Sylvester & Tuette: Cursed Doubt

Chapter Thirteen

She didn’t even know his name.


Celester?


Celester?!


He had waited for an apology of some sort and even asked Dermy in private if he had heard correctly.


“Yessa, Kingasir. T’ette saidin’ ‘Celesta’’.” It was one of those moments Sylvester had wished that Dermy would finally shed the Magiked disguise; the alterations to his speech were becoming more convoluted. He remembered that Fy’tay, while reinforcing the change, had boosted it somehow. Perhaps that was why it was becoming more bothersome to listen to the dwarfish man.


Fy’tay. Sylvester called back on her face fondly. She was a beauty in her own right. Of course, he understood completely that he might only find her to be exceptional because he had little else to compare feminine qualities.


He drew on facts about the councilwomen he knew, Marylyn Coiper and Pocquet Ghin’ra. Marylyn was a few degrees older than women he knew but Sylvester understood that he should still maintain a cordial respect for her. For some reason. And Pocquet was almost ethereal in nature and that made Sylvester uneasy somehow. He couldn’t place the feeling exactly, but he knew he would be uncomfortable if left alone with the womanly Ghin’ra twin.


But Fy’tay. She was something else. Not like the occasional chambermaid or cook that Sylvester found himself accompanied by, she was of an agreeable height and her darkened hair flowed and curled like a lovely thickness of vines.


He found his mind wandering further still as he recalled that Tuette mainly kept her hair imprisoned by her cloak’s hood. He had seen Tuette’s mass of locks in darker conditions and it seemed like she would want to let them flow as freely as Fy’tay did. It also seemed like if she didn’t want them to flow, she might at least want them out from under her clothing: he felt itchy thinking about that large mass of hair against his own neck and back, stifled by the fabric’s heat. And her legs…


Of all the wrongs that perpetrated Tuette as a person – Celester!? – her legs were something else. They were shapely where Fy’tay’s had not even been properly glimpsed. Sylvester had noticed that they seemed to possess a slight shadow of hair but thought nothing of it because his own legs were just as peppered if not more lavishly. He suddenly wished to be spying Fy’tay’s legs. Tuette had expressed a candor about her legs while Fy’tay had not even offered a flash. Why keep them hidden if they be as shapely as Tuette’s? He wondered if they weren’t more covetous than Tuette’s as she was turning out to be a rather wretched woman. He thought that a more acceptable gal might have even more enjoyable leggings.


These were the thoughts that greeted him as he finished dressing himself, just before the older Guard entered his privatized suite. “Sir, a breakfast is being served in the main dining area. We must depart after that. Miss Tuette says she received information on the chicken flock heading more southerly.”


Sylvester nodded, thanking the Guard. When the door closed, he immediately wondered if the Guards would be eating with Dermy, Tuette, and the king or if it would be the trio or if it would be just him. He didn’t relish the idea of having to eat with the pair. As it was, Dermy didn’t seem too comfortable around Tuette for some reason, despite them having a kind of undisclosed history together. Is she uncomfortable that he brandished a Magiked disguise? Doesn’t she understand that his level of competence can’t be witnessed by any potential spies? He realized he might have to ask about their past together, sooner or later.


Sylvester saw a spider move in the corner of his eye, into the corner of the room. He jerked his head, feeling a twinge of disgust. Was this creature here all night? Was it even closer, possibly even crawling on me? Sylvester felt an involuntary spasm course through his body as he felt most unclean and wished to have time for a quick washing. A surface cleansing at least!


But no, without the usual accompaniment of oils and products, Sylvester was going to have to settle for brushing out his own hair and beard. He pulled out the brush and, looking around, noticed for the first time that no mirror was available. He remembered seeing one in the hallway just outside his door so he exited his room, giving the spider one last contemptuous glance before doing so.


In the hall, he found the mirror and began to attempt something similar to what Penson might accomplish. He missed Penson then and wondered if the groomer would be okay. They had arrived at the inn rather late and Sylvester himself was both tired from the trek and frustrated at Tuette. And Dermy had not thought to pull out the strange talking ring and Sylvester himself had forgotten about it up until this moment.


He paused when he heard dishes rattle below and plates being scraped by utensils. Dermy’s voice drifted up the inn’s curiously thin staircase with hints of nervousness giving his state of wellbeing away. That meant he was probably with Tuette, eating breakfast.


Meaning Dermy’s room was vacant.


Sylvester inched to the door to the mirror’s right and peeked in. Not seeing the rucksack that he would recognize as Dermy’s, he went back down the hall and checked the second door he passed, knowing the first one had been occupied by the Guards. In seeing the specialist’s bag, Sylvester moved forward, taking care to step lightly. He bent down, unlatched the shallow pocket on the bag’s front, and dipped his fingers in.


He immediately came across the ring and withdrew it. It seemed to glint differently and he assumed that the lighting was causing the difference: he had really only gotten a clear look while in the presence of a weak candle’s flame. Slipping the ring on, he immediately stroked it, thinking that he was performing the action right and wondering if he wasn’t doing something wrong altogether. But Dermy is in my employ so all of his possessions are technically the king’s, aren’t they?


Still, he felt like he was crossing a line of some kind. But the urge to get an update from Penson was a little overwhelming, especially with the means to do so within reach. He realized, right away, that the update was an excuse; he was aching to hear the familiarity of his loyal friend.


He couldn’t recall if the ring in his possession was supposed to warm at the same time as the corresponding ring. The only way he could tell if he was successful is if a voice emitted from the stone. Otherwise, there would be nothing. Wondering briefly if there was some means of letting the wearer know that someone had attempted contact, he began to stand as his knees were becoming uncomfortable.


“That’s mine,” rang a voice; not from the ring but from directly behind him. Sylvester turned quickly, feeling a flush of red color his face, and saw Tuette being framed by the doorway. She was clutching her wrist, rolling the bracelet there back and forth.


Sylvester removed the ring, his hopes dashed. “Uh, so sorry.” He stepped forward and held the ring out for her to take.


Tuette stood there, giving the ring a glance and then darting her eyes to the hairbrush and then finally landing her sights on his hair. He felt scrutinized but knew that being caught was part of the risk of sneaking around.


He could’ve sworn it was Dermy’s bag though. Tuette didn’t take the ring. Instead, she flashed a depreciating smile and nodded at the top of the king’s head. “You should worry more about that bed head before you worry about chatting, Celester.”


By that point, the color was returning to a normal hue but upon hearing her version of his name, he felt the red rush right back, bringing volumes more and making him feel like he might start sweating the rage out.


Taking a deep breath, he said, “My…” and that was all he got out when the younger Guard came up the stairs and rounded the corner, stopping after he realized that Sylvester and Tuette were in a bedroom.


“Sir, madam, Lady Koop has asked me to, uh, inform you that the breakfast stuffs are chilling and,” he looked nervous to continue but did so anyway. “And she requests that you step quickly. Sir.”


“We… I’ll be down in a moment. Thank you.” He breathed easier and then descended once again. Looking back at Tuette, he offered up the ring one more time. “Here, Toot.”


Tuette’s smile returned and he felt like shouting. “Just put that back where you found it.” Then she turned and went downstairs, replacing her hood atop her head in that unusual fashion.


He turned on his heel and nearly threw the ring across the room, but thought better of it. Instead, he shoved it forcibly into the pocket and refused to latch it shut. That bit of retribution sent jolts of pleasure up his spine, thinking that the ring or whatever just might fall out of the unsecured pocket at any time.


Standing back up, he turned partially and paused upon seeing something in the room, a piece of furniture. Balking, he left and could only focus on one thing. How did she get a room with a mirror?!





*          ~          *          ~          *





Breakfast passed by tensely. Sylvester had been forced to eat with Tuette as the other three had finished their meals and were packing up their possessions. He chose not to acknowledge her and she appeared to do the same. It lasted just this side of Eternity.


Returning to his room, he passed the mirror and noticed that his hair had stayed in its bedraggled manner. And that, because his hair was flipped up in the back on its own accord, his kingstone was exposed.


Sylvester’s hand instinctively shot up to his neck to embrace the supposedly-precious stone. Did the Koops see it? Surely, Dermy and the Guards know about it, but did Tuette? He moved quickly to his room, retrieved the brush he had returned there, and brushed more furtively against the curl, wondering exactly what Penson always added to take care of the revelatory flip.


It wouldn’t go down. The brushing actually seemed to make it worse. Would anything make it obey his command? Maybe water or some type of sticky food substance? A plant extract maybe? Grip juice immediately came to mind, but from what Dermy had said a few days before, it wasn’t a substance meant to interact with human skin. And human hair probably wasn’t that much different.


To hide the kingstone though, he had to seek an alternative and thought he had found a stylish solution in a waist length cape that owned a rather high collar. He regretted wearing it when Dermy chuckled. Sylvester cut off any type of comment that Tuette might make by insisting they leave at once.


They finally left the inn with the Guards leaving some larger sort of monetary compensation with the Koops. Sylvester, though he appreciated the hospitality of the proprietors – sleeping outside would’ve been a nightmare! – did not understand why any type of payment had to be made. He was the king and they were on a journey of paramount important within the kingdom’s borders. To provide any type of assistance for the monarch should’ve been privilege enough.


“Why did we have to pay that old couple for letting us sleep and eat there? Don’t they know our mission’s important?”


Tuette exhaled loudly. Dermy, thankfully, didn’t answer and Sylvester noticed for the first time since entering the fields south of Scothil that he was keeping his distance from the group. But why?


It was the older Guard who answered. “Despite our positions of import, those kind people, sir, didn’t have to help us. And they weren’t going to live off of kind words and social gestures. Not when people don’t use the Nementor Path to travel like they used to back when that inn was built decades ago.”


Sylvester continued on in silence, waiting for further explanation as he believed his question hadn’t been answered.


The younger Guard joined in. “So, since they provided a service, we provided payment. Just like how we Gousheralls protect you, we are provided with living spaces, food, and currency to spend during our time off.”


This answer did not settle well with King Sylvester at all. “But what about me?”


No one said anything. Had he said it out loud? He assumed he had.


“Yo, Kingasir?”


“Yes, me. I’m the King of Decennia and I don’t get any currency to spend during my time off. I don’t even get time off, away from the crown. Unless you count the annual trips to New Opal, but even then, I’m officiating their festivities.”


“You’re the king.” Sylvester looked at Tuette, wondering how she could consider that an answer when she was only restating what he had said. “This isn’t some job that you chose. And you sure weren’t chosen for it.” That stung in a way Sylvester couldn’t identify and he chose to focus his attention entirely on the harpish beauty, waiting for the chance to similarly sting her… Did I just consider her a beauty? But Tuette continued before he could dwell on the thought: “You are provided for wherever you go, even when you aren’t on any official duty or some mission. The people that work for you earn wages just like the Gousheralls. It’s only when you’re out here in the real world that you have finally witnessed what it’s like to travel the means of the common man. The entirety of your position has been nestled with the idea that you have everything you ever wanted and have no worries and know exactly what you’re doing in every second of every day. And that’s been the definition of a normal king. Until now.” Something settled inside his chest then and he felt like his eyes were burning a little. He felt he knew where this speech was going and that somehow she had picked up on the truth that he hadn’t wanted anyone to find out: that he wasn’t qualified to be anyone’s king.


Suddenly, the lead Guard shouted, pointing into the distance, his voice hoarse from being elevated by such volume. “Chickens!!”


That drew all of their attention and Sylvester was briefly relieved for many reasons. One, because the female fig that would always be Tuette would stop insulting him, and two, the mission was soon to be over once that flock of chickens was cornered and Frozen.


On Tuette’s face though was something more than hope. Was it fear? What was there to fear in a flock of chickens?


The lead Guard bolted forward atop his splint with Dermy starting almost as suddenly. The rear Guard passed by Sylvester, the trio getting closer to the white and brown flock of birds in the distance. Sylvester had never seen creatures of such sort and wondered why, if they were so rare, one wasn’t already atop Mount Reign?


If Tuette and the Guards were correct, he was supposed to be supplied with almost everything anyway. But I have no chicken.


He also wasn’t moving forward any more rapidly, despite how he nudged and prodded at Eafa. Tuette, to his left, was in a similar condition and he chuckled a little at seeing her desperation mask any kind of dignified composure she might otherwise have tried to muster. He remembered the day before when she had started upon her own splint after a lesson more brief than his own. The anxiety she felt must’ve been great for her to forget the desired commands to make her blandly-colored splint move forward.


The younger Guard apparently had seen the pair’s need for he had circled back, came behind Sylvester and Tuette, and smacked the rear of each splint hard with the flat side of his broadsword. Both mounts spat in succession and were off with Sylvester taking a slight lead. It was very thrilling as Eafa could obviously obtain a high speed.


The lead Guard had been overtaken by Dermy, the latter man’s size obviously adding to his speed, and was nearly on top of the birds. Sylvester feared they would fly away then but the flock did something else: they bolted in one direction at such a speed that Sylvester wondered if Dermy would catch up to them.


Then he felt something beneath him shift considerably and he looked down to realize that the strap that kept the saddle secure had come untied, causing the whole seat to vibrate wildly. In a flash, the vibration was gone as his stomach climbed into his throat and he hit the ground hard, the wind escaping his chest, his vision dazing at the edges.


Sylvester thought he heard a laugh come from Tuette’s general direction but couldn’t honestly place the source: he had become completely disoriented after hitting the ground. He tried moving his neck around and saw that Eafa had stopped a short distance away. She was relieving herself, the discharge landing on a small rock that caused part of the liquid to splash back onto the animal’s hind legs. As he struggled to merely sit up, the eastward sun staring him in the face, Sylvester wondered how a creature could just let the obnoxious fluids even touch their body after making a point to eject it away.


His memory landed on Misren OkLat and his accident during the last meeting with the Malforcrent. He had never encountered an adult that had been unfortunate enough to experience such a thing, but Misren certainly acted like the king assumed someone might in that situation. Eafa took it in stride and moved forward a few feet to graze on a clump of grass.


Should Misren have behaved more like Eafa? Sylvester wasn’t sure but the animal seemed to hold more dignity than the Javal’tan ever could. And appeared to chew her food in the same fashion. So it had to be that taking an embarrassing situation and not making a fuss made you appear more dignified; more approachable, as if the incident didn’t matter.


The younger Guard had circled around yet again and dismounted, helping Sylvester right himself and eventually stand. With a wheeze, Sylvester said “Thank you… uh, uh,” but he had nothing else. He felt flushed by the idea that he didn’t even know this man’s name. A man that served him so closely and loyally.


It occurred to the king then that he didn’t know any of his servant’s names except for Penson and, just recently, Dermy. Technically, he knew the Malforcrent served him but they had been lesser or even equals. He always felt that they were like a larger body that Sylvester answered to and not the other way around, as was suggested.


Sylvester looked into the younger Guard’s eyes, noting they were a very light blue for the first time and, pausing, finally said “What is your name?” He felt like a fool for asking and nearly halted the Guard’s answer—


But the man looked surprised; pleased, even.


“Terrikoy P’mire, sir. Or Terry. The Gousheralls call me Terry.” He smiled as if he had never been asked to reveal something so personal, and with the king, of all people. Sylvester wondered if this would be marked up as a great moment in the Guard’s life… but then realized how much conceit lay behind such a thought. The earlier words of Tuette and the older Guard had bolstered him with unwarranted feelings of greatness.


King Sylvester knew he was nothing great though. Just a man with a stone in his neck. Whether he wanted it or not.


He felt ashamed for not knowing if he really did or not.





*          ~          *          ~          *





It was a few moments of recuperation before Sylvester and Terry could join the trio but when they caught up with them, guiding their splints by hand as Sylvester had been unable to mount Eafa again, there were no chickens in sight. Just a bunch of feathers littering the ground.


“Those’n fast ‘uns, oh!” uttered Dermy. The specialist then spit from atop his splint and it landed on a small pile of something white.


“What’s that stuff?” Sylvester asked, taking a deep sniff for the first time and noticing how foul the fleeing fowl had left the area.


Tuette looked down and then laughed. “That’s chicken droppings. No Magik properties. Tends to make footwear messier rather than cleaner.”


Sylvester wondered at her meaning as she was stating the obvious. “Yeah? What droppings don’t?”


She cast her gaze downward, drawing his attention to his own feet. “I thought you might assume differently, judging by your boots.” The tips of his boots were covered in the stuff. Lifting each foot, he saw that the soles were smeared even more grotesquely.


“Blech!” he managed before almost tipping over, unbalanced by his displaced footing, and being caught by Terry. A snicker rolled out of Tuette and Sylvester thought again of Eafa and her hind legs and how she didn’t even care to have a mess on herself.


So I don’t care either. He purposefully stepped on another pile of mess, attempting to navigate through the makeshift field of feathers and excrement. “So, uh, I guess the chickens went elsewhere? The splints scared ‘em, yes?”


The older Guard – Sylvester made a note to eventually ask him his name too – nodded. “They headed towards that patch of forest there.” The king looked back to see that the Guard was pointing to the west.


“I guess we go there then. Right?” He had directed the question towards Tuette but she was busy casting her gaze around the ground like she had lost something. “Did you drop something?” He looked down too, hoping she hadn’t. If she had, he might be inclined to pick it up and if it had landed on a pile of chicken mess… Well, he knew he could shrug off dirty boots but having to touch the stuff with his hands seemed like an entirely different beast to slay.


“I’m looking… for eggs. Chicken eggs. They’re rare. Many Magik properties.”


Sylvester hadn’t thought of that before. If the birds were reported as being rare, than it was obvious their eggs were rare too. Was this a way to make him express self-doubt again? Or had she scored without even knowing it?


He grabbed the back of his neck, rubbing it gently and feeling an odd comfort wash over him as he nudged the kingstone with the tip of his finger. He took another step, purposefully not watching or caring where he stepped to prove he could, and heard a wet crunch beneath his foot.


The sound had drawn the attention of the rest of the group, all at once. The act of seeing them shift their simultaneous gazes onto him was a little chilling and he pulled his hand away from his neck: it was providing no more comfort now.


The crunch he had accidentally produced was unmistaken; he had destroyed an egg. Most likely, a chicken egg.


Tuette rolled her eyes before closing them, heaving a deep breath that caused her chest to become displaced in an oddly pleasing fashion. But the pleasure was short-lived when she started to speak.


“You yilting oaf! You discrepant man! Y-You horrible king!” The way she had said king sounded more like she had snarled it out of her mouth in an insulting fashion, the likes of which made Sylvester feel evermore despondent about the journey as a whole. “I said I was looking for eggs and you just crushed one! We all heard it, Celester! You crushed an egg! I told you it was rare, that they had Magik properties, didn’t I?”


Something was reaching a boiling point inside Sylvester. He wasn’t sure if it was the way she was speaking to him or the fact that she had said Celester again, but he knew he was nearing his level of tolerance for this woman. Even if she was a Freezer and her precious Pote was going to help save Decennia from the maniacal count from down south.


Tuette had started lecturing from atop her splint how Magik was invaluable and how everything that could be used within the confines of Magik was equally valuable when Sylvester reached across Terry’s front and unsheathed his broadsword. The action had drawn alarm from everyone and Tuette’s eyes widened as if with fear.


She was beginning to dart her hand into her rucksack, one that was very different than the one he had found the communication ring in earlier, when he stepped forward and slapped the sword’s flat side against her splint’s rear end.


Her splint spit and took off.


Tuette, without a grip on the hanks, did not.


She rolled off the side of the splint and landed bodily on Terry. Sylvester winced as he had not anticipated that action but he knew the Guard’s light armor would protect him, mostly. Tuette forced the pair to the ground though, crisscrossed over Terry with him landing on his back, her remaining on her stomach. Her hands were outstretched to brace for impact and they landed with one on the ground, the other on a pile of chicken mess.


Sylvester guffawed at the outcome and looked up to see even the older Guard smile slightly. He handed the sword to Dermy, who handled it awkwardly, denoting his weaponless specialty fantastically, and stepped forward to help the pair up.


Tuette scrambled before she could be assisted, leaving Sylvester to gladly help Terry back onto his feet. “Sorry, Terry. But her squawking forced me to think on my crap-laden feet. Must be why it turned out to be dirty fare in the end.” He smiled and even drew a smile from Terry, who’s backside had a good bit of the mess on it.


Tuette looked something less than angry. Even a little hurt. Sylvester felt glad to bring that out in her. Now she might treat him with respect.


A pang struck him firmly, even sickly.


Is that the way to garner respect? It didn’t feel right. It felt even worse than when he had been rummaging through the rucksack and excusing himself with decidedly irrational thoughts.


He had brought Tuette down to a manageable level, yes, but it had been drawn from taunts and teasing; childish name calling, if the insults were boiled down to their roots. Sylvester immediately thought back to his early days at Majramdic and thought how he would often witness smaller boys being teased by larger groups of bigger teens, but had never been a victim of such a test of fortitude. He had been protected by his eventual title.


Now, he had behaved a lot like one of the teens, one of the bullies. The egg smashing was an accident, yes, but Tuette was only shouting at him. He realized then that he could’ve hurt her with his stunt. A new worry entered his mind:


Did I want to hurt her?


With that sobering realization, Sylvester stepped away from the group. He should’ve taken the oral refuse in the same manner as Eafa let urine splash across her hind legs: he realized he should’ve ignored it.


“Sir?” Terry had said that. What did he want? He looked in the Guard’s direction. “To the forest?”


Sylvester nodded once, lost in his self-depreciating thoughts. He felt awful and he wanted to look at Tuette to see if the situation had affected her, to see if he could witness something telling on her face. But he didn’t get a chance. She was already atop her splint and headed towards the forest, obviously forgetting about potential eggs: Sylvester heard one crack beneath the weight of her splint.


Tuette didn’t pause though, just trotted forward.


Terry helped secure Sylvester’s saddle once more and, as soon as both were mounted, they joined the group.





*          ~          *          ~          *





The forest was shallow, the trees spread thin. The other side could almost be seen and the king wondered aloud “Is it technically a forest if it’s this small?” He was only voicing such thoughts though because his real ones were focusing on his own behavior minutes before. And how it made him feel less than lousy: he felt like the substance coating his boots, like the fecal matter of a flightless bird.


Clucks could be heard, after his question had settled on seemingly deaf ears. The clucking echoed against the unevenly spaced trees. On the edge of the forest, the trees had low-slung branches. Going further into the din, Sylvester saw that the trees were rather bare when it came to their trunks. It was the topmost portions that branched out, the limbs of any tree brushing against any other. With this evidence, it seemed like they could’ve brought the splints in, but Tuette had argued against it, stating that the birds would get frightened again. The animals would graze anyway.


As they walked, Sylvester noticed they stayed in relatively the same positions as if they were atop their splints, but they were spaced much further apart. He would’ve liked to assume it was an unconscious means of covering more ground, but he felt that the others either feared him or loathed him or both. What’s he gonna do next? Sylvester himself didn’t even want to know.


A bank of trees near the center acted as a shield, protecting the nucleus of this arboreal oasis from prying eyes. The group, seeing no chickens that might produce such clicking noises, angled toward the clustered trees, hoping to spy the flock on just the other side.


Thinking quickly, Sylvester held up his hands and said “Wait.” Everyone but the lead Guard stopped. He quickly followed suit when he didn’t hear the crunches behind him. Once he turned around, he looked to Tuette and asked his question. Her face seemed impassive but her green eyes were bright thanks to the surrounding environ.


“Since the chickens are in here, a forest, can’t we just Freeze it all, adding the chickens to the scenery, and doing the whatsit?”


“The Curse Reverse?”


“Yeah, that. Is that possible?”


Dermy answered for Tuette as he might’ve discerned that she really didn’t want to speak to the king. He briefly wondered if he should command her to speak to him but decided against it. “Nah, Kingasir. We’s gotta be Freezin’ those’n chicks an’ such, oh. They’n be ‘ere in th’ for’st, ya, but that’n be goodless fer us. They’n gots t’ be they’n all their own for’st, oh.” He spit on the ground and scratched his forearm. “Nah, Kingasir, we’s gotta be drivin’ ‘em ou’ this’n for’st an’ be Freezin’ them all out’n ‘ere.” He gestured to the area beyond their immediate surroundings and Sylvester nodded in understanding though he assumed the actual explanation would make itself evident in time; it was very difficult having to listen to the farmer now. The king wished that the disguise could be stricken. Perhaps after we complete the task at hand? He surely hoped so.


He started forward and the rest followed suit, Tuette lastly. The clucking grew louder, more regular as they neared the tree group. Through small gaps, Sylvester could see what looked like a shelter of some kind. The lead Guard rounded the last tree and paused at whatever he saw.


Sylvester and the rest came around as well and everyone paused. Tuette was fishing around in her rucksack as Sylvester edged forward past the Guards and Dermy. Before him was not so much a shelter as a canopy that had connecting points with four different trees. Thin and tattered sheets were drawn from the canopy to the ground, held in places by large rocks. It was a small clearing meant to compliment such a small forest.


The trees looked like they had been purposely planted in their sight-blocking stances long ago. The clearing was made of bare dirt mostly and what might’ve been the beginnings of a lek, though it was tiny compared to Cripp Lek. The rest of the forest they had traversed through had been batches of moss and fallen, dead leaves, by contrast. As there was no path of bareness leading out of the clearing, Sylvester could only assume that whoever had erected the canopy was long gone, long dead, behind the hanging sheets, or simply…


A middle-aged woman emerged. She was clutching a dish of some kind and cooing at the chickens that had darted towards her. She clucked in a fashion almost similar to the birds and then balked, dropping the dish when she saw the five journeypersons; the clatter was dull but enough to alarm the nearest birds.


Tuette had drawn a vial from her sack and was holding it in her right palm tightly; her thumb ran over the stopper a couple times but she didn’t open the container. Her gaze was wholly on the birds, as if she hadn’t noticed the woman. She was obviously mesmerized because it was the chicken-messed hand that clutched the vial.


Sylvester moved forward even further, bowing slightly. “Ma’am, I…”


“Blech!” she began while stretching her mouth in odd movements. “Cal-ork! Clork! Clook!”


The sight might’ve been comical if it wasn’t laced with apparent sadness. Has she lost her mind? Such a situation was possible, he supposed, but she seemed otherwise fine.


The action finally grabbed Tuette’s attention: the mystery of the woman caused her grip to slacken on the vial. Looking at the woman first and then to Dermy, she said “Her head energies?”


Dermy only shrugged. Head energies? “What’s that?” he asked. Tuette rolled her eyes and approached the woman, but not before switching hands with her vial so she could dip her dirty hand in the lek water briefly, drying it against herself.


“My name is Tuette. Ma’am. Madam! This is Dermy.” She pointed over Sylvester’s shoulder. “And these are special Guardsmen.” She sighed a little, not averting her gaze. “They protect him.”


The woman hadn’t made anymore noises but had visually followed wherever Tuette’s hand pointed. She looked bewildered, like she was trying to say something that wasn’t making it all the way to her lips.


“Your chickens, madam.” She nodded down to the birds, maintaining eye contact. “Such rare creatures, they are.” The woman mimicked the nod a half dozen times, as if the mimicry was the only way she could knowingly comment. “How did they come to live here? With you?”


The woman’s eyes had begun to well up. She chewed on her lip in a forcible fashion. Sylvester didn’t understand the situation. “What’re you doing, Tuette?”


Still looking at the woman, she said “This lady has obviously been in holed up here for a long time. Which is strange because she’s so close to a town, a group of people. She’s either in exile, Cursed, or trapped here by forces of a physical,” she finally turned to Sylvester, “or a mental nature.”


“Clo-oot. Too-oot!” She balked, demanding everyone’s attention once more. “Too-eat. Toot!” She paused, taking several deep breaths. “Too-ett! Tuette!” Dermy released a gasp.


Tuette moved even closer, pocketing her vial so she could take the woman’s hands. Sylvester noticed for the first time that she wore a skirt and tunic similar to Tuette but of a different color scheme. And it was frayed on the edges, resting more like a second skin than an article of privatized clothing: the king wondered if she ever removed it, even for sleep.


He then wondered the situation concerning her legs, whether they were peppered like Tuette’s or not. This drew him back to Fy’tay but only for a moment as Tuette started guiding the woman, who was now openly crying, to sit on log stripped of its bark. He didn’t understand why the woman wept but did notice that the chickens had calmed once again and were pecking at the items that the woman had dropped when she lost her dish.


It was many minutes before she regained her composure but upon doing so, her speech ranged from chickenesque to something passable at least. With Tuette prodding her with questions while the four males stood around and listened, ever mindful of the chickens, they learned her tale:


She was called Reefetta Bingson Lo and she had not known that Scothil was nearby. A barren woman in her forties, Reefetta was neither Cursed nor trapped in the forest’s lek-centered clearing: she had chosen to live there. Following a tragic incident in the even more southerly township of Lorstelta, which was near the southern border of Jint, she fled with her self-determined life mate, his name being Yuka Porrson Po. They sought refuge in the present clearing knowing that the pursuers from Lorstelta believed it to be the habitat of a Horror of some kind. The heart of the shallow forest suggested that someone might’ve crafted the hollow center around the small and curiously deep pool but had vacated it some time ago. And Horrors were apparently not the type of creature one fooled around with. But Sylvester had never heard of one in the manner Reefetta spoke.


Through the first winter months they felt regret for leaving Lorstelta as they had never been forced to live independent of a larger community. Plus, the mini-lek often froze over, requiring that they break it open with rocks, which often were dropped and lost to the water’s bottom, however deep that was. In the following spring, life gradually improved and Yuka became more adventurous with the forest as a whole. Reefetta said that he came to know every tree and rock and even began to skirt the edge and eventually beyond.


It had been an untold amount of time since Yuka left the forest’s edge and never returned. Reefetta had no weave or script with dated notations and could only judge by the seasons. She knew at least that it had been twelve winters prior. She feared the worst, thinking the Lorsteltans had found Yuka and dragged him back to be judged for his crime. Or maybe they killed him on first sight. Reefetta didn’t know and assumed she never would but. It was her assuming the best that Yuka would return any day now, which inspired her to remain in the forest’s nexus.


It was less than three winters ago that saw the arrival of the chickens. Reefetta greeted them with seeds she had gathered from low-reaching branches and they appreciated it greatly, providing her company that she hadn’t known she craved. “I remember a time, a couple years after Yuka left, I thought that it’d be grand for him to remain gone. Because life with myself was fine. Now, with the ‘kens, I can’t imagine what I’d do without them. I’m just sorry they have to forage outside of the forest for food. There’s just not enough for them and me. And when it comes to snatching a rodent who comes within reach or snapping the neck of one of my ‘kens… well, let’s just say that rats taste best with many added herbs stuffed inside their wretched corpses.”


She had named the chickens and had come to identify with all sixteen of them. “There were originally more but they forage too much and don’t, you know, get busy enough. To makin’ eggs. And little ‘kens.” It was a story that was making Sylvester feel heavy behind his tunic. He felt like trying to help this woman.


Suddenly, Reefetta paused in telling her story and her position took on a new composure. She was sitting straight with her hands in front of her, resting one on each thigh. She no longer sniffled and Sylvester saw that some mucus was beginning to climb out of her nose.


The entirety of the situation felt coldly familiar.


Tuette immediately stood up, turning away from Reefetta with her hand in her skirt pocket, and muttered something about something or someone being fake, being… artificial? Sylvester was greatly confused as Reefetta had seemed utterly convincing.


All thoughts were dashed when Tuette fell forward with Reefetta standing behind her with a wide stick in her hand. She had struck Tuette! Sylvester felt sick when he looked into the woman’s gaze and saw… nothing. No malice, grief, sorrow. She was devoid of any emotion.


Then she swung the stick at Sylvester, who was out of range already. The Guards moved forward, daring their swords. Reefetta swung again, catching the older Guard at the elbow. He dropped the broadsword and Reefetta just as quickly threw the lesser weapon at Terry, catching him in his bare face as she rolled against the ground and came up on the opposite side of the clearing with the dropped sword in hand.


And she was amongst the chickens, gathered and pecking in vain at the barren ground where she had dropped the crumbs.


He would’ve felt sorry for their desperate attempts at finding food, but Reefetta’s action drew an even greater amount of sorrow: she swung the blade quick and low, slicing through two of the birds, sending spurts of blood and stained feathers flying.


The rest of the tiny flock scattered and Reefetta, with a quickness that hadn’t been evident before, chased each one and ran it down for the slaughter. The sight was the likes of which Sylvester had never seen. Reefetta made not a sound, her nose draining more quickly with her efforts.


Sylvester could only stand in shock, darting out of the crazed woman’s way when she started towards him by sheer accident. The Guards behaved similarly, not sure if they should attack or avoid like the king was doing. She was behaving too erratically for them to know exactly what she was doing. Tuette, on the edge of the clearing, was moving groggily on the ground but was safe—until one of the chickens attempted to nestle against her far side in an attempt to find a safe haven.


This chicken was noticed and, seeing Reefetta move forward, Sylvester was inspired to dash at the mad woman’s front, thinking of the most direct manner in which Tuette would be removed from harm. He came in low with his right shoulder in the lead, praying to whatever listened these days that she wouldn’t cut him apart for his effort…


Contact with her gut came hard and he felt for the first time how truly light she was. Reefetta continued forward, propelled by her motion but once Sylvester rose up, he leveraged her over his shoulder, causing the seemingly small woman to flip and land flat on her back. He heard the air escape her chest in a light groan and something popped.


He looked down to see she had landed on her free hand and withdrew it: the wrist was at an odd angle.


Then Reefetta’s face scrunched up and she began to moan. She released the broadsword, which the older Guard stepped forward to retrieve, and she grabbed at her clearly-broken wrist. The sight was a nightmare, the likes of which finally drew Tuette’s passive gaze back to the center of the clearing.


Sylvester looked around again, noting the many dead chickens. Feathers drifted like snow, making the clearing seem more like a mottled dream than a harsh reality.


And Tuette began to weep.


With that weep came the harder truth: their chance had been foiled.


The crazed Reefetta had tampered with the fate of the kingdom. Sylvester wondered if a display of anger or sadness was more appropriate as he clearly felt both.


Terry came up. “Are you alright, sir?” he asked while clapping Sylvester’s shoulder, checking for soreness or something.


“I’m… many things.” He looked down at Reefetta and then to Tuette, who was standing up and dusting her skirt off. Her shoulders didn’t bob but gentle tears flowed freely. Dermy came to her aid, whispering words of query and comfort. “I’m upset, for one thing. And… in utter shock as to why she did it.”


He looked down at Reefetta, feeling the urge to kick her enter and leave his head, and asked “Why? Why the chickens?”


Reefetta, who had started crying again, rolled over and awkwardly stood up, holding her wrist to her chest, and looked around.


Her face blanched even whiter, a solid reminder that it was dark red animal blood splashed again her cheek and forehead. “M-my ‘kens…” she started. “Cloo-ack! Cloot! My ‘kens!”


Sylvester grabbed her by her shoulders, forcing her to look into his face, into his eyes. Her hair landed on his hands and he wanted to pull them away because they felt stringy, like when a spider crawls on the skin, but this was important. “Why did you nut out and kill ‘em, Reefetta?”


“Wh-wha’? I killed them?”


“We know you did. Why?”


She exhaled a great amount of air. “I killed them, my ‘kens?”


Sylvester looked at Terry and then back to Reefetta, confused. “Why are you confessing what we just witnessed? What you just did?”


Reefetta withdrew, leaving her broken wrist against her chest and raising the other to her mouth as sobs and unintelligible sounds were wrenched from her throat. Her face was now entirely red, her eyes glassed over and raw around their rims.


Sylvester worried that she could cut herself with her fingernails, noting for the first time that they were obscenely long.


Then the screaming started.


“Why? My ‘kens! My chickens! You… You all…” Her knees buckled and she fell into a smaller lump of herself, her eyes defocusing, and she seemed broken in many ways. Finally, she looked up into Sylvester’s face. “Why?” She sniffled, wiping her nose against her sleeve finally. “Why did you d-do it? Or them?” She gestured to the Guards and then to Dermy. “Why? My ‘kens. My…. ‘kens…”


Tuette stepped forward then, drying her face and nose with a white cloth that she tucked back into her rucksack. Dermy stepped just behind her and to her right. “Reefetta, we didn’t.”


Sylvester was confused. “Of course we didn’t, Tuette. We all saw her do it…”


“She didn’t do it either.” Tuette sniffled while tightening her hood. “She was possessed. By an Artificial.”


Sylvester didn’t know what that was but assumed it was something Magik and, therefore, potentially dangerous.


“I tried Freezing the chickens once I realized, but Artificials can make a body move faster than expected. It killed the chickens because it knew we needed them. And with them gone, our journey continues.” She looked to each man in turn and then settled on the forest, as if taking it in for the first time. “Only now, I’m thinking that it’s more than about the chickens. Or the Curse.”


Reefetta began to rock back and forth, humming to herself and cradling her wrist.


Sylvester shook his head and stepped forward. Terry was looking at the various chickens, picking up the survivor that had fled towards Tuette, stroking the back of its neck like it was a feline. The king said, “Then why send us out on this… this wild chicken chase? Why enforce a Curse at all?”


Tuette looked back at Sylvester, moving towards Terry to gently take the chicken from his grasp. She stroked it similarly as the animal appeared agitated and said “Count Roost obviously has an ulterior motive. Anyone with his obvious level of skill could hide their location from a Locator Spell. But he didn’t. He wants to be found and he wants it to be whoever is actively seeking to end the Curse against Decennia.”


She met Sylvester’s gaze again, sending an odd jolt through his spine. “And if he knew that you were attempting the Reverse, that might mean that he wants you alive and in his grasp. For some reason.”


The thought caused his jolt to mutate into a cold shiver. Such a large-scale means of getting Sylvester to personally leave Mount Reign? Is this something orchestrated with the Malforcrent? Are they plotting to overthrow me? Or does count have something in store for me? Something devious or even deadly?


More importantly why are we scurrying after chickens when the source of our problems is in the Seagulf Islands?


“If that’s the case and this Roost fellow is willing to destroy lives to get at me,” he looked down at Reefetta before continuing with, “then I think I should meet him head on.” Yes, this decision felt right, though it made him start fluttering on the inside. Nervousness could be dealt with. What if Roost can’t be? What does he want exactly?


And what if Tuette is wrong?


She was a sore woman to converse with and, so far, travel with, but she seemed to hold a large amount of Magik knowledge. Probably because she was a Freezer. He looked at Dermy and wondered why the specialist hadn’t identified the Artificial beforehand? Had the situation surprised him? Did he only have firm knowledge when it came to plant-based Magiks? Judging by what he could remember, Curses could be Reversed by performing a dictated action or killing the Curser. If Roost was going to stop him or the others from performing the action, then it was only logical that they make a run at Roost himself.


But killing the man? That was murder and whatever the little things were that Sylvester had done and felt bad about, he wasn’t sure he could feel sanctimonious about killing someone.


Count Roost was causing a problem though. He was putting the kingdom in danger with whatever Curse he had cast. At least, that was the assumption. As far as the king knew, Roost had not contacted the throne to make any demands against the crown or even publicly acknowledge that a Curse had been cast. If he wanted Sylvester personally, it seemed like some sort of direct message would be sent. Perhaps it had been lost? Or Misren was the intended messenger? The Seagulf Islands are part of the Javal’ta region.


He was beginning to feel evermore weary about embarking on this quest as it seemed to raise more questions than anything. And when he had questions, they seemed to accentuate his self-doubt.


But whatever the situation, Sylvester knew the decision was his to make and, moments ago, saying it had felt like the right action to take. “Yes, we’ll go after the man. If he’s going to keep us from performing the Reverse one way, then he has to be… stopped.”


Tuette nodded and even seemed like she wanted to smile.


Terry had been walking around, looking at the various corpses the entire time and had finally stopped after making another revolution. “Counting Tuette’s,” he began “there are only fifteen birds here.”


Sylvester and Tuette both looked around on the ground with Dermy stepping forward to count as well. The older Guard still sat on the log, rubbing pain from his stricken elbow. Reefetta had settled into a state of disuse, now sitting on her legs which were crossed beneath her. And Terry was right: there were only fifteen chickens.


“Where’d the other one go?” Reefetta, as if attempting to come out of her trance, blinked and looked around. She had begun to drool and her head jerking around sent some drool flying from her face. A glob landed on Sylvester’s boot.


“It probably left the clearing. Or fell into the little lek” Sylvester offered up, trying to ignore the disgusting salvia. What does it matter where one chicken is? We have a new mission and it’s going to be a little easier.


Maybe.


Hopefully.


They were going to confront Count Roost and stop him, one way or another.


It was the “one way” that Sylvester hoped would be resolved by the time they arrived in the Seagulf Islands, with meant anything other than death.


The group had begun to depart when Dermy said “We canna be leavin’ th’ miss herein, Kingasir.” Sylvester looked back at Reefetta who had finally stood and was frantically gathering the chicken bodies. He wondered if she would do the smart thing and eat them or continue to suffer from malnutrition and bury the birds. Her hands were coated in blood and feathers. “She’ll bein’ broke ‘side ‘er min’. Th’ en’gies not flowin’ prop’ly.”


Tuette hadn’t stopped. “Tuette,” he called to her. She looked back. “We should take her to Scothil at least. The Koops might come to care for her. Or someone.” No sense of understanding crossed Tuette’s face. What was her problem? He could only assume that she didn’t care about Reefetta. Or anyone else, for that matter.


Big surprise.


But, no, she had attempted to Freeze the chickens when she realized they were in danger. That accounted for something at least. The lack of caring caused Sylvester to turn to Terry and the older Guard and say “Please, help guide her to Scothil. See if the Koops will attend to her. Tell them that the king has ordered them to take care of her.” It didn’t feel improper to make such a demand, seeing as how Reefetta was clearly in need of attention. If she traveled with them, she would hinder them, especially considering that they now had a larger distance to close in the same predetermined amount of time: that being when the Curse would activate come the next full moon.


“What’ll we be doing while your Guards run your errands?” For some reason, everything out of Tuette’s mouth seemed to be the most extreme version it could be. When she was empathizing, it sounded like she might care too much. When she asked questions about decisions made, they always sounded like she thought so poorly about the decision as to pass it off as stupid and useless.


He refused to be made to feel useless anymore. The bare fact that Roost was after him made him somehow feel quite important indeed.


If only I knew why.


“We’ll be resting. And chatting. The three of us.” He gestured to Dermy and Tuette. “We need to discuss some things. Immediately.”


It’s time for some answers. They left the clearing with the three remaining in the shade on the outer edge of the forest and the Guards heading back towards Scothil. Reefetta was compliant and easily mounted behind Terry on his splint.