by Paul Heisel
Velinole smirked. "Guesses at best, Kragan. And I'm not as defenseless as you portray me to be. It is more than an information network."
"You command no armies, you have no lords behind you, even Jakks mulls over your usefulness when you're not around. You are defenseless. Weak."
"One morning you just won't wake up, I promise you that."
"Idle threat."
"You don't think I've turned your spies? They are mine."
"Your day will come," Kragan croaked. He sheathed his blade and darted out of the room. It was quiet except for the blood dripping from the table to the waxed wooden floor.
Velinole took a deep breath, counting to ten to make sure Kragan hadn't turned around and walked back. Again he had escaped death or imprisonment, yet he knew his luck would run out one day. He was relieved the plan to crush the Accord of the Hand was going well, and he knew the upcoming battle would be bloody. Of course Kragan, the arrogant bastard he was, would throw himself into the middle of it at Jakks's side. The Knight Captain would most likely die, Jakks, with his crazy good fortune, would probably survive.
"Kragan, you won't be alive," Velinole muttered to the dead body. "Just like you, scout."
"None of you will."
Without balking, Velinole turned toward the familiar voice. A diminutive man stepped from the shadows, where he had hidden with the aid of furniture and poor lighting. "Ah, Puran, the king's runt brother. I must remember to bar the other doors. Is that how you gained entrance? Never mind, don't answer that. So, what news do you bring from your skulking around the city? Anything useful for me? My spies tell me you have been busy lately."
Puran laughed. "Skulking? Hardly - I go where I wish and do what I wish. Even if I found useful information, I wouldn't give it to you."
"We all have secrets. You have dark, dirty ones. Oh, I know you visit the brothels. Tell me, is it more exciting to lure the whores away, have your way with them in the dark alleys, or do you draw the greatest pleasure from murdering them afterwards? One day you'll get caught, and even being the king's brother will not sway the decision to behead you. Your brother will see to it. I will see to it."
"The greatest pleasure I will draw is when this kingdom falls. The Accord of the Hand will destroy Borgard and all it has stood for. The curse is finally coming true. You can't stop it, I can't stop it, and certainly my bastard brother, your so called king, can't stop it."
Velinole laughed. "The curse is a myth."
"Really?" Puran crossed the expanse of the room. He was dressed in all blacks and moved with an exactness reserved for thieves. In contrast to Jakks, he was a slight man, leaning credibility to the rumor that Puran was fathered by a different man, a bastard. He looked nothing like Jakks and their father, Frederick, the only resemblance was from the mother in his face.
The king's advisor stood still, ignoring the urge to put distance between himself and Puran. He could stand up to Jakks and Kragan, but Puran was dangerous. Puran was near insane, mentally sick, and unpredictable. Jakks and Kragan were always full of threats, but never followed through. Yes they got rough at times, but both knew that they needed him to run the kingdom. They needed his information network. Puran, on the other hand, didn't care about anything except his own life and ending others for sport. Velinole wondered if he should have imprisoned Puran along with Makison, the eldest brother. He was certain he should have. "The curse is a myth," Velinole repeated.
"Brothers are three,
The love is locked,
None are free,
If one dies by the other's hand,
Borgard shall fall, it shall not stand."
Velinole clapped his hands and laughed, mocking the rhyme. "Bravo, bravo! How poetic, a boy remembers his insane father's last words. How can you say it's a curse?"
Puran came closer to Velinole. "I know Jakks killed Makison. That was no hunting accident. Jakks killed Makison or had him killed so he could be king. And this curse is why Borgard is in such disarray, that's why our kingdom has lost greatness."
"Oh, I think it's mismanagement," Velinole said, laughing at Puran. "We don't need a curse to cripple this kingdom with Jakks running it. Imagine what it would be like had I not been here - you'd be living in filth or rotting in the dungeons. In fact, I doubt you would be alive. Jakks would have rid himself of both you and Makison."
"Are you saying you kept me alive? That's a falsehood if I've ever heard one."
"Who's to say who kept who alive? Is there a reason to keep tally?" The advisor stood straight and brushed his robe, feeling the cold blood from the dead scout on his fingertips. "Jakks is unstable, a drunkard who drinks himself blind, then urinates on your father's statue in the courtyard. Years ago he wanted to have you killed. Yet I've been able to convince him that you'll be useful in the future. On second thought, maybe we should keep a tally."
Puran backed away from Velinole and turned, his cloak sweeping in a great arc. Moments later, he went through the other door and was gone. Velinole waited until he was sure Puran wasn't coming back, glanced at the blood splatter on his robe and hands, and groaned at this mess. He rushed through the door and found a servant, then sent the boy to gather others to clean the room. It wasn't unusual for Jakks to lose his temper and perform a rash impulsive act, so no one would show concern for another dead person in the castle. Velinole had seen it countless times, and he was surprised, frankly, that he had survived this long. Broken bones and bruises were his badges of honor, his loyalty to Jakks Borgard, the abusive king. Often he wondered why he remained with Jakks despite the mistreatment and the ever-present potential for death. It wasn't the promise of money or women or fame. Velinole knew it was because of power. He had power as an advisor, and he had used it to change the course of the kingdom. Soon, with the Accord of the Hand crippled, he would have his own lands to rule. As a new baron he would be loyal to the Borgard's expanding empire. They would rival both Smythe and Kran in strength, and one by one the other small kingdoms would fall in line. This was the beginning of a new era in Malurrion, and he was in the middle of it, soon to be at the top of it.
He rushed through the castle on a familiar route, slipping by unused rooms and walking down corridors no one bothered to monitor. The castle was meant to contain royal families, but Jakks had all but driven away regular visitors save the most loyal to the crown. These abandoned halls, unoccupied years, forgotten, had been the key to his success. He continued deeper into the structure and came to an unused room on the most remote wing of the castle. Inside, the furnishings were dusty and untouched, forgotten by the frightened maids who were whipped if the rest of castle wasn't cleaned to Jakks's satisfaction. After closing the door, Velinole opened a massive wardrobe and pulled out a black robe. He donned it, noting how the flimsy garment enveloped his wiry frame. With the hood now over his head and concealment his, Velinole walked into the wardrobe, pulled the doors shut, and disappeared behind a secret panel that only he knew about.
#
Velinole counted steps as he began walking in the complete darkness. His hand grasped a rope attached to the stone walls; it was threaded through iron rings, guiding him on a zigzag course. At the end of the rope, he came to another stairwell. Here he risked light because the stairs were dangerous, crumbling in disrepair. A torch brightened and Velinole descended into the depths of Borgard castle, traveling on a path parallel to the dungeons. As he ventured deeper, he could hear the screams of those unfortunate imprisoned souls, then after he reached a low enough point, there was nothing but silence. He had arrived at his private prison.
Swiftly he moved through the secret passageways, bypassing door after door. He could see on the floor the path he had worn over the years of travel. It was the only evidence of his visits to prisoners no one could know about, not even Jakks. Velinole thought this was his crowning achievement, his secret prison forgotten by the architects and Borgards, available for his personal use. There were many cells down here, isolated behind thick rock and earth, with o
nly one entrance and exit. No one could hear screams from this part of the dungeon. He remembered the pitiful Sari Roan hollering for days on end, the bitch yelling for her newborn son. No one heard her. No one rescued her, nor did they question that she had died during childbirth. Velinole reflected, a sudden inspiration, that he had a great affinity for solving problems. This was why he would succeed while others around Jakks would fail. He was one step ahead of everyone.
Velinole glanced at Sari Roan's cell as he walked by. He stopped, thrusting the torch toward iron bars dusted with rust. The skeletal remains were still there, intact, awaiting no one. The bony arms and legs were still cuffed in iron and chained to a stone slab. Her simple clothing, robes and a belt, were shredded and gathering heaps of dust in the corner. Velinole remembered Sari Roan begging him to release her. She would do anything he wanted. He almost considered it - he could have taken her to the country and imprisoned her there. It wouldn't work, though, for he knew a loose end would haunt him later. So he spent time torturing her until she didn't have the strength to scream any longer. She died one day, at his hand of course, a torture session gone too far. Velinole left her there to rot and over time her bloated body became pungent. Time, maggots, and rats took care of the rest, leaving bleached bones behind. In all that time, twenty years, he hadn't bothered to clean the cell. He liked it the way it was, the picture of a perfect murder, a trophy for him to admire.
He walked down the cell block, concealing himself in his robes and making sure his face was covered, looking at the cells as he went by. Some had bones, more trophies, others were empty. He put the torch in a sconce on the wall, then approached another cell. There were others he had simply killed, like the patriarch, Frederick Borgard. Velinole snickered - that's what you get for trying to get rid of me. He understood, though, that luck had saved him that day. The rest, a blur of deception and deceit, was history he didn't want to repeat. No sense in dwelling on the past, he thought, he was alive and the others were dead. That was all that mattered.
The torch illuminated the cell he walked to, only leaving shadows in the corners. The soft yellow light flickered in the stagnant air. Velinole could see a man sleeping in ratty blankets. The ten foot by ten foot cell was rather neat for a prison, well-kept despite the downtrodden conditions. Velinole took a deep breath and disguised his voice so the king's older brother wouldn't recognize him. It had been this way for years.
"Makison," he called out. "Wake up - I have news for you."
Chapter 5 - Past
Feln warmed his hands by the coals, daring to keep them there too long. He used his chi to endure the flame and the pain, which left his hands hot yet uninjured. It was a technique Caleth thought of, so he practiced until he perfected it and managed to protect his hands with his magic. He wondered how the war council was progressing, wishing he could have stayed longer to listen to the plans they were making. Feln stuffed his hands inside his robe, crossing his arms. The warmth spread out. A slender hand touched his shoulder, then he felt the person lean into him. It had to be Owori. He could feel her body, tense and taught, and it was unsettling. A good unsettling. Owori sat up, separating from him. Not sure where to begin, Feln determined it would be easiest to talk about what he knew best. Pyndira.
"Where did you see the outfit?" he asked.
Owori didn't respond.
Feln waited patiently, unsure of the delay. Maybe I should have asked a different question, he thought. He was about to speak again when Owori began.
"In the library of course," she said. "I had to find out what was taking so much of your time. I saw a drawing in one of the books, and I thought, I could make this outfit and maybe Feln will notice me. A lot of good that did."
There was a thin line that he dared not cross. Even after all of these years, it was difficult for him to tell when she was being serious and when she was being sarcastic. He had to make a choice to either roll with the sarcasm in return or turn the conversation serious. "I did notice you. It just took me a while to figure things out."
"You still haven't figured me out, have you? After all of this time?"
"You're challenging, I must admit that. Why should I have to figure things out? Why all the mystery?"
"Ever hear the expression, 'when you're in a hole stop digging'?"
"Of course I have," he answered. "I was just trying…"
"Stop digging."
"Owori, we were scouting. I had other things on my mind."
"Oh," she said, tone acidic, "so now I'm not on your mind?"
"No! That's not what I meant!"
"Feln, stop digging."
He forced his mouth shut and stared at the tent where the Accord of the Hand leaders were meeting, willing one of them to emerge and summon them. No one came. Hot and flustered, he took a deep breath in the hopes it would calm him.
"Finally, he listens to me."
He turned. Owori had a satisfied smirk on her face. "If you want me to stop digging," he said, "then don't give me a shovel."
"I didn't give you a shovel. I made a beautiful outfit that has never been seen before in Malurrion. And all you have to say is that you know the style because you saw it in a book?"
As he recalled, this was what their recent conversations had been like - he was always wrong, she was always right. He thought he had the proper context of them being friends, yet that didn't make this any easier. All he wanted now was to start over, to put this behind them. Feln nodded, not paying attention to the question, then he came back to his senses. "Not to worry about this now," he said. "We have other matters we should attend to."
Owori looked at him and had a sparkle in her eye. "What other matters?"
Feln motioned toward the main tent where the war council was breaking up. The Seasons and The Winds were leaving the tent, dispersing into the army camp to issue orders. Caleth strode directly to Feln and Owori, and they stood to meet their master. TeBroo came toward them, cast a glance at Feln, and departed abruptly.
"TeBroo is off completing an assignment. We move at dawn, and that will put us in a position to attack Borgard in two or three days. With so many troops, we are as slow as a turtle on a cold day. You two will need to rest, as you'll be sent to scout in front of the army. I will issue official orders tomorrow morning. Details will be worked out tonight."
Feln and Owori bowed.
"Feln, stay for a moment," Caleth said. "Owori, he will join you later. You're dismissed."
"Of course." Owori gave Feln a worried look and walked into the darkness.
"What is it?"
"Come back to the tent with me and have tea."
Feln knew why he was being invited back to speak more with the council or select members of it. He had spent half of his life in Borgard. "This isn't a social call, is it?"
Caleth studied their surroundings, eyes scanning the darkness with great scrutiny. Finally he stared at one point in space, then walked to the edge of the camp to inspect it.
"Master?" asked Feln, following
"I thought I saw a form crouched in the shadows."
They conducted a brief search, but didn't find anything out of place or anyone hiding.
"I must be imagining things." Caleth breathed, sighing as he scanned the darkness again. "No, this isn't a social call."
"I'm being invited back because I spent the first ten years of my life in Borgard castle."
"Yes. Come, we need your council. Don't hold back any truths."
#
The robed figure walked calmly from her hiding place, choosing the spot because of the overlapping shadows from the camps. She had seen the monk briefly in the monastery called Waskhal, and after viewing him closer she was convinced of his heritage. Although that particular fact seemed inconsequential, it did mean the prize she sought was near. She kept to the shadows, disappearing from view once again. Slowly she moved along the perimeter of the camp, choosing the darkest routes to hide herself. Her steps made no noise at all. There were guards posted at random, an
d she evaded them using her skills. Not rushing, she slipped this way and that, breathing easier only when she emerged beyond the perimeter of the advancing army. Although she hadn't been talented enough to get close enough to listen to their war council, it was interesting that the monk named Feln had lived in Borgard. It made her wonder what they were going to have him do. Perhaps this was the opportunity she needed. It had to be better than following this army and risking detection every moment.
#
Feln and Caleth entered the tent. It was empty, save the Master of Summer, Djaa. He was sipping tea, bowl held in his calloused hands, and was keenly studying a map. His tense body was ready to uncoil. Feln observed him for a moment, and he thought Djaa was different now, apprehensive and worried.
"Do sit down," Djaa said. "Pour yourself some tea."
Caleth and Feln obliged.
"Caleth told me that you came to the Hand from Borgard."
"When I was ten," Feln answered. "Jakks Borgard executed my father for organizing a rebellion. Soon after, I escaped the castle and Taawn put me into Caleth's able hands. He and Holt helped me to flee to Waskhal. Since then, I've been at the Waskhal monastery."
"He's one of my finest," Caleth said with great praise in his voice. "He and Owori are my best scouts."
Djaa grunted at Caleth. "Good enough. I need to know what you remember of your life in Borgard castle. Details would be helpful. Leave nothing out."
"You're going to need more tea and food for this tale."
Caleth rolled to his feet. "I shall return with more substantial fare for all of us. Please begin, I won't be long."
Feln looked at Djaa and he could see the man was interested in what he had to say. It felt odd telling his story to a relative stranger. Few knew where he had come from, even fewer knew about his past life. His history before joining the Accord of the Hand had remained unimportant until now.