after the orb. “All that you s-said,” he managed, “I’m sorry, but I’m stupid. Dim-witted. I don’t understand what you meant.”
“You are neither stupid nor dim-witted, Caleb,” the orb said in a slightly scolding tone, “or, at least, no more so than all the rest. No, they are dumber still, for in their madness they see reason, and in their posturing they claim logic. As for not understanding,” it continued, beginning to float down the alley, “do not fret. You will understand in time. You will understand much in time.”
CHAPTER
NINE
The attack came fast, but Adina managed to get her sword up in time, blocking the blade with her own and stopping it. Their blades locked and, for a moment, she and her opponent were at an impasse, each pushing against the other. But no matter how hard she tried, he was the stronger, and in a sudden burst of power he pushed her sword wide. She grunted, pivoting in an effort to get her blade back around, but when she turned she found the tip of a sword at her throat. “Damn,” she hissed, but she backed away, nodding her head in acknowledgment.
Captain Brandon Gant smiled, letting his blade fall to his side. “You really are getting better, Princess. Much. There are many soldiers in the army who would be hard pressed to stand against you, let alone win. Your father’s swordmaster did well in teaching you.”
“Not well enough,” she muttered, taking the opportunity to catch her breath. “What could I have done? I’m just not as strong as you, Brandon.”
The older man smiled. “Perhaps not, Princess, but then you will not be as strong as most of those you face.” He held up his hand. “That is no attack on your person, I assure you, only a statement of fact. Women are, in general, not as strong as men, that’s all. The gods saw fit to make it so, do not ask me why. Still, they also saw fit to grant women their own gifts.”
“If the next thing out of your mouth is something about cooking or cleaning,” Adina said, arching an eyebrow underneath her helmet, “then you might be surprised how much strength a woman can summon, when she has a need.”
The grizzled captain laughed at that. “No, no, princess, I wouldn’t dream of it. What I meant to say is that while men may be stronger, it is often women who are faster. Your lighter weight means that you can turn quicker, can already be gone when your opponent’s strike falls. You are smaller—this means
you’re weaker, yes, but it also means you make a more difficult target. Your opponent might be a rock, armed and armored, built for strength, but you are the wind, swift on your feet, always forcing him to try to catch up. And in a battle between the wind and the stones, Princess, the wind wins every time. You need only look at the mountains, at the wounds thousands of years of wind have left them, to know the truth of it.”
Adina nodded slowly. “Speed then. Not strength.”
“Yes,” the captain said, “you are fast, so be fast. Strength means little, if your opponent never lands a blow. Your gift is speed, so use it. And when you’re done,” he said, favoring her with a grin that made his face appear almost boyish, “Perhaps you might cook us all a good meal.”
Adina found that she was smiling despite herself. “Cook your own damn meal,” she said, lifting her sword. “Now, come on, old man. Let’s go again.”
“Old man, is it?” a voice said behind her. “‘Damn,’ is it? Are these truly the words of a princess that I’m hearing? I’m beginning to think that Silent is rubbing off on you, for better or worse. Next I know you’ll be stalking around grumbling and waving your sword at anyone who comes too close.”
Adina turned to see May standing a short distance away, the club owner smiling widely, her hair seeming to blaze in the early morning sun. “May,” she said, “what are you doing here?”
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