by Jenny Ealey
Once the feeling of sickness had passed, Tarkyn realised he was lying on a long wooden workbench. He rolled off the bench to land cat-like on his feet, then stood up slowly, grasping the edge of the bench for support while he regained his sense of balance. A strange combination of dull orange light from a street lamp a little way down the road and moonlight, picked out vague shapes in the darkened workroom. As his eyes became accustomed to the dim light, he realised that the mounds in the corner were in fact neatly stacked piles of cloth. Completed shirts, surcoats, cloaks and leggings hung in racks along the rear wall. It was the middle of the night and the workmen were all at home in their beds. It seemed no apprentices slept on the premises. He let out a sigh, thinking that luck was with him.
“Oh, very lucky!” he said sourly to himself.For a moment, the enormity of his situation threatened to overwhelm him, but he resolutely kept his mind in the present, knowing he could not afford the luxury of reflection until he was well away from Tormadell.
Although his own surcoat had been made here, he had never been to this workshop himself. All fittings were done at the palace. So he had no idea where he was. As he sat on a pile of cut cloth wondering what to do next, he gradually became aware of distant shouting. Several times, he heard running footsteps on the cobbles outside the factory. When the shouting drew nearer, for horrified moments he thought that the guards had worked out his location. But no. It was merely townsfolk regaling each other with the drama of the Great Hall’s collapse and urging each other to venture forth to see the spectacle.
Tarkyn considered his situation. He knew how to fight, but other than that, he had had no training in looking after himself. He had been pandered to from the moment he was born. Now, the obstacles facing him even to procure breakfast in a few hours’ time, seemed insurmountable. He had never had to deal with money and did not have any on him now. And even if he did have money, he could not risk being seen to buy anything. Not only was he a well-known public figure, but any circulated description of his long black hair, his height and his unusual amber eye colour would make him eminently recognisable.
After some careful thought he decided that with an uncertain future ahead of him, he would need resources. He would not turn to his friends and jeopardise their safety but somehow he had to get back into the palace and retrieve at least some of his personal jewellery. Now seemed as good a time as any; in fact better than most. All eyes would be on the demise of the Great Hall.
With a wry smile, he focused carefully on himself, better prepared this time for the feeling of disintegration and murmured, “Maya Mureva Araya…”
He expected to land in his mother’s bed where he had been born but in fact, he landed in the king’s huge four-poster bed. As he fought against the nausea, he shook his head. This spell is dangerously unpredictable. Returning to the place of one’s creation is open to more than one interpretation. He shuddered as a thought struck him, Oh lord. At least it didn’t try to put me back inside my mother.
A sound in the corridor brought his attention back to his surroundings. Even if the present king were elsewhere, he realised, there would always be a guard at his door. A fire glowed in the stone hearth, keeping the room warm, ready for the king’s return. Bright moonlight streamed in through the window, bathing the padded armchairs and the fine, ornate writing desk in soft, silvery light. In the distance, Tarkyn could still hear the sounds of turmoil but within the palace, everything seemed quiet.
Tarkyn considered his options. He could take some of the king’s jewellery in exchange for his own, leaving a note to that effect, but he suspected that Kosar would publicise the loss of his jewellery and suppress the explanation. Tarkyn did not want grand larceny added to the other accusations against his name.
He could not hope to beguile the guard by passing himself off as his brother. The king and Jarand were noticeably shorter than he, had grey eyes and wore their auburn hair shoulder length. Only the set of their features showed their relationship.
Tarkyn crossed to the window and opened it. Two hundred yards away, crowds of people clustered around the remains of the Great Hall. Only one corner of the monumental old building was left standing. The rest lay in piles of tumbled stone. Even as he watched, the last section gave way and crashed to the ground, sending up a billow of white dust. The sounds of shouting redoubled as spectators and workmen scrabbled away from the falling masonry. A knot of activity centred around one particular group and when the crowds parted, he could see his mother the dowager queen, talking intently with guards, workmen and townspeople. Tarkyn felt sick at the thought of the guardsmen who must have been trapped inside the building as it fell.
He shook his head to clear it. There was nothing he could do to help them. He had to find a way out of the king’s room, retrieve what he had come for and leave. He took a moment to peer down two storeys to the lawns below. Too exposed. No way of escape there. After a bit of thought, he moved quickly to the king’s writing desk and rummaged around until he found some parchment. He tore it quietly into strips and placed it along the inside of the door. Then he lit a taper from the coals of the fire, set the parchment alight and waited.
As the smoke seeped out into the corridor, he heard a muttered exclamation, followed by the precipitous entry of the guard. Tarkyn stepped behind him and closed the door. At the sound, the guard swung round, his eyes widening at the sight of the prince.
As the guard’s hand went to his sword, Tarkyn sent a thin blast of power into the man’s forearm. The guardsman reeled back, clutching his arm in pain. Tarkyn said quietly, “I do not want to hurt you further. But if you make any move to attack me, I will retaliate.”
The guard lurched towards Tarkyn, “I cannot allow you to threaten our king. I must protect him, even if it means my life.”
Tarkyn waved his hand languidly and muttered, “Shturrum”, freezing the man in his tracks. The prince raised his eyebrows. “I would expect no less. That is, after all, your duty. However, you have my assurance that I intend the king no harm. I am merely passing through.” He considered the guard dispassionately, “I am afraid I will have to tie you up so that I can make good my escape. I will not gag you if you hold your peace.” He shrugged, “Besides, I doubt that there is anyone near enough to hear you at the moment.” Saying that, he dragged the tasselled rope from the king’s dressing gown and used it to tie the guard’s hands behind him, before waving his hand to release the spell. Then he frogmarched the guard over to the huge four-poster bed, sat him down unceremoniously on the eiderdown and tied him to an upright.
The guard watched warily as Tarkyn stepped back to survey his handiwork. After a moment, Tarkyn met his eyes, “And now, guardsman, if I leave you like this, you will avoid excessive punishment, I think.”
“I do not wish to avoid punishment. I have failed in my duty,” replied the guard stiffly.
“Don’t be such a martyr. I have already told you; the king is safe. And I do not wish my actions to be the cause of your suffering, any more than they already are.”
“Huh! From what I hear, your actions tonight have caused a great deal more suffering than this. I can’t imagine why you would concern yourself with me.”
The prince’s mouth set in a thin line. “You forget yourself.”
Under Tarkyn’s unbending stare, the guardsman lowered his head. “I beg your pardon, Your Highness. Tonight’s events have confused us all.”
“That may be so,” Tarkyn conceded, “But whatever else I may be held to be, I am still a prince of Eskuzor…and you and anyone else who crosses my path would do well to remember it.”
At that, the guardsman raised his head and subjected Tarkyn to a long considering stare. But before he could voice his thoughts, Tarkyn crossed quickly to the door, listening intently.With a brief nod at the guardsman, he opened the door and slipped out into the dimly lit corridor. It was deserted. He headed to his right, his nerves jangling, expecting at any moment that one of the doors he passed would open. The sound of hi
s footsteps, despite his best efforts at stealth, echoed around the stone walls. With a grimace at the delay, he risked a few moments to take off his boots. Holding them in one hand, he crept on stockinged feet to the top of the staircase.
Suddenly he heard the voices of his brothers coming towards him, somewhere below him in the central hallway. He stepped back and pressed himself into an alcove, finding shelter behind a large statue of his great grandmother. As he listened, a messenger ran to catch up with the king and reported, “Your Majesty, there is still no news. The entire building has collapsed in on itself. Workmen are even now trying to reach those trapped beneath the rubble. The streets are filled with anxious relatives and onlookers. There have been no sightings of your brother the prince, Sire, and until what is left of the interior is breached, it is too early to say whether he still lives.”
“Thank you,” said Kosar gravely. As Tarkyn heard the messenger’s footsteps gradually fade into the distance, the king spoke again. “Jarand, I think we must go out into the street and show our concern for our people.” He sighed heavily. “Blast Tarkyn! How did he have the power to destroy the Great Hall? It will cost a literal fortune to rebuild.”
Relieved, Tarkyn realised that Kosar had no immediate plans to climb the stairs and return to his bedchamber.
“Unfortunate, I agree,” Jarand’s voice echoed up the stairs, “But at least we have achieved what we set out to do. We have removed the risk of Tarkyn’s pretensions to your throne.”
Above them, Tarkyn listened in stunned disbelief.
“Just as well. Clearly his power is – was excessive…and far too many people applauded his victory. But look at that mess out there! I was hoping to remove him with a minimum of fuss.” Kosar came into sight, heading towards the front door, his twin brother beside him. “I don’t know what happened after we left, but somehow he held off my entire Royal Guard and then destroyed the building around him.”
“Pointless. Juvenile theatrics; petty revenge at the cost of self sacrifice. He must have known he could not win. And now he has been crushed with all the others.” Jarand sounded spine-chillingly unconcerned. “Even if Tarkyn has somehow survived, his popularity won’t have. He will be the most reviled man in Eskuzor.”
“I will make sure of that,” said the king grimly.
Tarkyn gave a little frown, knowing these words should upset him. And yet his brothers’ betrayal, followed by the horror of his trial and its wake of destruction had so numbed his mind that his popularity seemed of little significance. In fact, when he thought about it, his unpopularity would be merely one more obstacle in his already impossible future.
As their voices faded away, Tarkyn found he had no energy left to care that the cost of the Great Hall mattered more to them than he did. He waited for a few minutes before easing himself out from behind his great grandmother’s statue to resume his journey across the top of the staircase. He followed the corridor for another fifty yards until he came to the door of his room.
He listened briefly before slipping into the haven of his own bedchamber. He glanced at his mahogany four-poster bed, noting that someone had already pulled the embroidered eiderdowns straight and plumped up the pillows. All around him were the objects of his life that he would have to leave behind: his trophy, books that he treasured, a small painting of his father, and various gifts and mementoes that he had kept despite carefully worded protests from his servants about the clutter. Almost he wished that he had not returned. Seeing what he must leave behind, highlighted the extent of his loss.
Thrusting his regrets aside, Tarkyn walked to his dressing table where his jewellery box stood in full view. He searched through his drawers until he found a drawstring leather bag and, with no regard for the beauty or delicacy of the finely wrought, gem-encrusted pieces, shovelled his jewellery wholesale into it. He glanced at the door of his dressing room, considering the wisdom of taking some clothes with him but he had limited time and no idea what clothing he should pack for himself. He had to return to the tailor’s, well before the start of the working day. In the end, he stuffed a couple of shirts into a bag and grabbed only his travelling cloak and hunting knife. Then he spent precious minutes penning a note to say that he had taken his own jewellery, to protect his servants from accusations of theft.
As he blotted his note, he took one last look around. He attached the sheath of his knife to his belt, and slipped the leather purse into a deep pocket in his leggings. Then he placed the cloak around his shoulders and took a firm hold on his bag, before focusing on his surcoat one more time. s soon as he had re-oriented himself in the quiet of the tailor’s shop, Tarkyn crossed to the door and turned the handle. The handle turned, but the door did not give when he pulled or pushed it.
“Blast. It’s locked, of course. And no doubt the tailor has the key on his person.” Tarkyn threw his hands up, “Now what?”
After a few moments of frustration, it occurred to him that there might be another exit. Sure enough, a sturdy wooden door, bolted on the inside, led into a back alley. Tarkyn cautiously drew back the bolt, opened the door and peered out into the darkness. This established little more than the fact that no one was standing beside the door waiting to pounce on him. Taking his chances, he slipped out into the alleyway, pulled the door to behind him and waited for his eyes to adjust. The alley was in deep shadow; the buildings too high to admit the moonlight and no streetlamp nearby to cast away the darkness. He stood with his back to the door, listening. Off to his left, he could faintly hear the noise of the crowd gathered at the remains of the Great Hall. With his hand trailing against the alley wall for guidance, he headed to his right.
He crept along until the alley intersected a small road. Here he took a left and then a right hand turn into another alley that led him all the time further from the sounds of the crowds and hence away from the centre of the city. This was, in fact, the sum total of his plan at this stage; to reach the edge of the city and from there, to get well away from houses and people. Without having thought it through, Tarkyn had a vague idea that the further from Tormadell he went, the less likely people would be to recognise him or to have heard what had happened tonight.
He moved quickly and quietly through the dark streets, pulling back into the shadows to wait, each time he heard a noise or saw any signs of movement. But very few people were out and about in the depth of the night so he was able to make good time. Twice a small band of soldiers marched past down a cobbled street but the alleys provided plenty of cover at night and Tarkyn was able to draw back into doorways and remain unobserved until they passed.
At times, his nose screwed up at the smells of urine and refuse that wafted at him through the darkness. Once, he tripped over a pile of rubbish and his foot clanged loudly against a metal drum. An upstairs window opened abruptly and the tousled head of a middled aged woman popped out, “Who’s down there making all that noise?”
Another window opened and a raucous voice demanded, “What’s going on? Who’s sneaking around my back gate?”
Tarkyn stood still in the shadows, scarcely breathing. Suddenly a cat broke cover and, with a bloodcurdling yowl, tore off down the alleyway.
“Oh! Bloody cats! I might have known,” The owner of the first voice slammed the window down in disgust and retreated. The second window banged shut in answer.
Tarkyn waited, hunkered down beside the metal drum, until he was sure that all was quiet again. A lot of cats in Tormadell, he thought, before feeling his way carefully past the offending metal drum and resuming his journey.
By the time he had neared the edge of town, he found he was moving more surely and realised that the first faint touch of dawn was showing him the details of the buildings around him and the cobbles beneath his feet. He noticed with distaste the grime ground into the walls of three storey dwellings, gates hanging askew and rotting food scraps strewn carelessly into the alley. Everywhere around him were signs of poverty and decay. Anyone who lived there, would have seen that, in
fact, some of the buildings were well kept; clean, and recently painted. But Tarkyn, overwhelmed by his first sight of the poorer quarters of town, was horrified.
His next disquieting discovery was that many people rose a lot earlier than he did. Even on mornings when he made an extraordinary effort to rise early to go hunting, he still left his bed well after sunrise. He was aware that his servants had to be up before him but he had somehow assumed that their early rising was peculiar to their profession. Yet out here in the town, many people were appearing on the streets well before the sun had risen.
And with the brightening light, Tarkyn was in real danger. The safety of his dark back alleys was being stripped from him minute by minute. At any time, someone could give him a second look and recognise him. And his travelling cloak, beautifully tailored from fine russetdyed wool and embroidered with silver thread, although workaday by his standards, stood out like a beacon of excellence among the clothes of tradesmen.
For the time being, he could think of nothing to do but keep his hood up, his head down and walk on, looking for somewhere to lie low as he went. As a strategy, this was destined for failure.
He had not gone two blocks before he became aware that someone was quietly following him. As he passed a side alley, he caught a glimpse of a slight, ragged figure running parallel with his course in the next alley along and another creeping up through the shadows towards him. When a larger figure appeared in the mouth of the alley ahead of him, Tarkyn gave up all hope of passing undetected, backed himself up against the side wall and waited.
In all, there were five of them; two tough-looking men, an even tougher-looking old woman and two scrawny teenagers; a boy of about fourteen and a girl of thirteen. They closed in on him slowly until they stood just beyond arm’s length in a semi-circle around him.
The silence lengthened but none of them made a move towards him. Eventually Tarkyn, never good at waiting, cleared his throat and asked, “May I help you?”