The Wayward Prince

by Lee H. Haywood

  “I remember this part from my lessons,” said Malrich. “Prince Ateasar and Princess Ierra eventually got married, right?”

  Emethius nodded. “They were wed in the Court of Bariil. On the day of their wedding, Ateasar received a vision from the gods. The Calabanesi commanded him to conquer the Cultrator. Although the gods of Calaban promised the talsani people all the lands of Eremel, save the forests of the Great Northern Ador, the lands west of the Essari Range had yet to be seized from the Cul. Ateasar proclaimed a crusade to finally rid the land of the Cul’s vile taint. Warriors from every great household rallied to his banner, caught up in the zeal of conquest.

  “With an army of crusaders in his company, Prince Ateasar rode past the Lem Sette River with his wife at his side. The Cul flew before him like rats fleeing the light. On the tenth day he came to a river that flowed into the great sea. There he threw down his blade, and claimed the seat of his lordship. Bi Anule was founded, and would soon become one of the grandest cities in the world.

  “During the days of King Ateasar and Queen Ierra’s reign, they had three children. Ateius being their oldest son, Atimir their second, and Eonia their only daughter. While Ateius inherited his father’s throne, they gave the northern lands of Cella to their ambitious second son, Atimir. These were wild and untamed lands, and Atimir seized them with a ruthless passion. He rode north and selected a high hill upon which he built the city of Bi Ache.

  “Atimir’s ambition and hubris knew no bounds, and he thought nothing of delving into the forbidden forests of the Northern Ador and cutting down its sacred trees. With the lumber, he built a fleet of ships that plied the seas in search of wealth and trade. Within the Essari Range, mines were dug, deep as the ocean’s depths, and from these mines flowed gold and silver the likes of which the world had never seen. During his long reign the city flourished, and its wealth became unmatched by any city in the world. Its marble palaces and grand temples were legendary, and Atimir’s crown was said to be worth more than all the lands of Chansel.

  “But such prosperity did not last. There was a fire in the Essari Mountains that could be spied on a clear night, high up beyond the reach of any explorer. Many called it an omen, others a curse, but there was little conjecture about its true meaning; the Cul had been awakened. It was in these years that the Essari Range took on the name of the Culing Mountains. The people of Cella knew the Cul were there, but they were not afraid. The Cul had not been seen in the flesh since King Atesar entered the Cultrator a hundred years prior. The Children of the Shadow had become little more than a fable to scare misbehaving children.

  “To face this new threat, Prince Atimir conscripted an army, a hundred thousand glittering swords and waving banners. He paraded his host before the feet of the mountain, challenging the Cul to come down from their icy abode and face him in combat. But only a fool laughs in the face of the Shadow, and of this Atimir was guilty many times over. When the Cul finally came, they arrived like a sea of flames, devouring all that stood in their path. Atimir’s grand army was slaughtered, and the city of Bi Ache fell in a single night. The wise believe the gods sent the Cul upon Bi Ache as punishment for Atimir’s sins.”

  Malrich raised his eyebrow circumspectly. “For what? Venturing into the Great Northern Ador and cutting down a few sacred trees?”

  Emethius shrugged. “Perhaps. Atimir harvested trees from the forest despite a direct edict by the gods forbidding the practice. But there are other legends as well — that the men working in Atimir’s mines had brought to the surface gemstones that were used in the very forging of the earth. Atimir’s crown was said to have contained ten of these precious stones — one for every ocean in the world.”

  “What good his precious gemstones did for him when the Cul came,” said Malrich with a sneer. “Did any of the people of Cella survive, or is this tale just another legend based on hearsay?”

  “A handful of survivors managed to reach Terra Falls,” said Emethius. “They were led by Princess Eonia, the only surviving child of King Atimir and Queen Ierra. The land of Dunis was the only part of the Cella Empire not conquered by the Cul. To reconcile what little of the empire remained, Princess Eonia married Katel Langlif, the Lord of Hardthorn. Before the coming of the Cul, Hardthorn was just a trading hub on the eastern fringe of the Cella Empire. After the war, it became the seat of Atimir’s line in exile.”

  “The Dunie are the descendants of the Cella?” Malrich laughed at the notion. The lost people of Cella had always had a near mythical status in his mind. “To think, I pass refugees from Dunis begging in the streets of Mayal everyday. Not once have I ever associated those downtrodden people with their fabled forebearers.”

  “People are people, Mal. Be they proud and strong, or bow-backed and beaten. The sooner we learn this truth, the sooner so many evils in this world will come to an end.”

  The path ran straight and the day wore on. The fog and cloud cover had long since burned away, and the sun glowed viciously overhead, following their every step. For a while Malrich was glad for its presence; it was a source of comfort and familiarity. The Cul will not enter the light, he often reminded himself. But by mid-afternoon the encroaching walls began to radiate with heat, much like a stone oven, and despite the elevation, his tunic was soaked through with sweat.

  Every few leagues they came upon abandoned fortifications that were carved directly into the face of the stone wall. The Dunie had built them high up, so that they were inaccessible without a ladder. They appeared to be little more than rows of black chasms sealed off by iron bars.

  Malrich watched the black chasms with trepidation. He had never seen the Cul; few truly had. All he knew were the legends. Creatures who lurked in the night. Eyes that glowed. Fangs like daggers. Always in the Shadow. He imagined them hiding just within the gloom of the fortification with rusty blades and cankered lips. At one such fortification he swore there was movement just on the periphery of his vision, but when he turned to look, the barred chasm was just like the rest — barren, empty, and uninviting.

  “Just ghosts and shadows,” Malrich reassured himself. But when he looked at Emethius, he saw his friend’s face had taken on a sallow complexion.

  “If you need any urgency to speed your step, you need only to look up,” said Emethius, with no hint of playfulness in his voice. “You are as close to the Cul as you have ever been in your life. Doubtlessly, they are watching us now. When the sun drops below the horizon they will come after us like the damned. We need to find a way to get off this road.”

  They quickened their pace, but still the impassible walls of the Barren Tracks held them ensnared. If anything, the walls seemed to increase in height. The cackling began about an hour before dusk. Unsettling cries, deep-throated, as if emitted from a parched throat. Calls wafted down from atop the canyon wall and braying cries replied from back the way Malrich and Emethius had come.

  “We’re surrounded,” said Malrich.

  Emethius was too winded to reply. He doubled over and looked as if he might wretch. Between the heat and the grueling pace they were both exhausted to the core. Malrich grabbed Emethius’s hand and pulled him along. Every step became a chore — Malrich had never felt so heavy in his life — but the adrenaline kept him going. Step, step, step, he commanded himself. Emethius staggered in his wake like a drunkard.

  Ahead of them the setting sun radiated like a thousand flames, threatening to dive below the horizon at any moment. Malrich led the way, his stumbling gait turning into a sprint. He chased after the sun as if it could be caught. His muscles ached and his lungs screamed for relief. The cackling rose above the sound of his ragged breath and thundering feet.

  Then suddenly Malrich was falling. He landed on his face. His mouth filled with dirt, and his vision was momentarily obscured by debris. In a daze, he looked back at his feet. He had tripped over a skull. Remnants of leathery flesh hung loosely to the white bone underneath. In stark horror, he kicked away from the awful visage, stirring up a cl
oud of red dust. He thought he might be ill.

  Emethius gagged beside him and weakly pointed toward the sky. Malrich followed his companion’s quivering finger and let out a stifled cry.

  In their haste, they had reached the end of the Barren Tracks and stumbled upon the Tower of Interleads. The tower loomed before them, carved into the face of a cliff. The tower was cold to the eyes, gray, almost to the point of being black. Much like Hardthorn, a beacon sat atop its pinnacle, serving as a signal to the citizens living in the Morium Vale that the Barren Tracks were open and safe. The beacon of Interleads was extinguished, yet smoke still lingered. A device not so dissimilar to a roasting-spit was leveled over the beacon cauldron.

  The Cul eat the flesh of the living, recalled Malrich with horror.

  The setting sun served as a backdrop to the cursed tower, a glimmering half circle of orange and red. Dusk was almost upon them.

  Malrich scrambled back to his feet and tried to pull Emethius along. “We need to move on,” began Malrich. “Dusk will be here...” The words died in his throat.

  The blackened walls of Interleads were not as solid as they first appeared. They moved, and writhed, and moaned. Malrich grabbed Emethius’s arm to keep from collapsing.

  The bodies of Dunie soldiers were tied to the face of the tower. Their eyes were gone, and from the sounds they made, Malrich imagined their tongues were missing as well. They were stripped naked and their skin was sun-burnt and dark, strewn with sores.

  Malrich felt like he was going to hyperventilate and frantically reached for his canteen. He cursed upon remembering it was empty and fell to his knees. “Is this the original host of Interleads?” managed Malrich between gasping breaths. “I didn’t know flesh could endure such misery.”

  Emethius looked upon the tower long and hard, drinking in the horrid sight as he slowly passed his gaze from one victim to the next. A grim certainty entered his eyes. “All of the stories are true,” he muttered, almost to himself. “The Cul truly are demons, devoid of value and caring. The cat may kill for food, or the talsani for war, but the Cul kills for something else entirely. It’s a perversion, a twisted pleasure.”

  “We’ve been here too long. We need to go!” Malrich tugged weakly at Emethius’s arm. The sun was nearly down and the cackling had grown into a chorus, a hundred voices strong. For a moment Emethius refused to budge, his gaze still focused upon the tortured bodies hanging from the tower. Finally he let himself be led away.

  Holding each other for support, Malrich and Emethius slunk from the tower. They fled into a hidden valley half a league away, and there they found a crevice between two slabs of granite. It was a narrow gap, and Malrich was forced to take in shallow breaths to squeeze inside. They piled rocks and brush in front of the entrance until not even the last embers of the setting sun could be seen within their hideaway. The sun dipped below the horizon and the cackling cry of the Cul became a roar. They had entered the world of the Cul. They had entered the Shadow.

  CHAPTER

  VI

  THE FALSE SHADOW

  Leta lay in bed staring at the ceiling, her bedroom window glowed yellow with the light of the morning sun. A week had passed since her meeting with Admiral Ferrus, and each new day brought with it a fresh wave of anxiety. Leta hated feeling this way, and she damned Lady Miren for filling her head with doubt. She was beginning to wonder if she should have gone with Admiral Ferrus to Elyim.

  I could have returned to Mayal married to Ferrus, my father’s blessing be damned, and with the Elyim fleet to my back I would have gotten to the bottom of this conspiracy once and for all. I could have ordered a reevaluation of Meriatis’s census. I could have demanded an end to the secret tribunal. I could have tracked down this supposed gray prophet.

  I could have...

  I could have...

  I could have...

  Leta shook her head in frustration. Lying in bed doing nothing was a great deal easier and a lot less risky. She had ordered her carriage driver to take her to the private docks a few days after her meeting with Admiral Ferrus, not quite certain what she would do once she arrived. The docks were empty, the entire fleet was gone. Even the sign marking the dock as private had been stripped from its post. She scowled at the missed opportunity.

  There came a soft rap at Leta’s door, the unsure knock of a person not yet confident in their duties. “May I enter, priestess?” called a quiet voice.

  Leta sighed and sat up in bed. “Please come in, Ionni.”

  The girl hesitantly opened the door and peeked inside. When she saw that Leta was clothed, she shouldered the door aside and padded across the empty expanse of Leta’s private chamber with a serving tray in hand. Leta regarded the newest addition to her flock with mixed feelings. The girl looked prim in her brand new acolyte’s robe, if not a bit uncomfortable. She walked with slouched shoulders and a disinterested grimace on her face.

  She’s a teenager, there’s no denying that, thought Leta.

  Ionni was quick to roll her eyes and take on an obstinate posture whenever she was asked to do a menial task she perceived beneath her status. Still, she did what was asked of her without vocal objection, and she was learning quickly. Part of Leta felt proud of Ionni’s progress, while another part felt guilty for drawing someone so young and innocent into the maddening intrigues of the court.

  It was selfish of me to involve the girl, thought Leta as Ionni placed the breakfast tray at the foot of her bed. But perhaps it was necessary.

  “Your breakfast, priestess,” said the girl in a small voice.

  Leta inspected the cuisine. An apple, an orange, a pair of rolled tarts, a bundle of grapes, eggs, and several links of steaming sausage. It was enough food for two or three people.

  Ionni curtsied. “I didn’t know what to bring you, so I grabbed a bunch of food that I would eat. If it displeases the priestess, I would be happy to fetch you something else.”

  “The priestess is not displeased,” said Leta. She lifted a silver lid off the tray and discovered there was even more food hidden beneath it.

  “My father always insists that breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” said Ionni, obviously sensing Leta’s amazement at the amount of food.

  “Fathers are full of practical wisdom,” said Leta with a smile. “My father says wealth should be shared. Please, help me eat all of this.”

  “I... ah... well.” The girl was so accustomed to waiting on Lady Miren that she didn’t seem to know how to respond. “You are too kind, but it would be inappropriate for me to accept.”

  “Nonsense,” said Leta. She handed Ionni one of the rolled tarts and patted the side of the bed, motioning for Ionni to take a seat.

  Ionni sheepishly complied and took a hungry bite out of the roll. “Have you received word from my father concerning the sisterhood?” asked Ionni, talking with a full mouth.

  “Not yet,” replied Leta, noting that they needed to work on Ionni’s etiquette. “But that is to be expected. It will take at least a week for the message to be delivered, and then another week or two for your father’s reply to reach Mayal.”

  “I hope it arrives soon. I’m eager to take my vows and begin my studies.” Leta was having a hard time determining if Ionni was actually interested in the Vacian Sisterhood, or if she was simply that good at selling a lie.

  While they awaited final approval from Ionni’s father, Leta was allowing Ionni to shadow Sister Beli. This soon resulted in Sister Beli dumping some of her more monotonous duties, like delivering Leta’s breakfast, off on the girl.

  Showing a degree of initiative, Ionni plucked a sausage off the tray. As she did, the sleeve of her robe pulled back, revealing little red scratches all over her wrist. It looked like she had gotten in a fight with a cat. “What happened to your wrists?” asked Leta, pulling back the girl’s sleeve.

  “Oh, that? It’s nothing really. Sister Beli had me up at dawn collecting rose petals.”

  “She had you preparing rosewater? Tha
t’s quite the honor.” There were a dozen basins scattered throughout the Court of Bariil that needed to be refilled each morning. Leta was pleased to hear that Sister Beli was already trusting Ionni with the task. The entire process was filled with ritual. The water had to be drawn from the natural spring beneath the Court of Bariil. Petals had to be plucked from only certain bushes in the palace garden, then muddled, boiled, and blessed. From start to finish, the entire process could take several hours.

  “I’m surprised you’re done so quickly,” said Leta, worried that a step might have been skipped. “How did you have time to fill all twelve basins and bring me my breakfast?”

  Ionni looked confused. “All twelve basins? There was only one, priestess. The one in the Vacian Monastery.”

  Leta raised an eyebrow at the news. “That basin is only used to provide blessings during the Final Sacrament.”

  Ionni nodded. “A patient came in to the monastery last night. He’s in real bad shape. Sister Beli thought it would be wise to prepare the water. She wasn’t keen on letting him suffer any longer than was necessary.”

  Leta was out of her bed in an instant. She quickly put on a gown with Ionni’s assistance, then marched straight to the Vacian Monastery. She stormed through the doorway, causing all chatter within the monastery to stop. She spied Sir Rupert through a window. He was in the inner courtyard prepping his chopping block. The cloying scent of rosewater struck Leta’s nose, and she had to fight off the impulse to gag.

  A single bed stood in the middle of the room. A patient lay in a stupefied state atop the slab, tugging listlessly at the fetters that bound his hands and feet. An entire host of sisters were busily moving about the room — only a few were actually tending to the patient. Sister Beli stood at the center of it all, listing off directions as she looked over a piece of parchment containing the day’s itinerary.

  “Good morning, priestess,” called Sister Beli from across the hall as if everything was perfectly normal.