Only Stones Remain (Ballad of Frindoth Book 4)

by Rob Donovan

  Jacquard drew his eyes away from the White City to concentrate on the Ghost Assassin. She noticed he licked his lips and was puzzled as to why the story of her escape was so important to him. Was it just intrigue or something more? Had she wounded his pride in being the first person ever to escape his Pit? She supposed her escape had ignited the start of his downfall.

  "You could have already escaped before you overheard them conspiring?"

  "Not quite, but I was close. Their intentions merely accelerated my work."

  Jacquard shook his head, a bemused smile on his face. "So, go on, how did you do it? Neither Delmut nor Cordane could see how you escaped your cell."

  "They didn't look hard enough," Norva said. "If you don’t mind the criticism, the food served up in the Pit was never the most satisfying. Soup, broth, bread with a slither of butter and a morsel of cheese or honey was the best I could look forward to. I didn't expect much more but a cup of wine would have been nice once in a while or maybe cooked meat."

  Jacquard winced and Norva understood immediately that the food rations had been entirely down to Delmut. It was another area of his reign that the King had not been in complete control of. She had been surprised at the food served to her. She knew she was a prisoner and had given up any rights to a decent meal but she also knew Jacquard had been reluctant to incarcerate her.

  She continued before Jacquard could dwell on the subject.

  "Eating in darkness was never fun, I would often slop the broth and soup over the sides of the bowl wasting some of the contents. Those were the meal times I would grow most agitated.

  Spending all those years in the Pit did not allow me to keep my hair as short as I would normally like either. I was far from the attractive strumpet you see before you now,"

  She seductively ran her fingers through her short, spiky hair. Jacquard offered a tight smile with little humour to it. For a moment she experienced a flash of anger. What was she doing trying to cheer him up when she was the one in mourning? The moment passed and she carried on, suddenly eager to tell the story and move on.

  "It was on one of those nights when my hair was long and I was served soup that the idea came to me. A strand of hair fell out and into the soup. I didn't realise until I took a mouthful and got the hair caught in my teeth. Your senses are heightened in the darkness and the unexpected texture of hair on tongue was repulsive. I spat out the mouthful and in my disgust accidentally knocked the bowl from my lap. Appalled, I tried to rescue the soup but it had already soaked into the sand. Despairing, I groped in the darkness and my fingers touched upon the strand of hair. I am not proud of it but in my desperation, I put the hair to my mouth with the intention of sucking the soup from it.

  "It was a stupid idea, dozens of grains of sand clung to the hair as I ran it across my lips, not only did the sand taste horrible but it also cut my lip. I sobbed and that was the first time I experienced regret at my choice to give myself up. It was much later when I reflected on what had happened that I came up with the idea of testing how powerful the sand and hair combination could really be.

  "By the next meal I had already plucked several strands of hair and entwined them together. I ate most of the broth but left enough at the bottom to soak my hair. I then rolled this in the sand. Once Delmut had left me alone for the night I picked a spot on the iron bars and filed away with my tool." Norva smiled at the incredulous look on the King's face. He went to ask a question but she cut him off. "It didn't work well to begin with. The hairs snapped pretty quickly and the sand fell off, but I felt the tiniest of grooves in the bar which gave me a modicum of hope. Over the next few days, weeks even months, I would revise my technique, experimenting with different amounts of hair and food. The honey and butter were the most effective for holding the sand in place.

  "I don't know how long it took me to get through that first bar but the satisfaction it brought was beyond anything I can describe. As I said, I had no real intention of escaping at that point, but I had a purpose and a reason to carry on; something to break the mind-numbing monotony of the darkness. I began to dream about developing the most effective tool and then of being able to leave my cell and sneak back inside without Delmut realising. I began to think about how I could remove a section of the bars and put them back so it would look as if they had not been touched. Sand was the answer again in case you were wondering. Wetting the sand with the water and then slotting the bars back into place and removing the residue.

  When I had cut through three bars I was able to crawl in and out. I am small after all in case you hadn't noticed. I am sure upon close inspection anyone could tell a small section of the bars had been removed and replaced, but in the darkness with only the flickering light from a flaming torch, the work must have looked quite convincing."

  When she finished Jacquard stared at her with a silly grin on his face. He shook his head and blew out his cheeks. "You are marvellous did you know that?"

  Norva could not help but grin at the praise. She had expected him to be annoyed that she had escaped but he seemed genuinely impressed. Bizarrely, tears came to her eyes, not because she mourned the loss of her friend, but because it was the first time for as long as she could remember that someone had been in awe of something she had done. She was used to leaving behind grieving widows.

  "So, you got out the cell, but how did you ascend the levels of the Pit and into the palace and then into my room?"

  Norva cocked her head to one side and raised an eyebrow. "You do know you are talking to the Ghost Assassin, don't you?"

  Jacquard grinned.

  Some soldiers were clearing away the rubble from the crumbled city walls and stockpiling it. It would be reused to rebuild the fortifications. In a few years, it would be as if the war had never happened.

  "Where will you go?"

  Norva frowned. She had no idea where she would head. She had no place she called home. She did not have a clue if her parents still lived, but if they did she had no desire to go back to them. She had contemplated returning to Scamp's home and seeing if she could discover anymore there, but what was the point? The only thing of interest was the healing cave and she was not sure if that was real or a fabricated lie weaved by Scamp. The alternative was to go to the Marshes of Night and commune with the Custodians, but she was not sure she could face that just yet. That was a trip for some time in the distant future.

  "Everywhere, nowhere, somewhere," Norva said with a shrug.

  "Spoken like a true ghost," Jacquard said. He stooped and gave her a tight hug. For the briefest of moments, she was tempted to kiss him as she had his son. Not for any other reason than to see the surprise on his face. "You have earned a place as one of my elite guards and the position is yours whenever you want it."

  Norva nodded and again her hands went to the severed paw in her pouch. "I may well take you up on that," she said. The lie came easily; it was the right thing to say.

  As she turned away from the King though, she knew she would never come back. Her destiny was hers and hers alone. She had chosen a life of solitude and saw no reason to change that now. Years in the Pit will do that to someone.

  Chapter 33

  About five years ago when his father had visited each warlord, Althalos had found himself alone in the palace hall. At thirteen summers the room had seemed daunting. The large pillars and huge windows overlooking the city gave the room a cavernous feel. He had been in the room many times but always when an official function was on and the room was filled with hundreds of people. He would sit behind his father and have either Jefferson or Longshaw accompanying him and instructing him to pay attention and learn from observation.

  He recalled having every intention of studying his father and learning how he dealt with his subjects, how to deal with their problems and how the Kingdom operated. Inevitably though, his mind wandered as he found the ceremonies and hearings tedious. His attention would drift to Hamsun’s giant axe or the swords at the warrior's sides and he would imagine what
it was like to fight in a real battle.

  Now, as scores upon scores of people filtered into the hall, cramming into every space available, the Prince struggled to reconcile that giant hall of his younger self with the claustrophobic room he now found himself in.

  "A little overwhelming isn't it?" his father said from behind him.

  Althalos let out a sigh of relief at his presence. He turned to see his father beaming as he appraised his son. For a moment, he had thought his father might not show. He tried to speak but found his mouth was dry and could only manage a croak of acknowledgment which he backed up with a vigorous nod. Jacquard chuckled and squeezed the Prince's shoulder. Althalos smiled weakly.

  He took in his father's purple cloak fastened with the Rivervale leaf insignia. His hair had been cut to just above his shoulders. More importantly it had been washed and actually looked healthy. The grey strands that had appeared over the past few months still remained but they now looked vibrant and strong amongst the blond. It might have been a trick of the morning light but his father also appeared younger; gone were the sallow cheeks which he had tried to disguise with a beard. His father's face had filled out as he began eating more healthily in the days since the war. Having your wife back from the dead, discovering a new son and having no conflict within your Kingdom would do that to a man.

  "You don't have to do it this," Althalos said. They both knew that was not true, but part of Althalos felt guilty for taking over the regency from his father and part of him simply did not want to. There had been younger Kings Than Althalos but as a son, Althalos was not ready for his father to stand aside. He’d had a taste of being a leader and of war and he knew that neither was what he thought it would be. There was no glamour in the death; there was no glory in the difficult decisions. Althalos wanted his father to bear the burden a little while longer, whilst he went back to being the King in waiting; a man free of the burden of the land.

  "They would not accept me now. No matter how normal I appear to them. I failed Frindoth in a way I know you never will. It is time."

  Althalos wanted to protest but there was little point. His father spoke the truth and any words to the contrary would have been futile and empty.

  "I will still need your guidance," Althalos said.

  "Of course, you won't get rid of me that easily."

  A group of men from Aselina burst into laughter causing several heads to turn. A few of the men aggressively slapped the back of another soldier. Calloway stood and frowned at the lack of discipline but Althalos merely smiled. It was nice to hear merriment again. The sound was infinitely nicer on the ears than the screams of agony. Calloway, armour gleaming and hair tied back into a pony tail caught Althalos' eye, shrugged and sat down. He even had the slightest hint of a grin on his face.

  A sudden murmur of voices rose and fell; Althalos looked over to the main doors to see Marybeth make her way through the crowd. He had seen little of the witch so far. His father rarely spoke of her when he mentioned the Order as he dealt primarily with Iskandar.

  Cody Ramsey however, spoke very highly of her and it was clear the Truth Knight was fond of her. He may have only met Cody a few months ago but the two had bonded fast. If Cody said the witch was to be respected then that went a long way in Althalos’ view.

  The witch paused and ignored the commotion her entrance caused as she surveyed the room. For a moment Althalos’ breath caught as he looked upon her. Marybeth wore a mauve cloak which matched the lip paint she had applied. It made her lips look voluptuous and sensual. Her skin had always been smooth but it now looked almost porcelain-like. Her blond hair had been tied up in a complicated bun at the back of her head which permitted several strands of hair to cascade over her shoulders. These strands were decorated with sparkling lilac gems.

  She licked her lips nervously and the Prince felt a pang of sympathy for the witch. She had been the newest member of the Order and not only was she the sole survivor; she had also dared go against all tradition and effectively cause the mayhem at the Ritual. It was because of her Frindoth had suffered at the hands of the Glooms. It did not matter that events would have probably happened regardless of her interference because that is what Cordane wanted or that she had virtually saved Frindoth singlehandedly since. To some, including a few of the warlords, Marybeth was a traitor who should have been executed rather than promoted to the head of the Order; if only they could have seen how much the final spell had cost her at the end of the battle. The witch had to be carried to the palace, unable to walk on her own and for a while, the Prince worried she might not recover.

  Some of those angry men and women glared at her now, whilst others looked at her expectantly to begin the proceedings. Cody had revealed to the Prince that Marybeth had confessed she was clueless on the coronation service and was having to read the tomes for guidance. As much as Althalos and the witch had proved themselves, both would be feeling their way into their new roles over the forthcoming months.

  The prince gasped as he felt a sharp prod in his ribs. He had bruising there but it was the shock more than anything which had caused the reaction.

  “I hope your eyes aren’t straying?”

  He turned to see Shana standing by his side, a slight smile playing on her lips as she looked from him and then over to Marybeth. Althalos rubbed his side, wincing in an exaggerating fashion.

  “Would I dare?” he said.

  “Maybe, I’ve heard you are incredibly brave.”

  “Brave maybe, but not stupid.”

  “You were ogling,”

  “No not at all, I was wondering if we have enough capacity in this hall.”

  “Of course you were. It is ok; anyone that matches a mauve cloak with green lipstick is no threat to me.”

  “Green lip paint? I thought it was…” Althalos trailed off as he realised the trap he had walked into. Shana left them and moved into the crowd.

  “Careful son, you have your work cut out for you there,” Jacquard said but it was clear from his wide grin he was enjoying the exchange. So was Althalos. Since the final battle, he had been desperate to locate his lover and saw little point in keeping their relationship secret any longer. Even Morag seemed pleased for them and was especially relieved the King knew of the liaison and endorsed the partnership.

  Althalos spotted Shana in the crowd, the genuine smile she had vanishing the second she knew he was watching her, to be replaced with a familiar scowl as she re-joined them.

  "I think I can handle her," Althalos replied to his father. Shana chuckled and raised her eyebrows; her expression dared him to try. She gave him a brisk kiss and stood back in the crowd. He had suggested she join him at his side, but she had declined. Until they were married she would not act like his Queen. There was no rush.

  Marybeth stopped halfway up the palace hall. She was flanked by armed guards and was engaged in amicable conversation with a man Althalos did not recognise. He was mildly curious at the conversation but felt no need to pry. Paranoia had been a vice of his fathers towards the end. He would not fall into that trap.

  His mother and Atikass stepped forward. His mother embraced his father and her hand lingered on his back. Progress between them was slow but every now and then Althalos caught a glimpse of the strong bond he had so often been told about as a child. He could not help but stare at his mother; Marybeth looked stunning, but his mother looked captivating. She wore a plain green dress that was elegant and hugged her figure. Like his father, her figure had begun to regain some of its former shape. Her hair had been cut and had also begun to regain some of its vibrancy. The contrast to the woman who had staggered into the palace with Vashna was staggering. Atikass looked equally regal; something no one would have predicted a few months ago. Gone was the face paint, the fierce intensity in his eyes and the tension in his body; his brother seemed permanently relaxed, the ghost of a smile always threatening to break through.

  He shook Althalos' hand and even nodded courteously to his father, who returned th
e informal greeting with as much warmth as he could muster. "Rather you than me," Atikass said surveying the room.

  "Don't be too smug brother, if I abdicate, you will have to go through this," Althalos grinned. He felt his father bristle at the idea, but the look of horror on Atikass' face was worth the jibe. It was as if Atikass had never even thought about that possibility.

  "You are not...I mean there is no sign of...you..." Atikass began.

  Althalos roared with laughter. "Relax, I don't intend to go anywhere for a long time.”

  Atikass breathed out a long sigh and then ran his fingers through his golden hair. Their mother took his hand and led him away. "I think I preferred you when I was pummelling you on the battlefield," Atikass hissed over his shoulder.

  Althalos shook his head and smiled. He registered the appalled looks from some of the crowd who had overheard the exchange. There were many who were still very uneasy around the former painted savage. Althalos could see why, it was hard to reconcile the man he now saw as a brother with the feral warrior who had reportedly performed despicable acts for Cordane. Atikass had spoken at length about project Blackthorn and whilst it was definitely the main factor in Atikass' behaviour, his brother made no excuses for his actions and even expressed his sorrow and desire to be punished. It was this remorse more than anything, which ingratiated the Prince to Atikass.

  An expectant hush filled the palace hall as Marybeth reached the throne. The witch looked behind her as if surprised by the sudden calm.

  “Rora’s breath,” she whispered.

  “Rora’s breath,” Althalos nodded. He hadn’t heard the phrase since his father had described the feeling at the Ritual of the Stones before everything had descended into chaos. Althalos had never been to the coast at Rora but he vowed he would go there and experience the expectant pause before the waves broke against the shore for himself. It was supposed to last a few seconds longer than any other wave break but he had never believed the stories.