Sylvester & Tuette: Cursed Doubt

Chapter Twelve

Roost was having a terrible fit. He didn’t always sleep soundly but it was irregular that he couldn’t sleep at all. Rather, he preferred to not fall asleep. The past was haunting him more frequently. He preferred to deter the moments when he was forced to relive his younger life; relive the highlights anyway. Or lowlights.


But in forcing himself to stay awake in his own bed, he knew that he would have waking dreams anyway. He was becoming uncomfortable beneath the bedclothes, with sweat surfacing on his legs. Roost sighed with heaviness, threw the blankets from his bed, and stood up to stand at the window.


Looking into the sky, the moon was a few days away from being completely full. It was the full moon that ultimately brought out his Decennia-aimed Curse, he knew. But he hadn’t bothered telling Puze that.


Puze. The little cretin that Roost pretended to not care about whether the creature lived or died. Or forced him to constantly return at least. But deep down, he did care: he was lonely. He sighed heavily again and reverted his gaze to the village below. It was his, as taken by force.


And it reminded him of home. As a child, growing up in Gor Bilesk, he had not been lonely at all. There was always his mother and father to associate himself with. And the friends that had grown accustomed to his condition. He looked down at his hands, holding them out in front of him. They reflected brightly the waxing moon and represented Roost’s greatest personal accomplishment.


He had been born, as part of a preconception Curse, without thumbs. With thorough travels in his later teens and harsh twenties, he had finally encountered enchantments that would allow him to mask the fact that he had no thumbs. It was Potent Magik, to say the least. With his Magiked guise contributing to the appearance that he had thumbs, he could also feel. He could touch objects; grasp items. Tools. And weapons. His father, as part owner in a weapon-crafting business, had managed to create the invaluable VoiRen pikes with someone of Roost’s disposition in mind.


Then they moved. Relocated, as his father put it. His mother had done nothing to stop the situation. Roost grew to gently despise her because of her inaction though in hindsight, he finally realized it was his father that should’ve taken the brunt of his childhood angst.


With uprooting the family while Roost was young, he felt disorientated and a little afraid. His thumblessness had been acclimated by the residents of Gor Bilesk over time. Most of the families there were his friends and friends of his parents, despite the fact that it could’ve easily been any of the neighbors or residents that had caused his situation. It’s usually hard to tell when someone else was Cursed, after all.


Life began anew when his father found purchase in the southeastern regions of Decennia Proper. Whereas Gor Bilesk claimed that it was a colony of Gor Pyron, settled just off the coast of east Decennia centuries before – though who could prove such a statement when the oceans weren’t presently passable? -  the town they moved to, Rion in the Broze region, was not a Magikal community. Rather, they looked down on Magik as a mythic, mental crutch that only crazies used to demand more of their overtaxed deities.


After he was asked to explain his handicap, Roost was socially ostracized. The family was asked to move outright. One incident brought violence to their doorstep that included the murder of the family feline, a tir named Sir Pommagin. After months that eventually turned into years for the family, Roost’s father refused to move again, claiming that they couldn’t be bullied by “those Decennians”.


Count Roost presently smiled at himself. Looking out the window at the silent community below the castle and beyond the shores to the nearest island, which was almost always obscured by fog banks, he remembered life before fleeing the violence, and how all he could recall his father saying is something about “those Decennians”. He remembered the hate his father harbored too for the people of Rion.


Often, late at night, while Roost would be treating bruises inflicted by local, often older, brutes, he would hear his parents arguing about their terrible lives in Rion. How it would all be the same, all over Decennia. “These livestock-lovin’ monsters don’t understand anything about Magik. Or Curses. And our life was better in Gor Belisk,” his mother had said one evening. “So why do we stay?”


He hadn’t heard his father’s reply, as soft-spoken as he often had been back then, but it was apparently enough to shut his wife up. After that night, the violence didn’t get worse and it didn’t slacken either. But their ignorance increased. So much so that young Roost, upon turning twelve, was encouraged to sing in the annual Plank-Setting Festival…


A chill presently ran down his spine and Count Roost vowed to halt his dip into the memory well. He yawned and noticed that, in his remembrances, the moon had shifted considerably in the sky and he was being attacked on the mental front by tiredness. He went back to his bed, feeling curably chilled by the night air that haunted him while gazing out the window and into the past.


Roost knew sleep would come easy enough now.


He also knew that a nightmare was just below the surface. Each time he experienced it, he knew it would be some time before it came back to attack him again. And by that time, he would be in possession of the Godblade. Then, old Voidet far below would be at peace. Meaning I’ll also be at peace.


Closing his eyes, inhaling in the night air and listening to the sounds of nighttime creatures far below, Roost was swamped by tiredness. And he knew he was that much closer to waking up in a cold sweat.





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Young Roost stood behind the curtain. It seemed thicker than normal, blocking out all noises from the other side; he knew it couldn’t have been silence from the makeshift seating area because the citizens of Rion knew who was performing next. And they had already voiced their opinions of a “Magik-like, Cursing kid” trying to pay respect to when the first tolo of the town was built; when the first planks and boards were put down.


Indeed, silence was all around, like a thick blanket settled upon him with the intent to smother, and Roost was growing more curious. How thick is this curtain?


He poked at it, his four fingers spread out carefully. Resistance on part of the curtain was minimal. The material was soft, even comforting. Without caution, he prodded around for the break in the curtain that would allow him access to the stage. Without finding it, he was becoming frantic, almost panicked. He knew he had to sing for these people, if only to prove how much he cared for his father and respected his decision to stay amongst “those Decennians”.


Finally, with tears beginning to well up in his eyes, he broke through with a wash of conciliatory relief washing away all doubts that he had for his mother’s insistence in relation to this duty, this task.


But no one was on this side of the curtain. There were no seats and the grass that should’ve at least appeared trampled and muddied by the shifting weight of standing people was vibrantly green. He looked back at the curtain and it was blindingly red and extended well beyond the stage’s physical parameters. It took over the whole world behind him. And it appeared more solid than before, as if he had found his way to one side and was disallowed from returning to the other.


But there is no one on this side for me to perform for. Being in his extremely early teens, he realized that he might have an ideal voice for releasing understandably beautiful pitches, but he was nervous about the act anyway. Without anyone to hear him though, there was much less trepidation.


Roost’s mother was on the other side of the curtain though. “I’ll be here when you’re done.


“I’m so proud of you.” Had she been there before?


If he never started, could he ever be done? Would he ever see her again? Though she hadn’t been able to stop the horrendous move to Rion in the first place, at least she seemed to have voiced reason after the fact to the otherwise mokheaded patriarch.


Young Roost stepped to the edge of the stage and looked down. The drop seemed to have been raised to a dangerous height. He dare not step down for fear of breaking a bone. He moved back to center stage and looked again to the crowdless void.


He deduced that the only way he would be allowed to leave back through the curtain was if he finished his performance. If I sing and no one’s present, is it still a performance? Does the presence of the stage change the definition of the action? Because without anyone to hear it, it feels more like I’m practicing. He didn’t care to work out his own reasoning though. Roost just knew that, with the rules set by his mother and the curtain, he had to sing and then he’d be done.


So he began.


It was not a song that most Decennians knew but had been sung to him during bedtime hours. It was a ballad that dictated to the listener a tale of a young woman who gave up her love for the greater good of her village. In the end, it turned out the love lost was the village leader’s son and, since the village was set to prosper, so would the leading family. Which meant the woman would be able to be with the man she desired after all. Roost had always enjoyed the tale because it said to him that even if you don’t understand the reasoning for your actions or benefit from them initially, the greater good can often lead you towards personal happiness.


Upon reaching the verse where the young woman is forced to decide between her love and her village, a sound entered the fray. It was like someone was digging beneath the ground. Continuing to sing, Roost looked out at the open space and saw mounds beginning to form, like the dirt was being displaced from below by burrowing rodents.


Before long, people began to emerge from the mounds, as if being born. Instead of flesh, they were mere skeletons and when their skulls appeared, they were all impossibly smiling. There were dozens of them and though the situation horrified young Roost, he continued to sing, nearing the point in the ballad when the woman is learning to truth of the village’s leading family.


Voices and cackles began to project like visible specters from the throats of the skeletons. They swayed back and forth with the slow beat of the song and Roost could feel tears once again fill his eyes as he became nervous with not practicing but fully performing. And to a stale crowd, nonetheless!


All he could think about was finishing the song and retreating backstage to where his mother was supposed to be.


More skeletons entered the area, some wider than others; most disturbingly taller than average human height. Roost was nearing the finale, which ended with a lengthy high note. He was prepping his gut and throat to hold the note when he felt a subtle but wet smack hit his arm.


Roost lifted his hand, still singing and gaining in volume. The contents of a broken egg covered his arm, encasing his four fingers, peppered with eggshell fragments. This act brought more cackles and he tried to sling the mess of egg away from his arm. He was unsuccessful and, in fact, the amount somehow doubled and began to move up his tiny bicep, aiming for his chest and torso, maybe even his neck and mouth.


The skeletons continued doubling in number, their voices ringing louder, threatening to drown Roost’s melodious voice out. Fearing this would cancel out his performance, he gained volume, forgetting the egg on his arm, and revved up to the final note.


More eggs entered the air between the barebones-audience and Roost. Most landed upon the stage, sounding loud with the multitude of cracking animal embryos. Some landed on Roost, coating him with egg whites, yolks, and off-white fragments of shell. One smacked his lower lip, knocking it against his teeth.


One scored a home in the back of his mouth, opened as it was to release the high note. He stopped, mere beats from finishing, as he gagged on the egg, but it didn’t break. Part of him wanted it to bust open but part of him knew it might damage him permanently.


Roost’s breathing began to come in shallow waves, his air supply cut off by the still-life stuck in his throat. He wavered on his feet and, stepping once, slipped and crashed against the stage.


On his side, aching from fall, he could see spots in his vision. Beyond the spots, the now-even-taller skeletons were looking down on the stage, pointing and laughing. More eggs poured out of their blank eye sockets. These they chucked at the slightly-plump boy again and again.


Finally, he dug his thin, thumbless hand into his mouth and attempted to grasp or shovel the egg out of his throat. This somehow brought out more rumples of laughter and Roost only felt like crying and even dying. Without finishing the ballad, he would never get to see his mother.


He turned over, trying to face away from the Demonastic audience but could only see more skeletons where the world-dividing curtain had been minutes before. He looked around and saw he was no longer on a hand-crafted stage anymore but a stone dais of some kind. The skeletons had reached gigantic proportions and Roost was nearing unconsciousness when the egg rolled itself out of his throat and hatched. A baby chick rolled over, looked at Roost, and began to laugh, sing, and swear.


Openly sobbing, he tried getting on all fours but that only drew barks from the crowd. He lowered himself further and stayed on his belly, which somehow demanded hisses from the horrible audience.


They then reached for him, their skeletal hands looking dangerous in the now-cloudy light and all he wished for was his mother’s embrace. That seemed impossible as he felt the first boney grip around his wrist. He was then pulled in many directions all at once and it started to rain. The water didn’t wash away his egg but seemed to compound it further, turn it into a type of suit that he couldn’t remove.


The skeletons righted him and they began to cluck like chickens with the baby chick conducting their actions like a symphony. The last thought he recalled was sheer wonder over how they had located so many rare chicken eggs, as if that’s why they were clucking at him…





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He woke with a panicked sweat. The sun was cresting over the watery horizon and Botch stood there with a poached fish and peppered avian eggs on a tray, his face nearly blanked except for slight surprise. It wasn’t the first time a servant had found the count in such a state but Roost didn’t feel as self-conscious about it with Botch for some reason.


Without a word, the young lad set the tray on the wobbly table next to the bed and left the room. The count couldn’t help but feel something for the boy then, though he couldn’t place it. He hadn’t asked about his obvious-nightmare like some had and he hadn’t stayed to revel in the man’s discomfort like others. Rather, he had left Roost with some sense of something he had rarely felt as of late: a bit of dignity.


Of course, the dream exaggerated what truly had happened but for Roost, it seemed to get worse with each occurrence. He hadn’t enjoyed the added clucking at the end, to say the least. It only reminded him that some people had chosen to liken him to a chicken because of his weight and his thumbless appendages, resembling skinny wings as they somehow used to.


It was that dreadful night, long ago – only days following his fledgling twelfth birthday – when he left Rion without saying goodbye to either parent. His self-styled journey wasn’t easy though he was assured to find a privatized bank of Magikals who recognized his Cursed status and were not dreadful of his presence. They called themselves the Diseesnia Mages, after a sorcerer who had performed some obscure but ultimately beneficial Spell – the effects of which had still not been presently ascertained. But they were possessed of strong faith that his duty would ultimately reveal itself in time.


During his time with the Diseesnians and long after, Roost was still largely untrusting of Decennia as a whole and, in the midst of his fourteenth year, was shocked to learn the country’s king was being replaced by his son of only twelve years. He wasn’t sure what was more shocking: the fact that a child younger than he was taking the country’s throne or that a monarch of any kind was acknowledged at all. His travels through Broze had led him to believe that the various towns were segmented wholly from each other. This was most evident by what many referred to as the Nementor Path and its horrible state of disuse, as if inviting those of nefarious ways to perch themselves on the sidelines and merely wait for passers-by.


But the passing of King Ghoul or King Bold – while he’d been away from the throne, no less – was something scandalous enough to warrant everyone around the nation knowing. And in knowing, everyone was dully reminded that a king of some kind was actually in charge. With such blanketing ignorance, young Roost could only wonder how a king came into power anyway.


It had not been easy sifting through the varied facts, myths, stories, and nonsense that made up the history of the kings. But Count Roost had been somewhat successful. As it is custom for a monarch to usually fall into power, external elements had been used to select the bloodline of the king. Roost had been anxious to learn exactly how it had occurred but those details were lost. It had apparently come about following a bicentennial, several centuries ago, that had been remembered as being devoid of Magik. With his growing experiences inside the company of the Diseesnians, he had come to realize that such a Spell as the one that had chosen the first king had to have been lethally Potent.


It was those varied steppings into history that had revealed the finite root of the monarchical Magik: the kingstone. Though no sketches existed of the actual artifact, Roost learned that it was passed from king to king and always insured that the first child born of the king was a male and that he was destined to become the next crown bearer.


The count, in those early days and with his innocence not entirely robbed, wondered many things. What if a female had been born, or even the rarity that was twins? What if the kingstone was somehow misplaced?


The questions were still unanswered but his knowledge seeking had not gone unnoticed. A trio of siblings that identified themselves as the Toll Brothers brushed into Roost’s life roughly six years ago. They informed the Cursed wanderer that the kingstone was a highly desired object in the foreign land of Gor Pyron. Mentioning his self-perceived homeland, as defined from afar, made Roost perk up and listen. By this time, he had fashioned his thumbs through methods stolen from a Shaping Clan based out of Wintel, a town on the border between the Broze and Whismerl regions.


Voidet had also entered his life in a most demanding manner shortly after Roost had become acquainted with the Toll Brothers. The aged man had followed young Roost’s travels, knowing that someone sought the power of the kingstone. Which brought into Voidet’s mind the power of the mythic Godblade. In being reminded of the purported Godblade, Roost sought conference with the Brothers.


The eldest by several years, Beretoll, had the answer. “The Godblade is in the land of Gor Pyron, brandished by that nation’s leader, K’lec Topoto.” Beretoll had no answers as to how it got there but did confirm that a descendent of Voidet fashioned it after discovering the material in Dar K’won Valley; the valley was the current seat of Topoto. “It’s rumored that the materials used to fashion the Godblade are pieces of Valtos himself. Bringing strong reason to the subtle argument that Gor Pyron is a defining focal point for all of Valent.”


The youngest, Cricktoll, chimed in after that with whispered words that continued to stick with Count Roost: “He who wields the Godblade is said to have power over the masses. He who controls the blade… controls the world…”


It made sense to Roost. His mindset focused on a series of tasks which involved retrieving the kingstone and exchanging it, somehow, for the Godblade. With gifts from the Toll Brothers, Roost was able to eventually take up residence as the count over the municipality of Boost: it was the only one of the Seagull Islands that had the perfect base of operation in Castle Tigra Lei. No place had ever turned out to be quite like the colonial provinces of Gor Bilesk, but Boost was symbolically close.





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A sound rattled from far below. From the realm of the amateur infirmary. It was strong enough to bring the count into the here-and-now.


Racing down the spiraled staircase, the count couldn’t help but wonder if it was commonly referred to as an infirmary because most residents of such a location are infirm in many ways. Passing through the dungeon-like doors, Roost saw the defining piece of the infirmary: Voidet with his infirm mind.


Prints were strewn about the stone floor and Botch was forcibly holding the wailing man to the bed. The sight made Count Roost both appalled and annoyed. Appalled for thinking that such a man as Voidet and this ancestry of crafted greatness was reduced to such waking fits. Annoyed that it was disrupting his own agenda of activities.


He moved forward, grabbing the Pain-Less Stone on the shelf near the door, and beginning the necessary chant as if regurgitating it on forced will. Putting the Stone to the old man’s forehead, Roost finally ended his chant with a necessary spit that curiously built up in his mouth during the recitation. The salivary blob landed against the Stone and Voidet immediately stiffened.


Botch looked confused. “It’s a Pain-Less Stone, boy. It can’t relieve his actual pain but it does spare us from having to be burdened.” He looked into the elder man’s eyes and could readily tell how much pain he was truly in. He was beyond the help of a ta or even Maperryta Dormaset. Why is he being so stubborn? Roost knew the obvious answer was because he was holding out for the procurement of the Godblade.


It would still be some time though…


The serving boy looked aghast as he stepped back, the movement drawing Roost’s attention. “Can you…”


Roost snapped his neck at the boy, catching the boy’s accusatory look. “This is all we can do, Botch.” He was surprised at calling the boy by his name but more so by using the inclusive we when discussing his own actions. He continued, attempting to appear unperturbed. “Pain cannot be ignored, erased. It can only be isolated.” He momentarily was back on the stage, being smattered with eggs. “Believe me. I know.”


Botch only nodded and moved forward, grabbing hold of the Stone beneath Roost’s hand. He looked at the count, nodded, and Roost drew his hand away. “Hold it like this?” asked Botch.


Roost was slightly stunned at the boy’s desire to learn such a paining practice. Perhaps there is genuine hope for the teen.


Nodding affirmation, Roost said “Preceded by the chant. It has to be repeated three times before applying the Stone. You saw me spit?” Botch nodded. “That’s part of the process. It all works together, even though it might not seem like it.”


Botch began to mutter the chant under his breath, word for word. Roost was surprised the boy had been listening that closely. Was he drawing from previous experience or was he that adept? The count decided it didn’t matter. The boy wasn’t the first apprentice Roost would attempt to profess knowledge upon, or the last, if Roost had anything to say about it. The eagerness, though, brought to mind some of the more talented hopefuls of the past.


And how easily they had passed through his grasp after being appropriately Cursed.


Roost turned to leave the room, expecting that Botch could handle the situation. “I’ll clean up the prints, sir. And have your basin filled in a bit.”


Count Roost paused and, without turning back, said “That won’t be necessary, boy.”


“Won’t be shaving today?” Confusion was evident in Botch’s voice as, in only the last couple weeks, he had known Roost to shave everyday.


”I will.” He took a breath, allowing the words to build up before extracting them from this throat. “But I’ll fill the basin myself. You take care of… him.”


“Yes, sir.”


“And later,” he continued while walking, turning finally in the doorframe, “I’ll show you some other things. History prints. Recitations. A Pote or even some Cursing scripts.”


Botch nodded, restraining something from bracing his face that, in the torchlight, might’ve been a smile. Roost felt like smiling too and nearly did. Catching the expressive emotion, he turned finally and ascended the cool stone steps, wondering exactly what rested at the top: his old, stolen castle, or the added hope at a proper apprenticeship.


Such hopes had come and gone before. Not since taking over Castle Tigra Lei but in Broze and briefly in Uv-Hren and the coastal Serres Mor even. Those hopes had been dashed through varying degrees of quickness but with this one, he felt some real Potential was seeping into the walls, spreading from Botchael.


It made him feel good.


Surely such a good man as I am bound for great things. That was a primary reason for inducing the Curse against Decennia: ultimately, he knew it was for the greater good.