Talystasia: A Faerytale

by Haadiyah Cardinalis

  The carcass was garbed in red. Loren red.

  Around her, men were still screaming—and dying. Privates were slaughtering their stunned superiors, sergeants executing their terrified subordinates.

  Dashing through their midst to the nearest stairwell, she tore up the wrought iron steps that led to the gallery overseeing the hall. Halfway up the staircase, she stumbled, ducking down behind the bars to catch her breath.

  Sweeping her eyes over the hideous gore, she spotted Delvorak, his thinning hair damp with sweat. He was hunched over, clearly in pain, but the scarlet uniform hid the bleeding, making it impossible to see the wounds that were crippling his muscular body.

  The blond man opposite him was of a lithe build and hardly appeared to be his match, but he wielded his knives with deft certainty.

  She did a sickened double-take.

  It was the lieutenant who had grabbed her arm and shoved her in the closet.

  His next kick sent Delvorak sprawling into the foot of the neighbouring stairwell. He lay there helplessly, clutching his side, his roars of anguish echoing through the chamber.

  The lieutenant mounted the step above him and stood looking out over the hall. She could scarcely read his expression, but she saw no pleasure in his eyes. Like the others in the room, he seemed set on finishing his grim task as though it were a chore. He stood there, his boot on Garret Delvorak’s back, until the hall was silent save for the general’s groans.

  The other men were laying down their weapons, their own gruesome work at an end, paying him silent tribute as he raised his knife over the general’s body.

  He stood motionless a moment longer, looking from face to face, his own a hollow mask. Then, so suddenly that everyone jumped, he plunged his knife downward. Rose clamped her hand over her mouth to stifle her scream, praying it had merged into the other startled cries that rebounded through the hall.

  Delvorak slumped over dead.

  Corin Costellic raised his head.

  A deafening hush consumed the hall. He was looking right at her, his gaze as steadfast and expressionless as metal. She wanted to shake the bars of the railing, to cry and admonish him, to scream and accuse—or to run away, far away, and leave the palace and Talystasia behind and never look back. He'd killed his own commander, her father’s friend; what was to stop him from coming after her ...? Father and Alix weren’t here … if they were even still alive. There was no one to protect her.

  She was alone in the palace with a butcher, a man every bit as dangerous as Andreas Telyra, armed with nothing but her knowledge of the palace.

  Knowledge he was armed with too.

  … I let him talk to me. He could’ve killed me!

  Her blood ran even colder.

  He could still kill me.

  What was to stop her, should she get away, from having him executed in the morning ...?

  She saw this revelation reflected in his eyes. These remaining men were his co-conspirators; they would protect his secret as their own. She alone could accuse him. There would be no trial if she spoke out against him; her word would be law.

  Around the outskirts of the room, she spotted other bodies not clothed in uniforms or armour. Robes and gowns flowed with red liquid streamers. She wasn’t the only hapless noble to have witnessed this scene.

  Sheathing his knife, the lieutenant kicked aside the general’s body, mounting the stairs.

  She ran.

  ~~~

  Time crawled in a sleepless, shapeless blur before she uncurled from her hiding place.

  Exhausted, she tip-toed through the cold, silent passageways. Several times along the way, she found herself confronted with stiff, silent shapes of men, as still as statues. None of the guards batted an eye as she passed them, her heart in her throat, her blood pounding in her ears like the hooves of Telyra’s unruly horse. It was impossible to tell what their intentions were—no longer could she trust the scarlet uniform.

  Someone had cleared the floor of the great hall of bodies and debris, leaving only a few dark puddles to reflect the moon.

  The jewel-encrusted gates still hung wide and unattended, lending the palace a chilly air of abandonment. Mirrored panels in the walls glittered with the clear, frostbitten light of the stars, turning emerald frames to blue and ruby frames to black.

  If Corin Costellic was going to kill her, so be it. Father and Alix still had not returned. There was no getting out of this city alive if his coup d'état had been successful. If those guards were his men, fully cognizant of his actions and intentions, he had chosen to let her live. Why? Who knew. If they weren’t, they had no idea what had transpired in the palace tonight.

  Still of two minds, she picked her way between the dark pools on the floor and padded up the three marble steps of the dais to the great golden throne and seated herself on the floor beside it, gazing out into the night until the stars blurred and ran together like celestial rain.

  Some time later, a sliver of sound rang out like a tuning fork.

  Jerking awake, she ducked into the shadow of the throne, crouching like a wounded animal.

  Something, an object … small, bright, metallic … glimmered on the threshold. It was moving toward her, apparently of its own volition.

  What is this, a dream?

  Whatever it was, it had already traversed half the length of the hall, still singing its metallic song.

  And then she saw what it was and felt a prick at her heart.

  Closing her fingers around it, she lifted it up to the moonlight. As she did, it seemed to subtly contract, conforming to her grasp.

  Her father's circlet. She knew it was an object of power, that it selected the rulers of Talystasia, but she’d never seen it actually choose—

  Me …?

  That meant … Her father and Alix were—

  A cold well burst inside her, and for many hours the only sounds in the hall were the cries of her grief.

  VII: Vultures

  In the morning the castle was quiet. The great wooden doors yawned open to greet the dawn, but a wall of clouds shut out the sun, and the light that crept into the hall was dim and cold. A fire roared in the grate, an unusual sight for daybreak, but comfort was needed as much as light, and Dorthelda’s qualms about the lumber supply fell on deaf ears.

  The north wall had been cleared of cots. Dark stains still lingered, but the grisly marks were mute; they left no hint as to whether the patients had been moved to the hospice to heal, or had simply expired between the hours of dusk and dawn, the cries of their brief, cruel struggles already forgotten.

  A maidservant swept by with a broom, yawning and struggling to hide it. One tired messenger stepped out over the threshold into the chilly sunrise and became a dwindling speck on the drawbridge.

  Dorthelda was folding a tablecloth at the foot of the stairs. Julia pressed against the wall, trying to give her a wide berth.

  "I say, Julia,” she remarked, tapping her foot, “I could use an extra hand with the linens today. Where are you off to so early in the morning ...?"

  "… To find the Master," she answered guardedly.

  Dorthelda grunted. "He's upstairs in the spare room. I wouldn't be bothering with him though. He’s drunker than a—well, en’t he the very measure of it though? Julia—wait! Get back here! What about those linens?!”

  “Is that a question or a demand?”

  “I expect you here by eight o’clock. Sharp. If you’re not here—”

  “Is he okay?”

  “How should I know? Don’t come crying to me that I didn’t warn you.”

  Julia trudged upstairs, casting a sour look downwards. When she reached the door at the end of the hall, she hesitated.

  Fuck Dorthelda.

  She knocked.

  No answer.

  "It's me, Master," she called, trying again.

  Forcing open the door, she stiffened in shock.

  Lord Telyra was sprawled motionless over the writing table. He appeared to be unconscious,
his red mane caked with filth and blood, his skin as pale as the whitewashed walls. Bruises and burns discoloured his bare back and arms, a deep scarlet gash bleeding freely below his shoulder blade.

  The only sound was the slow drip at his feet. The puddle under his chair was so dark and rich with colour that it was almost black in the cold light from the window.

  Gingerly she touched his shoulder and felt along his neck. His pulse was shallow, his face ashen. "Master, you're losing too much blood. And you’re so cold. You need to—"

  "Get out," said Lord Telyra softly.

  She lurched in surprise. "Master, are you okay …?"

  "Get out!" he repeated, raising his voice.

  Her eyes riveted to the bottles clustered on the desk, catching the somber light from outside.

  The previous day and night had taken their toll. The sane, rational Lord Telyra—the one she saw less and less of these days—had checked out. The man who seemed to loathe himself, and her—had checked in.

  "You disobeyed me," he said. "… I told you to stay in your room, and you disobeyed me. You've disappointed me ... Now get out."

  “You need stitches, Master.”

  "Don't tell me what I need," he snarled, propping up his head and grabbing her wrist. "I need some peace and quiet. Can’t you see that I’m tired? How many times do I need to tell you ...?"

  "What can I do for you?" she asked, her heart in her throat.

  "Nothing," he said irritably. "This isn’t where you want to be right now."

  "You need stitches!"

  "The hell I do. I need a drink! Get me more whiskey if you want something to do; this vintage tastes like horse shit.” Eyeing a bottle dubiously, he tipped it out into the dark pool at his feet, seemingly incognizant of the fact that it was his own blood.

  He pitched the empty bottle at the nearest wall where it smashed in the corner with a jangle of broken glass. “Clean that up later … think you’d be grateful for a break, even at my expense.”

  … Should’ve left him up here to bleed.

  No. I won’t be like the rest of them!

  "You do," she said backing out of his reach, "need stitches. I'm gonna get Kalorn. And then I'll go to my room."

  "I told you to stay there! Why would you compromise my efforts to protect you ...?"

  Now that was rich.

  “Protect me? How …?”

  “What if the worst had come to pass and the enemy had found you here in the dungeon? They'd have assumed you were my prisoner and released you.”

  "—I am your prisoner," she said, grabbing the collar at her throat. "I’d think that’s pretty obvious, whether or not I’m in my unlocked cell in the dungeon. And now I'm going to protect you. And you're never gonna thank me for this, never gonna appreciate it. But I don’t fucking care anymore. I don’t need you to define me anymore."

  He moved so fast she almost missed it. Hefting another bottle, he hurled it, his eyes smouldering. “ … Dare you talk to me like that!”

  Julia dodged, covering her head, sheer habit saving her from the projectile. The bottle shattered into the wall behind her, ricocheting shards of glass.

  "I don't want to see anyone right now, least of all that good-for-nothing doctor!"

  Practice again galvanizing her into action, she backed out the door just in time; the third bottle crashed into the doorframe just behind her. Telyra appeared in it seconds later, wielding another. How he’d managed to dash across the room so fast in his weakened condition, she couldn’t imagine.

  "I'LL FIND YOU, YOU FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT!" he roared as she shot down the stairs, shooting him one last terrified glance.

  "I TOLD YOU NO!"

  He collapsed in the chair nearest the door, pain searing up his back. Hauling himself to his feet again, he swept the remaining bottles onto the floor except the one still in his hand, his head spinning. Taking another swig, he dumped the rest in a stinging jet over his wounds and sat down again to wait.

  Julia was true to her word. Moments later, Kalorn entered the room without formality or greeting of any kind, scarcely acknowledging his existence with more than a disinterested glance. The bald physician’s clothes were spattered with more blood than even his own. Dark circles ringed his red-tinged eyes.

  Andreas fixed him with an icy glare. "How many have died since last night ...?"

  "I don't know," replied Kalorn, wiping sweat from his brow. His voice was listless, inflectionless. "Five in my care. Many more in the hospice. The list, if you cared to emerge, is downstairs where you left it.”

  "Where's the girl?"

  "Girl?" Kalorn echoed innocently.

  "The slave who fetched you, fool."

  "Oh Julia? Julia is outside the door—"

  "Doing what, wasting time? I want her here. Bring her here. Now."

  The surgeon departed, groaning, and Andreas put his head against the wall and closed his eyes. When he heard their footsteps in the room, he turned to Julia.

  "You can have a seat.”

  Julia darted for the writing table and clutched the back of the chair with white knuckles, heedless of his blood under her bare feet.

  He never flinched as the thread was pulled through his skin but stared straight at her.

  Flinching in his stead, she turned away.

  He rapped sharply on the wall and leaned forward. “I don’t think so,” he sneered, his eyes darkening like the sky before a storm, as if she were personally the cause of every painful stitch and the wounds which necessitated them. She could see each jab in his eyes, the smallest twitch in his cheek betraying his wrath. Each was a promise of what he’d soon be visiting on her.

  Kalorn straightened up and packed his tools away. “Come Julia," he said with a false cheer. “They’ll be wanting you down in the wash. Lots of sheets to clean …”

  Praying silently, she rose to follow.

  "No." Lord Telyra threw his arm in front of her and gasped, a grimace of pain contorting his face.

  "Really my Lord, you shouldn't do that. Or I'll have to fix it all over again!" Kalorn remonstrated.

  "Then you’ll have to fix it all over again. She stays.”

  Kalorn leaned in towards his ear, his voice scarcely a whisper, but Julia heard each word distinctly. "I know what you do."

  “I should think you do. Otherwise you’re horribly overpaid, and probably deaf. What of it man?”

  “It’s abuse. You’re actually so persuaded of your own dominance that I sometimes think you convince yourself otherwise.”

  “How can it be abuse? Abuse is something that happens to people.”

  "I tire of fixing her," said Kalorn stiffly. "But do as you wish."

  "Be gone, you're not helping her old man!"

  Kalorn slammed the door, leaving Julia to stand regretfully facing the heavy oak barrier, breathing hard. She could feel Lord Telyra at her back, watching her silently.

  “You’ve made some mistakes today, girl,” he said finally.

  Mistakes … that was what he called giving a shit whether he lived or died?

  Masking her fear, she answered, “I know.”

  “Three simple words can avert a scene. Turn around please.”

  She turned to face him, towering and incensed only four feet away, and backed up an involuntary step.

  Don’t qualify your answer, don’t ...

  “I’m sorry for leaving my room, Master.”

  “But …?”

  Julia opened her mouth, then clamped it shut. How much damage could he possibly do with half a pint of blood on the floor?

  When she finally spoke, her voice shook hard. “I’m not sorry, Master, for calling the doctor.”

  “Thank you for your honesty,” he said, his voice level and cold. “Do you think I’m feeling forgiving? … Come here.”

  She only wavered half a heartbeat before making a dash for the door. Lord Telyra snatched for her hair and missed. As she twisted the handle he grabbed her and slammed her head into the door.


  It took a moment for the pain to register, but when it did, it forced out all the tears she’d thought she’d managed to suppress. Thrashing and screaming, she kicked him in the groin, but it did nothing to loosen his grip on her neck or to halt the vindictive, excruciating blows.

  Her vision blurred, her cries coming from far off, and she felt her body receding as a numb blackness overtook her, engulfing even the pain. Humiliatingly, she could feel Lord Telyra propping her up as he struck her, before that sensation also faded.

  A wave of impact shook her back into full consciousness. She opened her eyes to blurred vision and ears ringing, the floor within an inch of her face. Lord Telyra drove his boot into her back, knocking her flat.

  “… Disobey me a third time …!” he was yelling viciously, grinding his heel into her ribs. As she struggled to get up he stamped on her again, eliciting another cry from her lips. Her vision flickered and reeled, her head pounding in protest like he was still hammering it into the door.

  “What the FUCK is the matter with you …? ANSWER ME!” he roared.

  “I … can’t! I can’t even hear what you’re saying!”

  “Get up,” he said with disgust.

  She gasped, then raised herself cautiously on one knee. The room swam precariously in front of her eyes.

  Lord Telyra’s hand closed around her arm, dragging her to her feet. Pulling away, she took a step and faltered.

  “If you fall, I’ll beat you again.”

  He held out his arm, his face remorseless. Sickened at her own weakness, she took it.

  Leading her to the door, he threw her outside and slammed it.

  Kalorn was there to catch her. Leaning gratefully into his shoulder, she let him escort her down the hallway. Every few steps they paused so she could recollect her balance.

  “Ever the dull heartache.”

  “He was drunk,” she offered when she found her voice.

  “Wish I could be!” he lamented. “What I’ve seen this past night … that I haven’t had to in three years is the only good thing I can say about the bastard. That truce never would’ve happened under his mother, you know. And she was nice, relatively speaking.” He paused and came to a stop, clasping her arms to keep her upright.