Sylvester & Tuette: Cursed Doubt

Chapter Sixteen

Rain pattered lightly against the tiny window pane as Sylvester tried and failed to fall asleep.


It wasn’t too unsettling but there was definitely a level of discomfort. Sylvester had never been in the same bed with… well, when he though about it, anyone! But sleeping with Dermy at his side felt more uncomfortable for reasons he couldn’t specify.


He imagined that the short man might brush his bare legs against the king’s and he knew that would feel odd. Sylvester then imagined someone like Tuette, with a gentler dusting on their legs, and suddenly found it not so much incongruous but maybe even less appealing.


With his mind drifting before he would let sleep win out the moment, Fy’tay came about and he realized again that he had not caught a glimpse of her potentially shapely legs. Would their paths cross? He certainly hoped so, if only for that reason. The curiosity nibbled at his nape, for he knew he might not like to cross his own coarsely, hairy legs with another set. But he did imagine what a set of smooth legs might feel like. He actually almost yearned for it.


Of course, if he wouldn’t like some coarse hairs rubbed against him, he wondered if any woman might not want his upon her legs! What do people do? He scratched at his kneecap, moving the covers in the process and exposing dozing Dermy’s right kneecap. But it wasn’t his real kneecap, not truly. Dermy still wore his disguise. But he seemed to enjoy it. And Sylvester could understand exactly why.


With the disguise applied, that was the only way Dermy felt useful. Sylvester knew the only real reason he, as the king, had embarked on this tasking journey was because he needed to be useful, to feel useful, in some degree or another. The Malforcrent could run the mountain and the whole kingdom while he was away, which they were probably doing with much more efficiency in his absence. It didn’t take much, since the regions rarely had disputes with each other, a fact that Sylvester was finding to be quite evident during the quest. For some reason, the towns had evolved to remain segregated from each other, except for the occasional wandering merchant or entertainer, as Tuette had explained that the type of disguise Dermy was using was more commonly applied to self-titled “freaks” that were no freaks at all. Yuka Porrson Po had even traveled a lengthier journey to return home and explain his situation rather than start a new life in the more adjacent Scothil.


And Sylvester had been forced to ask him why, while Jirra had directed Tuette into their abode for a quick tour. “Why come back, all the way here?” he had said after explaining that they had run across Reefetta and deposited – though he hated using that term, is was apt – her in Scothil.


“Because I have no life elsewhere but here.” He seemed shaken by the knowledge that they had come across Reefetta, a notion that had occurred to him when Jirra had announced their presence and prior path. “I know I was leaving Reef behind, but she wasn’t safe here, not with all of Lorstelta and Jirra threatening to disembowel the poor thing for… for what had happened.


“She’s better off without me anyway.” He had adopted a pained expression then. “I would’ve imagined that she had left the forest long ago though. You say she had adopted chickens as her companions? That’s… saddening, to say the least.”


Sylvester had nodded, knowing it had felt good to listen to the man’s reasoning. And again, he could only empathize because Yuka had clearly taken the correct course. It was sad about how Reefetta had turned out, but being left in a new town rather than returning to bloodshed in your own certainly seemed the better choice.


Something about the situation did bother Sylvester though. He could only wonder why the people of Lorstelta, Jirra included, would think to take vengeance on their own behalf. Doesn’t that set a poor example for those who looked to Jirra for guidance? Sylvester instantly realized that he was doing the same thing in going after Count Roost personally, but no one looked up to him. He knew that. If anything, the tents looked to their representatives on the Malforcrent and might not even know there was a king.


Currently, that was necessary. But he had decided that this quest was to help reestablish the power that was supposedly his. If I go after Roost and bring about his death, won’t that make me the person to be looked up to? It seemed paradoxical to the king and he suddenly felt like he hadn’t chosen the right path anymore.


He also felt a little afraid, if he was to be honest with himself. Facing against someone that could directly alter the fate of every person in Decennia shook him to the core, now more than ever. Using Magik, a device that was largely part of Sylvester’s life and curiously missing from it, someone could bring about destruction on scales unimagined. But he knew the situations between Jirra and he was vastly different: he was trying to save the future while she had been attempting to spill blood for the sake of something done unto her, something that could never be undone.


Thoughts invaded then that, once he gathered the respect he might one day earn and deserve, he might have to deal with other maniacs, whether they dealt with Magik or other forms of mayhem. It disturbed him even more.


With the disturbances came even less sleep and Sylvester took the time to focus on the bedroom. It was clearly more than a guestroom. Jirra had given him their bedroom for safe sleeping. It occurred to Sylvester that sleeping in the back, with the entire side of a hill buffering them from the outside world, might literally be safer but it was the kind thought that stuck with the king.


Why give up their personal happiness, even for one night, in my name? He instantly felt abashed for thinking that he shouldn’t have paid the kindly Koops just earlier that day, simply because they had allowed him and his companions ample bedding for the night. Had it really been within the same day? They had left Scothil and the Koops, met Reefetta, experienced a slaughter, and were now in Lorstelta. It felt like a week had passed. Of course, travel from the shallow wood to Lorstelta had been painfully quiet and therefore, seemed to last a longer time than it truly was. And riding on splints, Sylvester decided, for that long amount of time was severely uncomfortable. His thighs had begun chafing slightly with the fabric almost being ingrained into his flesh by his own weight and the animal’s side-to-side shifting. Yuka had some powder that alleviated the pains and Sylvester had been given a good dose that would last a few more days. He was sure that Dermy would eventually come across some plant that possessed healing properties though. For now, the discomfort was minimal, no thanks to their current bedding. Sylvester recalled that the cushions the Guards were sleeping on certainly looked comfortable. Probably more comfortable than this stiff mattress. But, again, it was the gesture that stuck with Sylvester.


Dermy began to make smacking noises with his lips, a sound that further distracted Sylvester from sleep. Sitting up in bed, the king looked and saw Dermy’s rucksack. Yes, it is his. Tuette had been playing some sort of game with him earlier, then, when he had tried contacting Penson.


Sylvester swung his legs over the edge and touched his bare feet to the cold floor, which wasn’t stone but possibly the original dirt, compacted by years of walking to feel tremendously sturdy. He walked to the chair where Dermy had settled his sack and felt into the main pouch. There was some kind of binding which held a wide collection of scripts, some empty vials, some wrapped rations of bort stalk, jing-pie base, and salted strips of hyrent meat.


And in an inside pocket was the ring that Sylvester had been shown days before. As he held it, he could feel how warm it was. It’s fairly chilly in here. How’s it so warm? He remembered the reason, put the ring on his pinkie finger, the only one it would fit, and rubbed the ring’s gem. “…which means that Trisden could possibly be—“


“Penson? That you?” He felt a lightening in his chest at hearing his old friend’s voice, diminished as it was by the Magik’s transfer of sound.


“Sylvester? Sir? You hear me now?”


“Yes, yes! What were you doing?”


There was a pause. Is there a delay due to our physical displacement? “I’ve been trying to contact you at night hours and then during some day hours. I haven’t heard from you since you left! I thought… Well, I thought the worst, as usual.”


“But you said something about Trisden? Trisden Fellowes?”


“Yes, I wasn’t sure if you were receiving my voicings so I sent updates on what’s been happening here at the castle. In case you could hear but couldn’t speak. Trisden caught me one day, around noon, out in the orchard’s barn. He chased me, through the orchard, and I got away. I don’t know what he heard, but I know I can’t trust him.”


Trisden? He’d been so adamant at looking out for Decennia and its welfare. Why does Penson believe he can’t trust him? It was Dothel op Prissen and Kren Solarpaste, and possibly even Marylyn, who needed watching.


But if that was the case, why did Trisden chase Penson through the orchards? Was the man from the Fortright Isles hiding something? He had seemed so genuine about the king completing his mission. Did he actually want the king gone… only for Sylvester to meet his demise while jaunting about the midlands of Decennia?


A cold streak raced through the king’s mind. What if Trisden Fellowes is, in some way, working with Count Roost? With his eyes being opened to more and more possibilities as provided by Magik, he could see that being a real occurrence. After all, Sylvester realized he was communicating with his friend many kilometers away. Who’s to say that Trisden doesn’t have the same means of contacting the count? He suddenly felt uncomfortable, like he was being exposed to too much. Or by too much. Sylvester had seen this quest as a means of reestablishing his station as the rightful ruler of Decennia, without the constant aid of the Malforcrent. But he hadn’t wholly considered the possibility that those same people might actually want him gone for good!


He asked Penson a question, knowing it might startle his friend. But he had to know. “Penson, if I die, out here, who becomes the next king?”


There was the longest of pauses and Sylvester was about to repeat the question when Penson said, “Sir, no king has died without a proper heir in place. If you die, then the leading tent takes your place.” Penson then lowered his voice, which caused Sylvester to put his hand uncomfortably close to his ear. “Your kingstone is supposed to prevent that from happening, sir. It’s the nation’s guarantee that we’ll always have the proper king to look to in times of need.”


The proper king.


The words hung at Sylvester’s ear like a fly buzzing to be acknowledged. He felt like swatting away the phrase but knew it wasn’t as disgusting as a fly, just annoying like one. And he couldn’t help but pay attention to it, thinking about what exactly was behind the term proper king.


His silence coaxed Penson’s voice from the ring. “Sylvester?”


He cleared his throat, which suddenly felt too dry to swallow, and said, “I… was just wondering. Penson.” His mind drifted back to his last face-to-face conversation with Penson, the one where the groomer had revealed to know the true uselessness of the kingstone. And that King Gould had possessed the same thing. He then thought back to the Curse and how, ultimately, this was all being done to save everyone’s thumbs.


The implications of such a Curse finally dawned on Sylvester: without thumbs, simple tasks might become exceedingly difficult. His mind drifted to the many instances where he clutched something with his whole hand, requiring his thumb for the greatest security on any given object. Then Sylvester thought about Dermy and Tuette and the Guards, Terry and whoever the other one was, he still hadn’t thought to ask. The Gousheralls wouldn’t be able to wield their weapons; Dermy wouldn’t be able to handle simple tools, even. He wasn’t sure but Tuette’s ability to direct the powers of Magik might be curbed dramatically.


Sylvester looked at the ring, recalling how he had clutched it between thumb and forefinger first, before donning it. The ramifications of Roost would be devastating, possibly causing a panic throughout all of Decennia. In such a state, it might hardly matter which region you were born under or what township you knew as home. With everyone in the same disparaging situation, chaos would ensue.


“Keep an eye on them, Penson. And watch out for yourself.”


“It sounds like you need also to watch out for yourself, sir.”


Sylvester nodded and realized the Comgem wouldn’t be able to convey such a gesture. “Yes, friend. I’m keeping my eyes and ears more alert each day. And I’m among… companions, at least.” He had wanted to say friends but he knew he couldn’t consider Tuette to be his friend. She was behaving beneficially and offering sound advice, but at the same time, she was holding something back.





*          ~          *          ~          *





The ocean’s frothy surface was rushing up to him just as he awoke.


He let the terror-inducing dream leave his mind as he focused on the present. Still tasting the gilltain and fleshy fingers that could only be represented by morning breath, he noticed that Dermy wasn’t in the bed and Sylvester was somewhat grateful. He was fairly certain he didn’t want to talk with anyone just yet.


Sitting up, Sylvester appreciated how the room looked much more spacious with the dawn’s early light having chased the shadows away to wherever they spent their daytime hours. And there was a tall, thin mirror set against the wall. Sylvester got out of bed, joints and thighs feeling less sore than he might’ve imagined, and went to look into the mirror. At his currently close distance, he couldn’t see his arms.


Has Dermy stood in front of this same pane and seen himself, without disguise, to imagine what life might be life without the one arm? As far as Sylvester understood, the appendage was lost. For a time, at least. Tuette had stated that a ta could mend it. Sylvester thought to ask what that was when the door to the bedroom opened and Terry stepped through.


“Sir, Madam Jirra says that a breakfast has been prepared. But she has already left for some morning management in Lorstelta proper. Yuka is still here though. And will be accompanying you for breakfast. Along with their daughter.”


Nodding, Sylvester said, “I’ll be out in a moment. Must,” he gestured at his hair and bedclothes “make myself more presentable.”


“As you like, sir.” Terry dipped his head and stepped out of the room. Sylvester returned to his gaze and withdrew the metal comb from his travel pouch, which smelled faintly of Eafa’s tuft. He thought it might be nice to have the pouch washed but it would be a useless gesture: it was being reattached to the splint’s saddle in a short bit anyway.


According to Tuette’s suggestion, Gimble Valley was their next stop, where they were going to employ the possible use of a bird. Or several birds. It only sounded like a good idea to Sylvester because it was still a direction of southerly travel. The notion of flying seemed a little farfetched by his standards. He finished poorly combing his hair and instead of putting on his traveling suit, which was beginning to smell musty, indeed, he pulled out the map weave that Fy’tay had given him back in Zharinna.


The map itself didn’t smell like Perryta Fy’tay but he couldn’t help thinking of her when he unrolled it, how he had felt that tingle run up his arm when her hand fell onto his while passing the weave to the king. He refocused his mind though and let his eyes dance over the map weave. It had belonged to the older crone that ran the shop they had congregated within. It was probably as old as her too as it didn’t show the proper and present regions in their entirety.


Uv-Hren and Jint weren’t represented. But Sylvester though it curious that the towns were still properly stitched into the weave. Their present location, Lorstelta, was closer to the middle of present-day Jint rather than near the Javal’ta border, as Tuette had implied, and Scothil wasn’t really very far at all. But it took a full day to get here! Looking at Mount Reign in respect to Zharinna, it looked to be the same distance. Between Zharinna and Scothil, though, was the vast terrain that Sylvester recalled had hurt the most. They had bore their splints through the midlands like crazy beasts, driving hard work and speed out of the creatures.


Studying the weave further, he saw how much further Gimble Valley was compared to the distance between Zharinna and Scothill and he didn’t relish the idea of working Eafa and the splints so hard again. Especially not at the cost of his knees and thighs. Looking at the details more closely. He saw that they were to travel into a forest as well, which he knew would be difficult for the splints, regardless. So the trek towards Gimble Valley might take two days, and with no shelter in between.


Unless we are expected to sleep in the wood.


The thought made Sylvester uneasy and he immediately wanted to ask Dermy if there was some way to keep the entire troupe awake until they reached the relative safety of the valley. But the splints would need that same remedy. And food. Looking at other areas on the map, he noticed that a town to the southwest of Lorstelta, called Accordia, was within a quick-paced day’s travel. And no forest would intervene.


Would the group agree with him? Probably not. Gimble Valley was more the direction they needed to travel as the Seagulf Islands, clearly distinguished by a large burn mark, was south by southeast. Accordia was actually more to the west than anything, clearly within the boundaries of Serres Mor.


Sylvester sighed and rolled up the map weave and redressed himself, unhappy about the course of travel. The idea of keeping them all awake and aware would not go unvoiced, no, but that didn’t mean he would enjoy the route they needed to travel.


He sniffed his tunic again, wondering how it would go about getting washed. Thinking of the night’s gentle rain, Sylvester thought it might’ve been wise to let the skywater wash away the accumulation of sweat and grime. Thinking back, somewhat wishfully, to life in Fyse Castle, he realized he never knew exactly how his clothing was taken care of. Or even where it came from. He just always had something to wear, as chosen by Penson.


Suddenly, he did recall that he had learned one thing concerning clothing: that it was made up of shrent fibers. How long ago had he come across those field hands who endured the pain of the plant just so it could be manipulated into workable cloth? Just three days ago? That meant, he knew, they had only the six days left. And by air alone, Tuette had confirmed that it might take five or six days, from Lorstelta. And Gimble Valley was easily two days away. He whistled – or tried to, sputtering out spittle once more – about how close they were coming to possibly failing.


But Count Roost, by whatever means he had at his disposal, would kill any chickens they came across anyway.


He thought of Tuette then, thinking how she had attempted to Freeze the chickens the day before in an effort to save them for Sylvester’s own Freezing purpose. Would that truly have worked? Or had she been trying something else? And was it that something else that she was keeping from the rest of us?


Dermy would tell him, he hoped. They had a history, as strange and coincidental as the idea seemed, but that relationship also seemed tinged with a lack of trust on some level. Sylvester understood why: it sounded like Dermy had left Tuette in the midlands, in eastern Dekenna. Albeit, for a good cause, but she had felt slighted nonetheless.


He had said that she knew the Magik being used against the kingdom. And she had confirmed that Roost had killed her former teacher in Magik, some man named Corunny Voidet. Ultimately, she might’ve been seeking revenge. But why now? What was stopping her from going after the crazed count in the past? Is the murder recent? Or has she been waiting for the right opportunity to give her a “free ride” so that she could drive the killing blow?


Finally dressed and feeling a hunger pang tap from within his hollows, Sylvester focused on the idea that Tuette might possibly be prolonging their venture just so she could have her day with Count Roost. If that was the case, it seemed like she was wholly capable of taking care of the man. He could only assume that she had decided to take revenge recently because she had that odd swan structure before they had met. Now her fellow Freezers had reduced her to splintback travel only to find her actively seeking another means of aerial travel, just to make it to Boost and Roost in time to stop the Curse.


*          ~          *          ~          *





Breakfast with Yuka and the little girl – Sylvester couldn’t remember her name exactly – was a little uncomfortable, mainly because Yuka wasn’t making it evident that he didn’t want to discuss the happenings with Reefetta in front of the youngling. During the meal, Tuette ate very little but Sylvester noticed that her clothes, the same from the past two days, were very clean. How’d she do that? He inquired.


Tuette looked a little annoyed to have to answer – Does she really have to answer? – and swallowed some of the peppered meat that was the main course of the meal. “Last night, before I went to sleep, I washed them.” She resumed eating, huffily.


The answer felt like burning venom in his ears and he could only ponder on how her tongue and lips hadn’t been equally burned by the remark. Dermy, who had been noisily smacking his lips while chomping on breakfast rolls, fell silent, apparently not wanting to attract attention to himself. Sylvester then thought that the small man might feel torn between his loyalty to the crown and his past friendship with Tuette. His discomfort was palpable and he smiled, which truly revealed nothing.


Yuka spoke up. “Uh, if it’s your, um, tunic or short cape that you’d like washed… I mean, I don’t have a Wash Stone or anything, but we usually rub dry sand to get anything really messy out of our clothes. Or rainwater might help. If it smells, uh, sir.”


“What’s a Washtone?”


Tuette, with her mouth full, let a groan work its way past her food and over her plate. Terry, standing at the room’s entrance for precautionary reasons, answered before she swallowed. “Uh, Wash Stone, sir. Rub sand on it, at night, and drop that sand into some water. Add, uh, almost anything and, depending on the amount of, um, cleanliness, you can have clean clothes in no time.”


“Is this what they do back at the mountain?” It had to be, except he then imagined the large pennants that the wind directed to sometimes wrap around Fyse Castle’s towers. How do those get cleaned?


“Yeah, yeah, Kingasir. Yessin’, oh. Wash ‘tones an’ th’ likes. Th’ ladies tha’ be cleanin’ th’ castle up a’ways doin’ a fe-ine job.”


Sylvester pointed his fork across at Tuette. He didn’t know why he really said it because he had no real opinion about gender roles but he imagined it had something to do with looking at her sitting there in her clean clothes and he was basically basking in his own smelly outfit, his pants still encrusted with chicken guts. But he said, “Well, she’s a lady. Why didn’t she clean all of our clothes?”


Yuka’s brow shot up.


Terry backed slowly out of the room, his eyes wide.


Dermy had stopped chewing altogether.


And Tuette clutched her own fork ever tighter, her knuckles whitening.


Sylvester thought she might throw it at him or attempt to break it. Instead, she gently settled it against the wooden table and said, in that mockingly-sweet voice of hers, “Well, I just assumed that you were trying to smell like a wild fig. I mean, if anyone was sending hunting figs after us, everyone knows they won’t chase after there own kind.”


It felt like a sparring match, the kind he had been forced to participate in with padded staffs back at Majramdic during the early years. She had just landed a low volley against him and he knew he’d have to send one back at her, as he suddenly felt weakened in the eyes of those around him. Eafa’s dirty legs and the indifference she held flashed through his mind, but it was too fleeting to make a difference in the present, as that happens with most life lessons.


“Since we have you, a femfig, with us, I was just guessing that would be adequate enough. To deter… such a situation.”


Tuette scowled and Yuka’s girl left her seat to sit in her father’s lap. “Dad dad, you canna call mom mom that, can you?”


Yuka looked down into his daughter’s eyes. “No, Jorry. That’s not appropriate language.” He looked at Sylvester and then Tuette. “Not even for some adults.”


Sylvester instantly felt abashed for having said what he had. But he didn’t see the same remorse in Tuette. Instead, she looked a little more annoyed and was almost pointedly looking at anything but Yuka and Jorry. He wanted to ponder as to why but she got up and left the table, heading towards her provisions in the next room, towards the front of the house.


He sighed and looked down at his half-eaten meal, feeling wholly unable to eat anything else. Looking at Yuka, he sighed and said, “I’m… I apologize, Yuka. We’ll be leaving soon. I, uh… Well, thank you for your generous hospitality.” He stood, his chair sliding against the compacted dirt in a surprisingly loud manner. Dermy stood as well. “Uh, Terry or, um… Well, you’ll be compensated. Again, I’m sorry for… any discomfort we might’ve brought you.”


As he started into the next room, he could feel his face radiating heat that seemed like it would start the wooden support posts on fire if he got too close. How could I have let her goad me like that? He felt himself slipping further from the crown. What king would treat any of his citizens that way?


The kind that no one needs.


She was tying up her rucksack when he approached her. Tuette looked stricken but the poor light afforded nothing: the sun was rising on the other side of the hill-house. She started bunching her hair together, wrapping it firmly into something rather large on the backside of her head. He thought immediately how uncomfortable that looked. When she pulled her hood up, yet again, he saw the bulge loosen beneath the cloth and fall under the neckline. Sylvester felt itchy again, thinking about all that hair against his own neck and back.


“Tuette,” he began, not knowing what would fall after her name. How did one apologize after a mere verbal bout? And besides, she was an equal participate, even a catalyst. Why do I feel I have to apologize? He wished he knew the answer, but it was a fog-shrouded bank on an unseen lek for the king: he didn’t know where to step, but knew he had to move forward.


She didn’t look him in the face but did pause in her actions. “I’m… not too certain, uh, what to say. Here. Right now.” He gulped, swallowing only dryness and what tasted like bitter pride. “But I’m sorry. For what I said.”


Tuette resumed with tying her hood off, hefting her sack, and saying, “Forget about it.”


It felt like getting kicked. Or smacked. Forget about it? How was he to forget about it? He was trying to apologize, an act he didn’t feel was justified in and of itself. And she’s practically dismissing the situation! As she moved towards the entrance, Sylvester felt like grabbing her arm and making her talk through the incident. But he knew that wouldn’t solve anything. Tuette was of firm constitution, and if she said to forget it, it seemed like he should do just that rather than make things worse. So he did his best to push the thoughts out of his mind, a task none to easy, but doable.





*          ~          *          ~          *





         Atop their splints, Sylvester brought up the notion of traveling for what seemed like two days, with a night being spent in a wooded area. “I’m not too enthralled about the idea of sleeping in the wilderness, just so we can sidestep to a valley that may or may not host a helpful flock of flyers.”


“Kingasir, it bein’ a goo’ plan, oh. Flyers be comin’ in man’ sizes an’ s’uff. If we bein’ true luckals, we migh’ be gettin’ pass to Boos’ clear free, oh!”


He hadn’t thought of that. Sylvester usually only thought of the gulls in his nightmares and the small birds that found perches outside of Fyse Castle. Are there birds that can carry people? And not just in the sense of Tuette’s odd swan-shaped home? The thought slightly alarmed him. How does a bird grow to being house-sized?


Magik tampering might bring it about. He knew that much from the history regarding the Dissociative Wars. Whole armies had been made up of humans paired with certain kinds of animals for the sole sake of fighting. What was unique was the animals were all bred, somehow, with speech capacities. With speech came increased mental functions and whole off-shoots of traditional species that could speak intelligently were created.


Sylvester had never personally encountered any such talking animal but he had read in the castle’s archives that they truly existed. At least, they had at one point in time. If this… Menengitical? Was that the man’s name? If he can ease our travels, it really would make the journey safer.


But the idea of sleeping in the woods still didn’t settle well with him.


Tuette sighed and when Sylvester had her attention, it seemed like she had just rolled her eyes. “Look, we’ll sleep in the woods – if they’re even still there – and your Guards or whatever can keep watch. If not that, I know how something called a Doornail Charm can help out. It’s just, well, we need to do this. Perryta Fy’tay didn’t let me bring my swan for some reason.” A look of distant worry crossed her face. Is she afraid that Fy’tay might violate that ugly structure? “But it would’ve been so helpful, yes.” She sighed and continued. “Menginal can help.”


The notion of using his Guards in that capacity seemed unfair because they were trained to defend him in times of personal crisis. They were not set up, centuries ago, to make sure the king slept well. “Okay, then we’ll do that. But I’ll also help keep watch.”


His face heated up a little and he felt self-congratulatory tingles rush through is body. Yes, it felt proper to make the suggestion. Of course, Terry or the other Guard would never allow him the chance to risk losing sleep to help protect the group. This was his quest, after all. Sylvester knew that such thoughts made him appear most unwholesome in other people’s eyes – he even felt bad for thinking them – but the truth couldn’t be denied. Letting the situation settle as if with resolution, Sylvester pulled on Eafa’s hank and pressed with his knees, setting her off.





*          ~          *          ~          *


Their eastbound riding was quick though the chaffing was quicker to return. Dermy offered up his blanket roll as additional padding, extending further down Eafa than the saddled reaches. Unfortunately, the additional weight and length taxed Eafa, who was already overburdened. She was panting heavily, just before noon, and Sylvester could only think back to when the Guards had claimed to have seen someone, one of the field hands, idling around the splints. They hadn’t checked for poison or foul play, he suddenly realized; their escape from potential spies and their arrival at Zharinna had pushed the notion from their minds.


But Sylvester knew it could also be that she was genuinely ill or literally overworked due to Sylvester’s baggage or even the simple blanket roll.


Tuette recognized the problem first. Towards Sylvester, she said, “Your splint is dehydrating.”


“Dehydrating? She’s just thirsty?”


Tuette looked like she was making an effort not to shout or belittle the king as she said, “Not just thirsty. She is being dehydrated. Intentionally.”


Alarm entered Sylvester’s throat and heart. “What?! Someone’s doing this to her?”


Shaking her head while stopping her own splint and dismounting, she walked to Eafa’s side. The splint looked like her eyes were almost closed and Sylvester got off and stood next to Tuette, in front of Eafa. “No, it’s already been done. And it’s a cruel way to kill an animal, I tell ya.”


“Kill? Someone is trying to kill her?”


Tuette nodded, looking pained in the eye. Still, her voice carried that all-business manner in which she spoke. “Yes. She always under watch?”


“We thought we saw one of the field hands messing with the splints a few days ago, before we picked you up. After that, we’ve kept eyes on them.” Terry said it with confidence and also a little shame. Sylvester understood: Eafa was being killed and they hadn’t thought of the slight incident until just now.


“So it’s official that someone else doesn’t want us to not only not go after chickens but also to not go after Roost.”


“What do you mean?”


“Well, Eafa was probably given a Dehydro Stone, wrapped in leather that has only just recently been eaten by her stomach. We don’t have many options in this situation. We either need to keep her submerged until the Stone has absorbed all the water it can, or… Or we leave her.”


That choice didn’t settle well on Sylvester’s heart. It was true that she was an animal, but he couldn’t help but feel like it was his fault that she’d been the target of someone’s murderous sabotage. “No. We can’t leave her here to die.”


It was Dermy who dismounted and approached Sylvester. “A Dehyd’ ‘tone ‘sorbs too much, Kingasir. We not be havin’ lot-o time a’ such, an’way, oh.” He looked happy to be saying this, but Sylvester remembered what Tuette mentioned in passing: the disguise conveyed the very opposite of what he was feeling. “It bein’ bes’ to ‘et ‘er pass.”


“Pass?” A notion struck. “Will she pass that De-Dehyrdo Stone? Will it come out, like something painful and treacherous?”


Tuette slowly shook her head, letting sadness or sorrow, if the two could be separated, play across her face. “No… sir.” That sent a shock through Sylvester’s head. Sir? “The Stone will sap her liquids well before that. She’ll… She will die.”


Sylvester let that soak in as much as he knew that Eafa had to soak in some liquids. If only there was a river, or a lek… or maybe if it rained…


Another thought struck, even more powerfully than the first and Sylvester rocked a little on his heels. “What if a storm came up? Or one was, I don’t know… created?” He then looked up at the sky, noting that the pale blue of a healthy sky crushed his spirits in quite the opposite manner than a clear sky normally would.


But something seemed to animate Dermy as he reached into his own rucksack and pulled out that small, compacted script binding. Tuette came over to his side as he frantically skimmed through the inked leafs, looking over his shoulder and scanning the same things. A surge entered Sylvester’s bloodstream at the fact that he might’ve made a viable suggestion after all. “What is it? Can you make a storm, or summon one, or something?”


Tuette curled her brow and smirked her lips. “No, Celester. Nothing like that.” His heart dipped only slightly at the mention of her somewhat irksome name for him, but he let it pass as she continued. “But there are plants that provide a lot of moisture. Like hor’k or serteg ivy. Some vines even hold water drawn from deep underground.”


“Yes’n, oh. An’ I gots sketchin’s o’ lots ‘em. Eaf’ still gots a bit o’ time, oh!”


“We won’t save her with a plant alone, but we can give her enough time to get to… Was it Horp Lek? We were gonna pass near that lek on the way to the forest. But sounds like we have nary a choice but to make that our next destination.”


It entered Sylvester’s ears with ease but did not find solid ground inside. The idea of delaying their mission felt wrong. It felt more like when he mistreated Tuette just because she smarted off to him, or had tried to make him sound like an idiot, the day before. Running over possibilities in his head, Sylvester asked, “How long would it take for a lek to stop this… whatever. The Stone inside her.”


Tuette looked at Sylvester, her eyes moving in the back-and-forth manner that said she couldn’t decide which of his she should focus on. “That depends: if it’s an old Stone, it won’t take much time. If it’s new…”


He nodded. “More time than we have.”


She bit her lower lip as her eyes glassed over. Dermy was still thumbing through the pages. Tuette nodded and he felt a little sick about the situation.


He coughed once, as something beholden of thick moisture built up in his throat: Moisture I don’t need, but Eafa does. It was an irony he hated all the more. “We… We’ll take her to Horp Lek. Or try. We’ll give her the rest of this day and, if she doesn’t…” He began to feel hot in his cheeks, his light beard not making it any more comfortable. He couldn’t truly understand why he felt this way. He wasn’t particularly close to Eafa, but maybe it was just that she had a name. And she was going to most likely die while she was his charge, his mount.


Sylvester stroked Eafa’s neck, just under the left hank. She was blinking rapidly, and he could only wonder if it was because she couldn’t keep her eyes moist enough. He wondered if she would even be able to see much longer as she might have to keep her eyes closed until she passed, or expired, or simply… died.


“How far is the lek?” he asked, continuing to her neck.


Tuette reached into Sylvester’s pack and unfurled the map weave. Setting it against Eafa’s rear flank, she traced her fingers till she found their probable location. “Uh, less than an hour, at a hard ride.” She grimaced. “About two hours and some change at a… respectable pace.”


A respectable pace. Over two hours to go and Eafa might not last till then.


She had been given a Dehydro Stone, probably by the spies from the fields, wrapped in something to delay the process. Who would want to stop us from completing the quest? A few days ago, he was looking to Freeze some rare chickens as means of abating a treacherous Curse. The only people, as far as he knew, that couldn’t be affected by a Curse – who had nothing to fear from any Curse – were persons already Cursed. Does that mean someone Cursed did this? That they wanted everyone to lose their thumbs? He imagined how someone Cursed wouldn’t mind such an occurrence, but he wondered if they wouldn’t do anything in their power to make sure no one else would have to go through the same thing.


The thoughts bothered Sylvester. Eafa was an innocent creature. He knew it wasn’t her fault that she was a splint in employ to the king. And someone, most likely a Cursed person – someone who wants everyone to suffer the same fate – has sealed her fate in an attempt to bring the mission down. At first, Tuette had informed them all that Count Roost had sent that Artificial to kill the chickens as a means of inviting the party to attack Roost personally.


But this act had been performed even before that one, and it wasn’t by Roost as that man hadn’t left the Seagulf Islands, that much was ascertained by that old crone in Zharinna. So he has henchmen who tried and failed to stop my means of mobilization? It doesn’t make any sense.


He looked at Eafa again. Her eyes were closed but her breathing wasn’t as laborious.


They started in silence towards Horp Lek, as determined by the map. All of them were atop their splints, except for Sylvester, who was guiding Eafa by the hank. He still silently wished that a sudden storm might occur.


As they walked, Sylvester began to grow tired in his feet. The tiredness made him a little angry because he knew that whoever had caused Eafa’s eventual death had brought his sore feet into being as well. “This has to be the work of another Cursed person,” he said.


Tuette looked like she had been slapped while Dermy looked surprised that Sylvester had said anything at all. “Why do you say that?” she asked, the remorse suddenly gone, which made Sylvester wonder if it was ever really there in the first place. Maybe she just felt sorry for him and felt nothing about Eafa. Or maybe she’s more worried how one less splint is going to affect her quest for vengeance against her teacher’s killer.


He then listed his few reasons for naming why someone who’s Cursed would actually want Roost to succeed, even if only Roost himself wanted to ultimately have an encounter with the king. “I mean, maybe whoever did this is ultimately right.” He couldn’t believe what he was now saying but it did just occur to him. “Just think that if everyone was Cursed with something small, then no one could be Cursed again. And everyone would eventually adapt.”


Tuette seemed genuinely startled by his opinion and he suddenly felt like he had said the completely wrong thing. He admittedly still knew so little about Magik and Curses that he was probably talking out of his—


“That might actually be a good idea,” said Tuette. Sylvester now seemed startled as he hadn’t expected her to agree with anything he ever said. It felt… eerie.


Dermy gave her a sidelong glance and a smirk and the rest of the trek to the lek, which felt more like a funeral procession than anything to Sylvester, was made in stark silence. The heat beat down on them as the sun reached its peak, glaring at them through near-perfect weather conditions.


He could only think how clear skies have never perpetuated such cloudy thoughts before. Stroking Eafa’s neck as he walked beside her, he was glad to be in front: it made it more difficult for the others to see his teary eyes and quivering lip.





*          ~          *          ~          *





Eafa never had a chance. They were within sight of the lek when her front legs buckled and she fell forward, keeled to her side, and never regained the power to stand up.


Sylvester had only been to one burial before: his father’s. And even then, there hadn’t been a body. What is there to do with Eafa? Do we have time to dig a grave large enough for the splint? Maybe if we covered her with branches or stones? But there were neither of them in enough abundance to fulfill the duty.


Tuette dismounted and said, “In some religions, words are spoken, or a prayer is said.”


He hadn’t recalled anything tremendously profound about his father’s service. Just that it had ended with him, a young boy, not quite pubescent, being burdened with a heavy crown. Tuette continued. “We of the Mezahn Valtosist faith believe that all spirits, of human and animal, are sent back to the land of the living, in another body, another splint. So Eafa isn’t really dead, not the spirit that would remember you; she’s just somewhere else now.”


That made sparse sense to Sylvester but he knew he had little knowledge regarding any religion. He didn’t even know what it was that kings were supposed to believe anyway. The relative idea of passing thoughts and knowledge from one person to another was easy to understand: he had the kingstone to root that fractured fact within. But with whatever Tuette was talking about, she made it sound like every living thing had something like an invisible kingstone, tying their lives to something that would live farther down the line.


With that confusing thought, he immediately wondered if Tuette was an idiot for spouting such nonsense. But, again, he didn’t know much about the religion. And she did seem to work viable Magik. Perhaps hers is the religion to follow.


He wasn’t in the correct mindset to be asking questions though. She had attempted to say something kind or even sympathetic and for that small grace, Sylvester was grateful.


Then Tuette bent down at Eafa’s side, put a short blade into the dead splint’s side, and created a downward slash in one motion.


The action appalled Sylvester. He knew he was appalled because he felt himself staring, wide-eyed and slack jawed. “What’re you doing?!”


Tuette shoved her hand into Eafa’s side, her sleeve bunching up on the outside the further she reached in. She ignored his question as well. Apparently, Tuette’s kind words were just that: words – ineffective squawks that decanted from her uncaring mouth and heart.


Bending down next to her, Sylvester thought to grab her arm and pull it forcibly out of Eafa’s side. Whatever she was doing, it wasn’t sensible. It was a form of cruelty the likes of which Sylvester never thought possible.


Dermy pulled Sylvester back, causing the king to land on his rear, watching Tuette dig around armedly inside the corpse’s abdomen. “She be fetchin’ the ‘hyrdo ‘tone, Kingasir.”


Oh. He hadn’t thought of that. Sylvester actually hadn’t thought of anything regarding what Tuette might be doing; just that she seemed to be purposefully violating the dead splint. But if she believed what she had said earlier, then she didn’t care about the body because Eafa was supposed to be somewhere else at the moment, inside another splint. He could only formulate two words about that notion:


Fat chance.


Tuette finally stopped wriggling around, displaced her weight, and slowly pulled her arm out. Surprisingly, not much blood coated her arm and Sylvester remembered that most of Eafa’s fluids had probably been absorbed by the Dehydro Stone.


And there it was, in her hand: the inanimate culprit that had been planted by an animate villain.


It was just a stone, like they had said. Small, irregularly shaped, and black. “It’s a shame she couldn’t have made it to the lek. This Stone would’ve saturated itself in a matter of hours.” She looked at Sylvester and then, just as quickly, averted her gaze. “I mean, assuming she hadn’t suffered too much loss of her other bodily fluids.”


He felt like spitting, but not at her exactly; maybe just the ground near her or even at his own feet, signifying that he had to at least release some of his own bodily fluids in regards to the subject matter. Sylvester didn’t and instead asked, “So why take it? What’s the point?”


Tuette studied the stone closely, even sniffing the thing. “If we can determine the origin of the Stone, like who applied the Charm and where it came from, we might be able to hypothesize who is trying to deter us from completing our Reverse quest, one way or the other.”


Sylvester couldn’t help but silently balk at her saying “our Reverse quest”. Like she’s anything but a Freezer accompanying the king. Still, she was speaking sense for a change and if any more of these types of subtly destructive acts came about in the short time remaining, they all needed to be aware of the potential arenas that the danger might originate from.


“You can tell where our culprit came from then? But then what? We wouldn’t have time to take care of them. We couldn’t…”


“Take care of them?” she interrupted while standing up quickly. “Take care of them how? By killing them, king?”


He was taken aback, as evidenced by his failure to find suitable wording to answer the question. What else could be done? Did she imagine that they could be detained and questioned? If they harness Magik knowledge, they probably have means to counter normal methods of capture anyway.


For that matter, what was to stop them from creating what Tuette had said was an Artificial and having it possess one of them and order it to kill the others? Obviously, whoever was behind this act was intelligible enough to concoct a plan like that. And since whoever was being a direct hindrance, it was clear they were going to do anything to stop the king.


“Well, if that’s necessary, the action would justify the means. Wouldn’t you agree?” He looked at Terry, the other Guard, and Dermy but they had elected to remain neutral on the subject, clearly looking uncomfortable anyway. He looked back at Tuette. “But like I said, we wouldn’t have time anyway: we need to get down to the coast within five days.”


“But you’re saying that if we came across this man, or woman, or Demon or whatever, that you would end their life? Just because they killed Eafa?”


“Why is this a problem for you? You don’t seem to mind that we’re all on our way to confront a man that’s placing this entire kingdom into jeopardy. And that if it comes down to it, he must be executed. You said yourself that if he’s going to deter us from performing the Reverse, his death is the only other way.”


Tuette paused, looking startled. She obviously hadn’t thought of the similarities. Sylvester felt slightly pleased to have pointed out her flaw in judgment. She then said, “But you’re this nation’s king, Celester.” Why is she stuck on calling me that?! “You can’t go around killing whoever you see as a threat. You have to set the example for your subjects. Do you want everyone to go around killing out of vengeance, like Jirra wanted to do with poor Reefetta?”


He felt a stone drop inside. Can she read the thoughts in my head? He’d been thinking of those ramifications hours before. She obviously had no qualms about going after Roost, but everyone else had to be judged. Why? Because he’s using Magik? Because he was representing the wrong usage of powers that not everyone understood?


Why did she think that Reefetta was in the wrong? Sylvester asked.


“Because it’s obvious that Yuka was lying, saying whatever would please Jirra. He was afraid to be in a strange place so he sold Reefetta out, abandoning her to that forest. To be reduced to depending on chickens for companionship.”


“But Yuka said it was her fault.”


She rolled her eyes, clutching the Stone inside a fist. Sylvester wondered if that was wise. “I just said he was lying. Did you just forget that?”


Sylvester felt himself huffing now. He wanted to end this discourse, but something burning inside compelled him to continue it. He didn’t enjoy the feeling but knew it needed to be satiated. “How could I forget? You just mucking squawked it.” He felt like calling her a slut but knew there was no evidence to support the statement. “Why would you not believe him? He was the one still embracing sanity. At least he seemed to this morning. Just before you…”


“I what?” she cut him off. Sylvester didn’t like that but what could he do? He didn’t want to take a physical action. The last time he had, causing her to stumble from her own splint, he felt much regret. “What did I do?”


She is proving persistent!


He gulped, feeling his head spin a little, absently realizing that he was slightly hungry. “You acted like a child. Like you were younger even than that little Jorry.” He took an unsteady breath, wondering if his next line would come out as unsteadily as a result. “I could easily compare because she was in the same room with us, on Yuka’s lap. I wondered, for a moment, if it was you on his lap.” Again, he felt like throwing in a mention of potential promiscuity but knew it wouldn’t change anything.


Tuette’s face flushed red, her eyes denoting quite the opposite of what it looked like to be possessed by an Artificial: they looked angry, in and of themselves. He felt a little afraid but hoped he wasn’t displaying that. “I-I was not behaving childlike,” she finally said. “I was defending myself. From a bully. You had just called me a female fig. In front of everyone, including that little, innocent girl! What was I supposed to do?”


“Oh, is this the part that I’m supposed to have forgotten?” She gave him a stare that made Sylvester shiver in the small of his back but he plowed ahead, feeling justified and ignoring her question. “I mean, what, we say some things to each other, I apologize, you tell me to forget it ever happened, and now you get to bring it up as a means of telling me and the Guards and Dermy that I clearly have poor judgment? Is that the gist of the situation here, Tuette?”


“You don’t understand. You just… don’t.”


“No!” he shouted, sending a small amount of spittle in the process; it rested deftly on the grass. “I clearly do not! I’m not allowed to forget anything, am I? Or make a mistake? Or say the wrong thing? Or breathe the wrong way? Is that it, Tuette?”


He wiped his mouth, feeling more spittle build up on his lips. Tuette looked like a cross between being enraged and afraid; her teeth were clenched and she was breathing hard, almost miming the slumped shoulders that indicated sobbing. What might she do? Sylvester knew she possessed powers outside of ordinary weapons, but he also somehow knew that this moment would help define not only his relationship with her during their quest but indicate to himself and the others exactly what kind of king he had the potential of becoming.


Sylvester also realized it was a way to show that he knew nothing of how to talk to or deal with a woman.


Tuette was the first to break down, her shoulders slouching, her facial muscles becoming less taut. But he couldn’t let her lose composure, not completely. Something told him it was important, that he should stick with what he did know, in that moment.


“I don’t… understand,” he started just before Tuette was about to say something. She stopped to listen. He looked down, thankful to have spoken in time, and continued. “I truly don’t. I don’t understand many things… because my kingstone hasn’t let me.”


She looked brazen with confusion. “What?” was all that sputtered out, though that was barely understandable.


Sylvester sighed again and explained, as briefly as possible, the situation regarding his kingstone. No more words followed, but that wasn’t because of the shock of the realization: it was because many shapes had appeared in the sky above the forest in the distance. The forest that was their immediate destination. The aerial shapes appeared to be winged creatures.


And they were heading directly for Sylvester and Tuette.