Duke Myzan looked down at the farmer, whose face was now bright blue in the light from the stained glass window, giving him the look of a startled merman. He then turned his attention to the adolescent king who was slouched back in the throne still sniggering at the farmer’s azure complexion.
‘Perhaps we should listen to what Bram has to say, Your Majesty’ he said sternly.
The king rolled his eyes, irked that his uncle did not see the funny side.
‘Very well, what is it?’
‘It’s my orange groves, Majesty,’ the farmer explained. ‘Someone is sneaking into them at night and stealing my oranges. I’ve tried setting traps, but whoever’s taking the oranges manages to avoid them. I’ve even kept watch over the groves myself at night with my dogs, but I can’t catch them and the dogs hear nothing, they don’t even pick up a scent.’
The young king stared at the farmer in disbelief for a few seconds.
‘Oranges? You came to see me because someone is stealing a few oranges from you?’ He covered his eyes with his hand and slowly shook his head in bewilderment.
‘They’re my livelihood, Majesty,’ the farmer protested, wringing his hands.
‘And what exactly would you like me to do, Farmer Tenic?’ the king enquired with sarcastic concern, his short patience already wearing thin.
Dropping his gaze to the ground and shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other, the farmer mumbled, ‘Perhaps if you could get some of the royal guards to watch over…’
Bram Tenic was not an educated man, he was a third generation farmer from a line of orange-growers, but he was intelligent enough to know when a conversation was going badly by the look on the other person’s face.
‘Did you just tell me that you wanted members of the royal guard to watch over your oranges?’ the king’s voice rose as his sentence progressed, and he sat bolt upright.
‘Perhaps some gold would compensate Farmer Tenic for his stolen oranges?’ the king’s uncle interrupted.
‘Fine, give him ten gold pieces,’ said the king as he slumped back down on his throne.
‘Ten, Majesty?’
King Teagar and his uncle had a code. In situations where money was involved, the comment ‘Ten, Majesty’ meant that he had offered too much money, whereas ‘Ten, Highness’ was an indication that too little money had been offered.
‘Yes, you’re right. They’re only a few oranges, give him five gold pieces. Now be gone with you, Bram Tenic, and don’t be coming back here looking for more money. Keep a closer eye on your orange groves.’
The farmer bowed his head and scurried backwards towards the exit muttering a combination of ‘thank you’s and ‘bless the king’s.
‘How many more?’ asked the king, wearily.
Duke Myzan thumbed through the pages of the book.
‘Another fourteen, Majesty.’
The king sighed loudly.
‘Fine, get the next one in.’
The king’s adviser signalled to the guard at the back of the room who once again opened one of the doors and ushered in the next two people in line.
The men, one with a blood-stained striped apron and the other, judging by his muddy clothes and ruddy complexion, another farmer, approached the steps leading up to the throne.
‘And your names are?’
Just as the burly, barrel-chested man in the apron was about to speak, there was a loud, heavy knock on one of the doors.
The two men standing before the king turned to see who had interrupted the proceedings. A messenger knight dressed in half-plate armour, complete with a green cloak and a tabard with the royal crest emblazoned on it, entered the room and marched to the marble steps leading to the throne. He dropped to one knee and bowed before his king.
The king leaned forward in anticipation.
‘Sir Dargan, what news have you?’
‘I have it, Majesty. It was exactly where you sent me,’ the knight replied and produced a package from under his cloak.
Wrapped in dark red velvet and tied with stained white cord, the object was thick and heavy.
The king stood up and descended the five marble steps to the royal messenger. The knight bowed his head once more and presented the package to the king.
‘You have excelled yourself, Sir Dargan, and the realm owes you a great debt. The risks you have taken in the recovery of this artefact will not be forgotten.’
The knight rose to his feet, stood to attention and put a clenched fist to his chest.
‘Majesty.’
He turned and strode away.
The king, eyes fixed on the item he was holding, walked back up the marble steps and past his adviser to a stone doorway behind his throne.
‘Majesty?’ Duke Myzan asked, his hand outstretched in the direction of the two men at the bottom of the steps who were waiting to have their case heard.
‘Deal with it,’ said the king, as he moved towards the doorway.
The king’s adviser turned his attention to the butcher and the pig farmer.
‘And your names are?’
As the king opened the door and slipped into a narrow corridor he could hear the men pleading their case to his uncle.
King Teagar had no interest in listening to the petty squabbles of the people of Yavalon; in truth, he had no interest in being king. It was a title that had been thrust upon him years ago when his father had been slain on the battlefield and one he had never become fully comfortable with. His uncle had aided him and tried to shape him into being an effective ruler, but he craved action and adventure, not deciding if ‘promised payment rashers’ were cut too thin.
Walking swiftly through the corridors of the palace, the king came to an iron-bound door engraved with runes and glyphs. The handle mechanism creaked as it opened. Stepping through the intricately carved granite doorway, the king entered a large library filled from floor to ceiling dark wooden bookcases housing thousands of books.
Manuscripts were piled on shelves and ancient scrolls lay unravelled in glass cases, all detailing historical events concerning the realm of Mantaras and the other Northern Realms. As the king made his way through the vast library, sunlight from the tall narrow windows illuminated the green velvet curtains and the priceless tapestries that adorned its walls.
He stopped at a glass case in the corner of the library that contained a battle-damaged helm and a pair of gauntlets sitting on a purple velvet cushion. Teagar looked around him and, sure that no one was watching, reached behind the case and pulled a lever.
The silence of the library was broken by the sound of stone grinding on stone as the bookshelves behind the glass case inched backwards and slid to one side, revealing a staircase spiralling down into darkness. Holding the parcel tightly to his chest the young king stepped forward and carefully began to descend the stairs. Hearing a click when he reached the third stone step, the king looked back to see the secret door resetting itself. As the bookcase slid back into its original position the glimmer of light from the library was extinguished.
Walking down the spiral staircase in pitch-darkness, the king clung to the outer railing knowing that the steps were wider the closer he got to the wall. It was a staircase he had traversed many times and he knew just how dangerous it could be. Round the king walked, getting deeper into the ground until he felt the end of the rail. He stopped and used his foot to find the last step.
A faint horizontal line of light from the gap along the bottom of a door up ahead, told him he was close. One more step down and then three paces forward. Counting them under his breath he made his way to the light.
He knocked three times on the door and stood waiting, tapping his foot. The door opened and light spilled into the bottom of the stairwell. He shielded his eyes, temporarily blinded until they adjusted to the brightness. The king saw the silhouette of a tall, slender woman
standing in the doorway.
The voice was deep and well-modulated. ‘What kept you?’ Santhom asked.
The king walked into the underground room and closed the door behind him. The dwelling was spacious and lit by several candelabra, giving the rooms an air of grandeur. An elegant four-poster bed sat in the corner next to a beautifully carved table that served for eating and reading. A full-length mirror, bookshelves crammed with books and maps and charts that plotted the movement of the sun and phases of the moon lined the walls.
‘I have it, Santhom. The knight that I sent found it,’ the king said, handing over the parcel.
‘Do not joke, Teagar.’ Santhom narrowed her eyes.
‘It’s no joke, Santhom.’
‘Where did he find it?’ she asked, turning the carefully wrapped object in her hands.
‘Sir Dargan found it in Tarantum.’
‘Tarantum?’ Santhom lifted her gaze from the parcel, her piercing green eyes wide with amazement.
Teagar came closer to her and spoke in a low hushed voice, as if he were afraid of the walls hearing his words.
‘The letter we received was right. It was exactly where it said it would be,’ he said quietly. ‘In Barantur’s Curiosity Shop.’
Santhom moved over to the wooden table and placed the item down carefully. She took a step back and stood there staring at it. She rubbed her arms and shivered briefly.
‘I will have to return to the palace before they start wondering where I’ve gone,’ the king said.
Santhom walked over to the boy, hugging him and ruffling his hair. The king pulled away and gave her a mock dirty look.
On his way to the door, an orrery with a basket of oranges tucked in behind it caught his eye. He inspected the oranges, then turned back to Santhom. She was gazing down at the table, transfixed by the object he had brought her. He shook his head and sighed before opening the door and feeling his way back up the darkened stairwell.
Santhom stared at the package, breathing deeply, preparing herself for what lay inside. She reached into her bedside locker and took out a dagger. The cord binding fell limply onto the table as she sliced it before unfolding the soft red velvet.
With rusting iron hinges, a tarnished bronze clasp and dull, eroded corner bosses, the grimoire lay sullenly on the table, its dark brown leather cover punctuated with faded gold leaf.
The Secrets of the Gods
The lettering was chipped and peeling, the leather of the covers cracked and faded, but it was not the title nor the covers that Santhom was concerned with, it was the information that the tome held within its pages. Knowledge that would, she hoped, give her the answers she had been seeking all her life. It would piece together what she already knew with the clues she had uncovered though years of research. It would tell her why she had walked the night for the last one hundred and seven years, why her great-nephew now sat on the throne while she had barely aged for the last eight decades and, of course, why she had no shadow.
Sitting at her desk, she prepared herself for what revelations the book contained before opening the clasp. As she peeled open the front cover, the iron hinges creaked and dust rose from the pages. Blowing the dust away she traced her fingers down the illuminated pages and mouthed the words. Santhom spent hours absorbing the information and knowledge she found within. She made notes and annotations concerning topics she deemed relevant about the gods and their followers, every so often looking at the wall and seeing the shadow of an empty chair.
The hours passed and the pages turned, and Santhom studied the mysterious book intently, trying to tease out its secrets. She learned how the gods were vicious and cruel, how their jealously had caused a civil war that had killed many of the weaker gods, and how they had fought with each other over possession of their female counterparts.
She was horrified to learn that the gods had slaughtered every last goddess. She read how their cults would sometimes earmark mortal women for rape and how the gods would let their illegitimate children be born and grow to maturity, not only to gain more power than they had expended, but also because they preferred to hunt more cleverer prey for sport.
A section which drew her distinct attention was that detailing what happened when a god had fathered more than one child and how, not only the god but also the child would acquire a proportion of their sibling’s power if that sibling was killed.
Santhom sat back in her chair, put her hands behind her head and exhaled.
‘Was my mother earmarked by one of these cults? Do I have siblings? Is that what I am – sport?’ she muttered, thinking about the trouble her family had gone to in order to keep her safe, to keep her secret, to keep her alive.
Yavalon was the capital city of Mantaras, with a population of over four hundred thousand, and although her family ruled the realm justly, the land and the city still had an imbalanced class structure. Had she been born a commoner and not royalty, she would surely be dead by now. The Shadow Watchers would have identified her as a child of the gods and hanged, drawn and quartered her.
As it was, the ruler at the time, King Ranulf Dar, had protected her, even though she was not his daughter and even though her birth had claimed the life of his wife. Instead of betraying her, exposing her, he’d had his most trusted men burrow out living quarters beneath the palace for her so she would be safe.
A bell rang in the other room. Santhom snapped out of her daydream and rose. Walking through the doorway and down a small staircase she emerged into a wider candle-lit area that served as her training quarters. The walls were adorned with various weaponry and armour, a training pell stood in the far corner complete with shield, helmet and wooden sword, and round spheres of marble, in increasing sizes, lay on the floor next to the opening.
Santhom opened a wooden hatch set into the wall. Inside the dumbwaiter was a tray with a clay pot full of pottage, a hunk of bread, a jug of water and a note. Carrying it into her living quarters, Santhom placed the book carefully on the bed and sat down to her supper.
Blowing the steam from her meal, she opened the note.
Santhom,
Messengers from the outlying lands report that a cult dedicated to the God Dhalfire has been uncovered in the city of Shadowvale. We have dispatched spies to gather as much information as possible to decide whether they are a real threat before we act. Shepherds have also said that they have seen a unit of Shadow Watchers in the area, so if you are leaving your den tonight I urge you to be careful.
Also, can you please stop stealing the local farmer’s oranges?
Myzan.
Another cult, she thought. When will these people realise that they are being manipulated by the temples and that their infatuation with the gods is all one way?
Cults had been banned in Mantaras for over a hundred years, much to the anger of the religious community. They served as the eyes and ears of the priests, who in turn carried out the bidding of the gods they worshipped. In Yavalon, cults were quashed almost as soon as they were founded and were easily disbanded, but in the outlying towns and cities, far away from the reach of the royal seer council, they were rife.
Re-reading the note, Santhom considered the fact that a unit of Shadow Watchers had been seen in the area. It troubled her, as she knew that if the people found out the royal family were harbouring her there would be an uprising that could well bring the Dar dynasty to an end. Her true identity was something she was not prepared to reveal.
Finishing her meal she cleared away, putting everything, including the peelings of several oranges, back into the dumbwaiter and closing the hatch.
It will be dusk, she thought, as she walked through the doorway that led out of her training quarters. The exit opened up into a round candle-lit antechamber that contained shelves with dozens of hourglasses of all different sizes.
Santhom lifted a heavy journal from the shelf and flipped through it,
stopping at the most recent entry. Taking a quill, she inspected each of the hourglasses in turn, recording the value of their graduated markings in the book and turning a few of them upside down. According to her calculations there would be a gibbous moon waxing tonight, meaning her powers would almost be at their strongest. With that in mind she began to prepare for the night ahead.
Leaving the safety of her den was not something Santhom did without consideration: the outside world was fraught with danger and one wrong move could result in death.
Changing into her tight-fitting under apparel, she buckled on her leather arm and leg greaves and then put on her contoured leather breastplate and back plate.
Santhom did not like wearing conventional metal armour; it slowed her down and restricted her movement. When it came to getting hit with a sword or standing in the way of an arrow she felt strongly that prevention was better than cure.
Picking up a weapon’s harness containing two curved short swords and a small close-range crossbow she carefully strapped it to her back. She only engaged in combat as a last resort, after all it was her family’s citizens or guards she would most likely be killing.
Sometimes you do not pick the fight, the fight picks you, she thought, fastening a belt with crossbow bolts and throwing knives around her waist.
After returning to her sleeping quarters Santhom reached under her bed and felt around for a second, pulling out a wooden box. Setting it on her bed she took out a small key from a chain around her neck and put it in the lock, turning it slowly until she heard a click.
Inside, a black mask sat on a white silk cushion, still and unassuming. It had dark blue eye-coverings made from a hard, shiny substance and no visible mouth aperture. She slid her hand under it; it was cool to the touch with an oily texture. As she lifted it from the box it drooped at the sides, as though trying to resist being disturbed.
The mask started to emit a low hissing sound.
Santhom lifted it with both hands and brought it slowly towards her face. When it was a few inches from her head the mask started to strain in her hands like a magnet pulling itself towards an anvil. Suddenly it flew from her hands, attaching itself to her face, pulling tightly and expanding around the back of her head, engulfing her skull in a matter of seconds.
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