by Donovan, Rob
“Master Jefferson, I did not expect to see you so soon!”
“That is why you are stuck down here in the catacombs of the city, Delmut.”
Jefferson walked towards the figure that had addressed him. He was adorned in a long, brown, hooded cloak, most commonly used by monks. Delmut, however, was far from religious. As Jefferson reached him, Delmut pulled back the hood revealing his unusual face. It was entirely painted with tattoos, depicting all manner of grotesque images. One cheek depicted a dragon plucking a dolphin out of the ocean, its entrails falling to the water, whilst another displayed a goat straddling a child. The tattoos continued over Delmut’s bald head.
Why Delmut decided to cover himself in these crude designs Jefferson had never asked. All he knew was that it suited his character perfectly. For Delmut had no feelings other than being happy when he tortured someone. He raised a hand at Jefferson in greeting and grinned to reveal several yellow teeth.
“Did he believe you?” Delmut said.
“Are we free to talk?” Jefferson replied, glancing at the cells.
“Of course, my lord, these filth aren’t going anywhere ever.”
“The plan continues as I intended.”
Delmut nodded at this. He seemed troubled now the scheme was in motion.
“What about the Order?”
“They won’t be a problem,” Jefferson said, before adding, “I don’t like to be questioned, Delmut.”
“Forgive me, my lord.”
“Leave the Order to me. You just continue with my instructions and you will be handsomely rewarded.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“What about the scroll?”
“Gyotpa has not reported back since following the witch to the Marshes of Night.”
Jefferson nodded. Farther down the corridor the man still whimpered from where Jefferson had broken his arm.
“No one must know of my involvement, Delmut,” he said at last. Delmut grinned.
“As always, my lord,” he replied.
Chapter 7
Althalos could barely lift his arms to parry the assortment of blows Fyfe rained down on him. Every muscle throbbed in protest, his teeth rattled as he blocked another strike that jarred his body.
Eventually his trainer vented his fury by swiping Althalos’s legs away and kicking him in the ribs. The prince’s face hit the dirt before he could even register he was no longer standing.
Winded, he allowed himself the pleasure of shutting his eyes and resting whilst he tried to get his breath back.
“You are sluggish today. You fight like a novice,” Fyfe said.
“I am a novice and the reason I am sluggish is because you sent the others to the baths two hours ago,” Althalos murmured.
“You’re the one that requested the extra lessons, yet you whine like a mule.”
Althalos allowed himself to smile. He had requested the extra lessons, it was true. As the Prince of Lilyon, he wanted to be among the best swordsmen in the kingdom. Fyfe, the master of arms, had been reluctant to oblige at first. He emphatically insisted his daily sessions would be gruelling enough. Althalos was determined, however, and so they had conducted extra lessons after the others were dismissed.
He heard Fyfe crouch down next to him.
“Are you hurt?” Fyfe asked.
“No, I have just reached my limit today. I don’t think I can lift a muscle. You better send for a wagon to carry me indoors.”
Fyfe grunted his response, ignoring the teasing.
“I do push you hard. Sometimes I forget you are green with a sword.”
“I put Royo to shame this morning. Not so green there.”
Fyfe smiled.
“I did not mean to insult. You have come a very long way in a very short time. It is clear you are an excellent swordsman. It is your wits that you will need to survive in battle. At the moment you are too eager to finish fights early. You need patience. You need to bide your time and know when to strike. This only comes with endurance and experience.”
Althalos groaned. He had heard this lecture many times before. His endurance was improving every day. Each day he woke up and ached a little less than the day before. He was now well above the level of the other students, to the point where Fyfe no longer paired him with a sparring partner but set two boys on him at once.
The two of them stayed next to each other for a while, easy in each other’s silence. Althalos enjoyed the sun’s warmth on his face, the heat making him sleepy. It had always been this way between the two of them. With Fyfe he could speak and act naturally. There was not the pressure of being the prince and living up to his father’s standards. In the training yard he was nothing more than a student. It was the only public place he felt truly at ease and not as if he was performing some formal ceremony.
“I heard about the stone,” Fyfe said, pretending to examine a crack in one of the wooden swords they used to practice with.
“Kind of makes all this training pointless, doesn’t it?” Althalos said.
Fyfe frowned at this.
“Not at all. I’ve seen many Rituals over the years and one thing is for certain. No one can guarantee which stone comes first out of that waterfall. I’ve seen a four-year-old boy sacrificed in the name of the blasted Gloom.”
Fyfe stood and spat at the memory. Althalos had heard the story. People still talked about it in hushed voices. It was purported to have been the worst sacrifice in memory. It was said the boy’s wails could still be heard echoing around the city square. Nonsense, of course, Althalos had never heard them, but the thought of that horrible day still left his stomach churning.
“I would love to kill the Gloom,” he said, more to himself than to Fyfe.
“You are not the first person to say that. Unfortunately, it appears it is impossible.”
Althalos nodded. At five years old, he had been too young to witness the last Ritual. Jacquard had sent him away to Rora a few days before the solstice. He did not remember too much of the visit but he did remember coming home to Lilyon. The city was eerily subdued. People went about their business, but they did so in a sluggish fashion. There was no life to the city whatsoever. It took a good month before the city began to return to its former vibrant self.
He wondered if it would be the same this time. Would he even be around to witness it?
“What is it like to kill someone?”
“It depends.” Fyfe stopped examining the sword and looked him in the eye. Althalos knew he would not be fazed by the question and waited for him to continue. “In battle it is easier. You are focussed only on staying alive and who is attacking you next. Adrenaline does not allow for you to contemplate the life you have just dispatched. When the fight is over, you are mentally and physically exhausted, maybe even euphoric if you have won the day. It is only much later when you seek the comfort of a wench’s arms that remorse kicks in. The horror of those lives you have ended dawns on you. You begin to wonder about the victims’ lives. Did they have families? Young ones? The taverns are full of wenches who will tell you how the bravest of warriors have sobbed in the night whilst holding on to them.
“To assassinate someone is completely different. It is a premeditated act, you can convince yourself that you know what you are about to do, but until you are actually in sight of that person and see them going about their lives, you don’t know how you are going to react. Maybe they are eating dinner with their friend or strolling through a garden. Something to make you realise they are just the same as you ...”
Fyfe trailed off. Althalos was surprised to see him frantically wipe a tear away from his eyes. He decided it was best to pretend he hadn’t noticed.
“You won’t hear any wench tell a story of how I have cried in her arms,” the prince said.
“Oh? Fancy yourself as having a cold heart, do you?”
“Not at all. I fancy myself as having a good heart and one I will not waste on some wench in a tavern or worse.”
Fyfe laughed, “W
e’ll see. You are still young. I doubt your heart has been broken yet. Come,” Fyfe said, offering him a hand up, “Your lessons are done for the day. Go seek out that bath you’re so desiring.”
Later, Althalos was still soaking in the bath which had begun to turn cold. He was enjoying the weightlessness too much to move. He lay on his back and pushed himself off from the tiled side and floated across the surface of the water. When he reached the other side, he pushed off again with his hands.
As he did so, a wave of water washed over his face, causing him to stand up spluttering like a child dunked for the first time.
“If you are going to soak in the big bath, it would be preferable to learn how to swim.”
He whirled around to see Shana standing at the edge of the pool. She held a set of towels, pristinely folded and wore the jade tunic traditional for a maidservant in the palace.
“I was wondering how long I was going to have to wait for you to come,” Althalos said, making only a token effort to cover himself. Shana smiled shyly, she tucked her hair behind one of her ears and tilted her head, as if trying to determine whether he was teasing her or not.
“I had to swap duties with Madeline. I think she is getting suspicious, you know.”
Althalos dipped his mouth under the water and then spat it out so that it formed a long stream in the air.
“Let them be suspicious. I am the prince, I can see who I like,” he said.
“Ah, such bravado when your father is not around. But when he tells you to marry the daughter of some warlord, you will oblige.”
“He is not like that, thank the moons. He believes in love and not arrangements.”
“Are you saying you are in love with me, young prince?”
Althalos felt his cheeks instantly colour. “That is not what I said.”
Shana, however, appeared not to care. She placed the towels on the side of the bath and stood up to leave.
“Wait, come in and join me.”
“You must have taken a large knock on the head from Fyfe this morning to suggest such a thing,” Shana said, but she smiled at the idea.
“At least stay awhile, we haven’t seen each other in three days.”
He hated the pleading in his voice but he did not care. It had been too long since they had spent any time together. He missed her. She formed another part of his world that did not consist of being a prince.
“I can’t. Morag is expecting me to help with the rooms. We must prepare them for the warlords.”
Althalos pulled a sulky face but it had no effect as she turned away from him. He didn’t expect it to, in truth, and instantly felt foolish.
“Look, I will try and get away tomorrow night. I finish early and can meet you at the grove?” she said.
“Tomorrow night? What about tonight?”
“I could, but I assume you will be expected at the greetings feast.”
Althalos instantly felt stupid. It was a tradition to welcome the warlords with a feast before the council. The idea was to enjoy each other’s company before the serious business of discussing Frindoth began.
“Tomorrow night then,” he said disappointedly.
Shana laughed and began walking towards the door.
“Hold on. Do I not even get a kiss to tide me over?”
Shana hesitated. She poked her head through the door to see who was about before turning back to him.
“I can’t. You will get me all wet.”
Althalos raised his eyebrows and smiled.
“Oh, don’t flatter yourself, you know what I mean,” she said in mock annoyance.
“How can I get through another day without a kiss?” he said and sent a gentle splash in her direction. She squealed as she hopped out of the way and then instantly clasped a hand over her mouth. She checked the door again and then returned to the room.
“Hopefully this will tide you over,” she said and then pulled her tunic to one side to reveal her breast. Instantly, he hardened. She laughed at the shocked expression on his face and then left the room giggling.
Althalos groaned and submerged himself under the water, his head filled with the potential of the next secret liaison.
A shadow fell across the water causing him to smile. He knew she could not resist him for too long. She had shown too much restraint already.
“Couldn’t resist looking at the good stuff for long, could you?”
“I assure you that is not why I am here, my prince.”
Althalos choked on the water and felt himself go red for the second time that hour.
“Jefferson!”
“You sound disappointed?”
“No, no, just surprised, that is all.”
Jefferson raised his eyebrows, a bemused expression on his face. It was clear he knew Althalos had been talking about a girl but thankfully did not pursue the matter.
“Am I needed anywhere?” he asked. He had been in the bath a long time but could not think of any duty where he might be expected.
“Is that all you see me as these days? A messenger to summon you to events?” Jefferson sat himself on a stone bench and stretched out his legs. His knees clicked in the process, causing Althalos to shudder.
“No, of course not. You just do not usually seek me out in the bath, that’s all,” Althalos said.
“Just as well, it seems,” the old man replied with a twinkle in his eye.
Althalos made a show of rubbing the last of the dirt from his body and then exited the bath. Jefferson handed him a towel.
“I want to talk to you about the Ritual. Your father seems unable to bring it up with you and you are just as awkward around him about the subject.”
“What about the Ritual?” Althalos said, drying his hair. He did not bother to deny Jefferson’s slight. It was true, his father seemed to want to avoid the subject altogether, which was fine by Althalos. Why worry about something you have no control over?
“I want to tell you what to expect.”
“I know what to expect.”
“No, you have read what you should expect. Reading about it and experiencing it are two different things.”
“Maybe I don’t want to know anything beyond that,” Althalos said.
“Then I will tell you anyway,” Jefferson said, a note of impatience in his voice. Althalos threw the towel down and picked up another. It was always like this between the two of them. Jefferson would start out pretending to treat him with the respect owed to a prince, but would soon descend into admonishing him and treating him like a little boy.
He took a couple of deep breaths and dried the water from his ears.
“Look, I appreciate your intentions. I understand them, I really do. You want me to be as prepared as I can be, but until the Ritual takes place, I want to spend as little time as I can thinking and worrying about it. Is that clear?”
“Watch your tongue, Prince. Remember who you are talking to,” Jefferson said, shakily getting to his feet. Althalos rushed to help him.
“Sit down, sit down. I meant no offence,” Althalos said and was relieved when Jefferson allowed him to help him back onto the bench. “All I meant was, there is too much violence in this world, surely you can accept that I don’t want to hear about it now.”
“That is your father talking,” Jefferson said.
“Well, I am to be king one day. So it is good I am beginning to sound like one.”
“You are not a king yet. You would do well to remember that.”
The words wounded him. He had meant the statement in a light-hearted manner and was surprised Jefferson had not interpreted it that way. He noticed a pile of his clothes resting against a pillar. They were clean and neatly folded; his dirty ones had been removed. He had not even noticed Shana do this and the thought of her made him smile.
“Althalos, the Ritual is a terrifying experience. I want to prepare you for every eventuality. It will not do to have the prince of the realm blubbering like a baby when he is on the gallows,” Jefferson said.
“Is that what you think I will do, sob like a coward?” Althalos said. Jefferson raised his hands to calm him down.
“I just want to help you. You would not be the first man to weep. I have seen men lose control of their bladders.”
“Enough!” Althalos finished dressing, angrily pulling on his shirt and doing up buttons. “Your ghost stories will only make me feel a quivering mess. We will see who weeps on the day,” he said and then stormed out of the room, leaving Jefferson with a wry smile on his face.
Chapter 8
The days passed and still there was no change in Janna’s condition. Rhact watched his wife soak a flannel in a bucket of water and apply it to their daughter’s head. After hearing Janna’s screams, he had rushed to her room. He found Kiana cradling Janna who was sitting up in her bed, staring at the stone in front of her as if it had bitten her.
The stone itself was unremarkable, a smooth deep red rock. For a moment all he could do was stare at it. Kiana told him to take the stone away and keep it out of sight. He had been reluctant to touch it for a moment before he obeyed her, handling the stone like he would a baby animal that could break. Janna had sobbed uncontrollably. She had been hyperventilating and as Rhact left the room, he was aware of Kiana trying to calm her down.
Eventually Janna slipped into a trance-like state, the shock of the stone taking her, her arms wrapped around her knees as if to give comfort. She stared out of her bedroom window and would not respond to anything Rhact or Kiana said.
After an hour of just sitting, Jensen had slapped her. The act infuriated Rhact and he hauled him downstairs, clipping him round the head several times as he did so. Deep down, though, he had been more concerned that Janna had not reacted apart for her cheek swelling.
He returned later and tried everything to coax Janna out of her trance. When he got no response, he and Kiana briefly discussed the idea of taking Janna to see the witch. Kiana thought maybe she hadn’t left Longcombe yet. Rhact knew she had, though. Jon Holdsworth had said she was leaving immediately.