The Hidden King

by E G Radcliff

  “I don’t know! You’re really burning me, I swear, I don’t know!”

  Áed took a deep, stabilizing breath, and the guard exhaled as the heat dissipated a degree. “Fine,” Áed said. “Then I need you to show me the way out.”

  The guard made a guttural little moan, but he didn’t talk back. “Right. Alright. It’s this way.”

  “If you lead me wrong…” Áed warned, and the guard shook his head.

  “I know. I won’t, I promise.” He shrank away from Áed’s eyes.

  “Just move,” Áed muttered. His voice had taken on a little tremor, both from pain and the strangeness that overtook him with the use of his fire, and he swallowed hard.

  “You don’t look so good,” the guard ventured, and Áed scowled.

  “Walk.”

  If Áed closed his eyes, it was easier to ignore the tilting of the ground that seemed to ripple under his feet, but he had to see where he was walking. He could barely feel his back or arms; the nerves seemed to have died. It made it hard to move, like trying to speak with a numb tongue, but he knew that when the pain came back, he wouldn’t be able to hold it at bay. So he walked through his dizziness and concentrated only on placing one foot after the other.

  The dungeon, Áed thought feverishly, was the sort of space that might be revealed if somebody were to drain the Sea. Such was its vastness and depth that at the top of every flight of stairs, no matter how far the dimness descended behind them, Áed felt no closer to the light of day. The divots in the steps where guards and prisoners had walked for hundreds of years caught his feet and made him slip, and more than once he gripped onto the poor guard to stop from falling back into the gloom. His vision faded to the point where he blinked, blind, at the spot where he was sure his hands still glowed. Then it snapped back, and the rush of clarity made his head spin. Nausea churned in his stomach, and his breaths came fast and shallow.

  They stopped at the top of a staircase, and Áed’s knees buckled. With no permission from his brain, his grip on the guard’s neck loosened. The guard didn’t move as Áed fought to stay upright, lost the battle, and collapsed to his hands and knees, but then the wiry man, out from under Áed’s grip, warily stepped away. “Wait,” Áed rasped. He tried to reach out, but his arm shook so badly that he could scarcely lift it. Seeing this, the guard took off into the blackness.

  Áed’s side hit the ground, forcing the air from his lungs. The cold stone wasn’t unpleasant, and Áed’s will to fight the darkness faded quickly as pain, reborn at the impact, clawed into his tortured form.

  He gritted his teeth, fighting to keep himself conscious.

  Moaning, he slowly brought an arm under him and pushed himself to a stiff, semi-paralyzed seat. He needed to move, he knew this, but his unwilling guide had fled. Surely, if he just continued up the stairs, he would reach the level of the ground, but he could barely wrench his body off the stone.

  The wiry guard had doubtlessly gone to tell somebody about Áed’s flight. Áed had to get up.

  Taking a deep breath, he shoved himself to a seat, tried to ignore the stars that winked into existence to whirl around him, and almost threw up. Steadying himself, he got his legs under him and rose to his feet, where he stumbled and fell against the wall. His ears were ringing so loudly that he couldn’t hear himself coughing.

  His stomach heaved, and he dry-retched. The rough wall was the only thing between him and falling again, and he braced himself on it as best he could—he knew if he fell again, he wouldn’t get back up. He’d been able to stand, and that was good, so he took a step toward the next flight of stairs.

  It was easiest if he took the stairs at a half-crawl, hands on the upper steps and feet on the lower. It was also less likely for him to fall, and so he progressed that way until the flight ended. Then he used the wall to claw himself upright, hobble around the corner, and mount the next flight. The stairs stretched on and on, encased in their shaft of stone, and it felt as if the walls were leaning inward toward him as three more flights he climbed.

  And then the stairs ended.

  A door nestled almost cozily into the top of the stairwell, a door not of metal but wood, and though it was locked with a heavy chain, Áed needed only to stumble toward it and press his hands to the wood for the problem to disappear. The smoke didn’t bother him as the door caught fire and poured sparks into the air, and Áed didn’t even wait for the fire to die before he shoved at the fragile, glittering-black remains and stepped through the flames.

  Áed recoiled as blinding light assaulted his eyes, so stark compared to the pitch-darkness or even the firelight, and stopped himself from stumbling back into the dungeon by clutching at the smoldering remnants of the door.

  He’d come into an alley, and the palace folded around him. At the end of the alley, people passed, and carriages clattered forth and back along the street. Áed wouldn’t blend in, he knew that, not with blood soaking through the back and upper arms of Cynwrig’s now-filthy sweater, but there was no place else to go. Bracing himself on the side of the palace, he stumbled haltingly toward the street.

  It wasn’t long before he began to draw stares. People whispered, just loud enough to hear, and most stayed well away.

  Entirely disoriented by the light and the colors of the street, a wave of vertigo sent Áed staggering away from the wall before crashing into it again. Whenever he tried to take a step, the paving-stones bucked beneath his feet, and he felt as though serrated blades were ripping through the flesh of his mauled back and arms.

  “Hey! Mate, you okay?”

  Áed looked up and blinked around before squeezing his eyes shut at the surge of nausea that rose. Through his eyelids, he watched a shadow fall over him.

  “Whoa, there. You alright?”

  Áed opened his eyes for a fraction of a second, long enough to see a rather heavyset man in a brown jacket leaning over him in concern. It was only when he registered that the man was above him that Áed realized he’d slid to his knees. “A fight,” Áed managed, saying the first thing that came to his head. “Got in a fight…”

  “Lost a fight, by the look of it. Agh, you’re bleeding!”

  Áed nodded.

  “Looks to me there’s somewhere you gotta go. That right, mate? I drive a cab.” He pointed across the street to where a tan horse stood, nickering, before a carriage. “I’ve picked up all kinds. Fighters, drinkers. Nothing new to me. Cheap fare, and mate, you need a ride.”

  “I don’t…” Áed couldn’t keep a thought in his head. “I don’t have any money.”

  The cab-driver looked him over with a hint of pity. “Where you gotta go?”

  He could think only of Boudicca’s flat; it was all he knew. It was the first place anyone would look for him, but he had no other choice. “Apothecary,” he said. “Apothecary by the bonfire.”

  The driver nodded slowly. “Down the road from the Festival fire, right? The place run by the magicky healer and the old lady?”

  Áed swallowed hard, but his throat was dry. “Yeah.”

  “Agh,” the driver groaned, rubbing at a nonexistent beard. “Damn it all. Mate, I came over lookin’ for a customer.” He pressed his lips together. “But I think you might need a ride more than I need the money. I say, you’re bleeding pretty good.”

  Áed put a hand to his back, and it came away red.

  With a burst of a sigh, the cab-driver reached for Áed’s hand and helped him to his feet. “Did you do this to your hands by fightin’ too? I tell you, people like you are good for business, but you’re gonna get yourself killed.”

  “Second time I’ve heard that today,” Áed mumbled.

  “Come on then,” the driver encouraged. “Agh, you’ll bleed in my cab. Now, why’d I have to be born with a conscience, eh?”

  For all his complaining, he was good-natured enough as he helped Áed into the carriage, and Áed thanked him.

  “Don’t mention it. Try to keep your blood off the leather, alright? Better yet, just kee
p it inside you. There’s a good man.” He closed the door, and Áed slumped against it as the driver clambered into his seat and snapped the reins. The White City began to bounce by, its lovely ivory buildings trimmed with boxes of flowers, and people on the streets went about their daily lives, oblivious to what happened in the dungeons beneath their feet.

  The driver slowed as he neared Boudicca’s shop, and, once they were before it, he clucked his tongue so that the dun horse stopped. “Thank you,” Áed said again as the driver jumped down to open Áed’s door. “I think you’ve saved my life.”

  “Well, that isn’t something I do every day. C’mon, I’ll give you a hand.” He helped Áed out of the carriage and supported him to the stoop. “Best of luck, mate.” He tipped his hat. “I wouldn’t recommend fighting that bugger again.” Then he jogged back to his cab, stroked his horse’s nose, and vaulted back into the driver’s seat.

  The door was unlocked, though it took Áed a couple of tries to get enough grip on the knob to turn it. It creaked as he opened it, and Áed hobbled into the apothecary. For a moment, he felt safe, and the realization of what he had done rang triumphantly in his bones. Then he cursed under his breath; he’d forgotten about the stairs.

  After all of the dungeon’s flights, he didn’t have anything left. He could scarcely lift his hand, and it took all of his will to shuffle toward the forbidding steps. How he’d come so far was beyond him, but one flight of stairs, shorter than all of the stairs he’d climbed before, was the only thing that stood in his way from the closest thing he had to home. Boudicca would help him find Ronan, he was sure of it, and if she couldn’t, then he would do it himself. Slowly, impossibly, he moved one foot up, and then the other, and, his weight on the banister like it was a lifeline, he dragged himself up the steps.

  By the time he reached the top, he could barely recall his own name. He stumbled over to Boudicca’s door as blackness bled into his vision like swirling ink, and he caught himself against the wood as if it had risen to strike him. He couldn’t muster the power to knock, because his body was ignoring him, and when the door swung open, he tumbled lifelessly to the ground.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  He was lying on a couch with a blanket draped over him, and so he waited for the dream to turn sharp and flay him, because that was what good dreams did. But nothing happened except that something cool and wet touched his lips, and his eyes fluttered open as water filled his mouth. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he had been until the water stopped coming, and he wanted more.

  “Áed.”

  He blinked, trying to find who had spoken, but everything was remarkably blurry, as if he saw the world through frosted glass.

  The voice turned away from him. “He’s waking. Quickly, get me some more water.”

  Footsteps pattered away, then back, and then the glass was at his lips again and he drank desperately.

  “Áed, can you hear me?” Something soft patted his cheek, and he strained his eyes to see. A bit of clarity was returning, enough to see someone leaning over him. “That’s it,” the voice coaxed. It was a woman’s voice, soft as down. “That’s right. You’re safe.” The voice turned from him a second time. “Ronan, come here. Come here, let him see you.”

  Áed took in a quick breath. He couldn’t see properly, something was wrong, but he cast his eyes frantically over the blur. “Ronan?”

  A little figure bent over him as the woman gasped softly. “Áed!” A small hand took his own. “Yes, it’s me! I’m here, right here.”

  The woman brushed her fingertips over Áed’s cheek, and he realized there were tears there. “I thought…” He couldn’t finish. Breath shook in his chest, and his eyes fell closed again.

  “Boudicca,” Ronan said, and his little voice trembled. “What’s happened to him?”

  The question made Áed frown, although he couldn’t immediately think of why. Something hurt, and he exhaled shakily.

  Warmth touched his skin, and Boudicca gently pressed a hot cloth to his forehead. “I don’t know,” she said, but her tone made Áed think that she had an idea. “Stay with him, Ronan. I’ll be right back.”

  Ronan took her place, and Áed turned his head to see better. His sight was coming back a bit, and he saw the boy’s face held desperate worry. But he looked whole. No pain fell behind his eyes. “What happened?”

  “You don’t remember?” A note of fear entered Ronan’s tone.

  Áed did remember, or at least, he was starting to. He didn’t want to think about it, and that wasn’t what he’d meant. “What happened to you?” He swallowed. “I didn’t see where they took you…”

  “Cadeyrn let me go,” Ronan said, taking Áed’s hand again. The contact felt good. “He said I reminded him of his son, and I was too little to put in jail. And the king was…” He licked his lips. “Well, you know what the king was. In the chaos, Cadeyrn told me to go, that nobody would notice.”

  Relief washed over Áed, so potent he almost fainted. Ronan had never been in the dungeon. He had never smelled Óengus’s putrid breath or felt the bite of his instruments, he had never been trapped in that infinite darkness. The golden-eyed guard had a soul, and Ronan was safe.

  Boudicca slipped back in carrying a bowl, and she knelt on the floor beside the sofa. “Áed,” she said gently. “Can you eat?”

  He wasn’t sure. His stomach was hot with nausea.

  “I have some broth here. Could you keep that down?”

  He nodded minutely, but his arms didn’t obey when he tried to accept the bowl. Boudicca put it at his mouth instead, and he drank.

  When he was finished, Boudicca sat back on her heels and put the mug on a side table. “Are you feeling a little more lucid?”

  “Yes.” The word came out as uneven as sandpaper.

  “Can…” She hesitated, and Áed noticed that there was something different about the way she was looking at him. It was strange, as if he was unknown to her. “Can you tell us what happened to you?”

  “I think,” he started, and then he bit his lower lip and commanded his voice to rise above a bullied whisper. “I think it would be easier to show you.”

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Áed knelt on the ground, seated on his heels, and he braced himself on the edge of the sofa. A few hours had passed since he’d first woken, as he had fallen asleep, a natural sleep, for a while. His mind was clearer, especially after he had a few bites of proper food, but while that was an improvement, it also made the memories all the more clear. He still felt fevered. Boudicca drew a deep breath and blew out her cheeks. “Ready?”

  Áed braced himself. “Yeah.”

  “Right,” she breathed, and from the tension in her voice, he knew she was nearly as nervous as he was. She pressed the scissors gently to the edge of the bandage at his side and began snipping upward, careful not to nick his skin. He realized that he was holding his breath, and slowly exhaled.

  He sucked a breath through his teeth when she began drawing the bloody bandages away, and she paused and waited for him to be ready. “Sorry,” he said hoarsely. “Keep going.”

  Carefully, she lifted the cloth from his back.

  Ronan made a peculiar choking sound.

  Boudicca swallowed hard. “Oh my.”

  “How bad?” Áed asked quietly, and it seemed to occur to them at once that he didn’t know.

  Boudicca, eyes still fixed on his back, took Áed’s elbows and helped him up. She supported him as they moved. “Come with me.”

  She led the way to one of the bathrooms and positioned him so that his back faced the mirror before leaning out of the door to take a smaller mirror from the wall of the hallway. She held it up in front of Áed, tilting and positioning it so he could see his back.

  Lifting his eyes, he blanched.

  The first thing he noted was the color.

  The horrific ink was blue-black, crawling over his back and standing out from the dark red edges where scabs had broken and reformed. In the rare places where his skin
remained undamaged, its color was mottled with sickly, purple-and-yellow bruises that bloomed over his flesh like macabre flowers, and everywhere, it was reddened and inflamed with infection—no wonder he felt so feverish. The gruesome web of indigo-black lines sprawled deliberately through it all, ghoulishly artful.

  It was the most stunning and abhorrent thing he had ever seen.

  His voice failed him.

  He managed to tear his eyes away when Boudicca’s arms began to quiver from supporting the heavy mirror, and he looked at her, agape.

  Pressing her lips together, she set the mirror on the counter and turned back to him, folding her hands tensely behind her back. Áed remained motionless as he stared at the wall, too shocked even to breathe.

  There was something despicable about the fact that it was, undeniably, art. If they had been thoughtless gashes, gouges meant only to cause him pain, somehow that would have been easier to stomach; the idea that he was solely a medium for his torturer’s creation was unbearable. He’d been marked.

  In a daze, he shuffled back into the living room and sank onto the couch, followed by Boudicca in her coral-red dress. Ronan trailed after her, and Boudicca perched timidly on the arm of the couch.

  Áed looked up at her, dazed. It seemed pointless to feel anything at all. “Let’s just do my arms.”

  Boudicca blinked, worried by the lack of luster in his voice, and then nodded. “Of course.”

  She gingerly tugged on the bandage, found the end, and unwound the bloodstained strips. Áed watched her face during the process because it was far better than watching the bandages, and he noted that she carefully kept her expression serene and inscrutable. When the final layer of cloth fell away and the bandage fluttered to the floor like a loathsome ribbon, she did not gasp.

  Ronan, however, predictably did, and Áed looked down. He was too deadened to feel anything at what he saw.

  This design was simpler, but it was no less deliberate, and no less revolting. A thick, indigo-black band half-encircled his arm in the shallow valley where his shoulder muscle met his bicep, detailed with curving spines. Beneath the first band were finer curves, unadorned with anything but the blue-black ink and hints of his blood.