Sylvester & Tuette: Cursed Doubt

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Tuette looked surprised at his question and then seemed to remember something and said, “Oh. Well, yes and no. I stayed in the…” Then there was a buzzing sound and Sylvester saw a muted expression blanket Tuette like a sheet of falling water.


“Keeeeng!” Sylvester turned and found that the small voice had come from the same direction as the buzz. “Keeeng! ‘ooo muz gaw!”


Sylvester was confused because the only life form he saw directly in front of him was an abnormally large fly, about the size of his thumbnail. But the king felt it was unmistakable that the vocalizations were coming from the tiny, flying bug.


His memory was jogged by the creature and Sylvester remembered Tuette talking about a fly that had most likely taken Beverane the seleagle with it. To this place? This was unmistakably Count Roost’s castle, small as it may be. Compared to Fyse Castle, this place is like one of New Opal’s smaller public structures.


The fly was buzzing continually, drawing the king’s attention. But the presence of Tuette was a little alarming. Why isn’t she outside? Doesn’t she remember that the count isn’t trying to harm me but cares nothing about the others? She couldn’t know Roost isn’t here, so why take this risk? What had…


“King,” came a small bellow from above. Sylvester looked and saw Vest descending. A very faint and new glow was coming from somewhere up the stairs and if Vest was saying anything else, Sylvester couldn’t hear it: the large fly was buzzing very near to his ear. What does it want?


Sylvester swatted at the air but the fly was tenacious. It landed near his ear; whether on his shoulder or collar, he couldn’t tell but when the buzzing ended, the voice returned. “Haa eez nawt yorr fry-eend. Eez vile-ane!” Vilane? Vile? Villain?


When Vest reached the bottom step, Tuette reacted, but in a manner most unexpected: she moved to step between Vest and the king. Sylvester was very surprised. He moved forward and put his hand on her shoulder. “Tuette? What’s wro—“


She shrugged his hand off. “Sy-ar, A apple-gize. Methinks yorr ‘lona.”


“Fly? What’re you talking about? What’s going on?”


Vest had continued approaching… and Sylvester noticed for the first time that the Gousherall had his dagger in hand. Was the count upstairs after all? Has my Guard killed the terrorist? Part of Sylvester was relieved at that prospect because it meant not having to face the man himself. But he realized that couldn’t be true as the dagger was clean and Vest had no makings of a struggle. Whatever he had intended to approach the king for, Tuette saw an end to it.


She intercepted with her arm up, palm facing outward, but said nothing. It only managed to draw a sneer from Vest. He grabbed her arm—


Like a flash of something otherworldly, Tuette reacted, but more decisively this time. She slapped his arm away, smacked the other, forcing him to drop the dagger, and then she punched him violently in the chest with both fists.


Vest fell backwards. Tuette followed the man and all Sylvester could do was watch. The turn of events was too bizarre for anything but witnessing. But it was short-lived. It seemed that when Tuette stepped closer, Vest would retreat and when he began ascending the stairwell, he was wondrously lifted as if on strings and less violently placed against the wall. Tuette was making no gestures with her hands or any other visible extremity and Sylvester could only wonder how she was accomplishing this feat.


The only people Sylvester had seen perform such acts were those identified as Koso. But Tuette had been vehement with her vocalizations against the people. The king decided to finally step forward and, as if walking through a hazy yet revealing barrier, he saw the reason for Vest’s predicament: Joy was actually exerting her own force and power against the Guard.


But why?


“Tuette, what’s going on?”


“Was he not attacking you, king?” asked Joy from the wall. She was passive in speech while her actions might’ve caused a labored breathe in a mere Mortal.


And Sylvester was stunned. Attacking? “He was approaching. It was Tuette who attacked him. But something’s not…”


“Pessed!” came the fly’s voice at Sylvester’s earlobe. “Poossessed!”


“Possessed? Who, Vest?”


“He was trying to light candles up there,” said Joy while knocking her chin back up the stairs. “I kept blowing them out because I figured that the count might see them in the dark.” Sylvester could only wonder at how a World Spirit like Joy could perceive night and day inside her own element but thought not to ask. “At least, that’s what Puze there told me to do. I think he’s possessed.”


A disgruntled sigh rumbled off the fly. “Ne-aw! ‘er! Tha gill! Herrr!”


“Tuette’s possessed?”


Joy’s face bore a sense of shock as she gazed on her newly acquired friend. Sylvester came around the woman and looked into her face. The familiar blankness was there alright, denoting the possession that had settled upon Reefetta and even Terry… and possibly Misren of the Malforcrent. What’s caused Tuette to be taken like this?


In his fragmented way of speaking, the fly offered up an unfortunate reason: the Artificial-from-Afar Charm was tied to him and the monarch’s kingstone. When Puze had witnessed the pair approaching Castle Tigra Lei – And what a name that is, he thought contemptuously – he knew it was the king and a Guard. Witnessing the Guard trying to light candles above, Puze headed towards the king hoping that the Charm would work by making the Guard become possessed as Vest would’ve been the closest human. But Tuette had turned out to be the closest, a revelation too late for Puze to do anything about.


“So what do we do with Tuette now that she’s possessed with an Artificial?”


Vest offered nothing. Joy couldn’t offer anything. Puze said, “Een tome, thar Chirm vill fad-ade. Thet eor yas pu-u-ut thar boody een dangy-ar.”


“Yes,” Sylvester stated. “After I flipped Reefetta, she lost her Artificial. Did it think the body was in danger?”


Puze explained what Tuette already had: the false spirit needed the host in order to fulfill its own mission. If it sensed a danger to the host’s body, it would abandon the body. “So all we have to do is put Tuette in danger?”


“King,” cried Joy. “I wish I could… help more… but my concentra…” and she vanished. Vest fell to the stairs with a huff, his face red for the effort. The implication was finally sinking in for Sylvester with a panic: Vest was lighting – had lit – notice signals for the absent count, possibly warning him about the king’s presence. That meant Vest… Sylvester didn’t want to think about it! One of my own Gousheralls? And unpossessed, at that.


A free agent.


Looking at Vest as the Guard gasped, Sylvester asked the older man.


“A traitor?” Vest repeated with raspy words. “You are the traitor!”


This was a kind of awkward revelation for Sylvester that made him step backwards in astonishment. “Me? I am the king, Vest! I cannot betray myself!”


Vest began to chuckle as he unsheathed yet another dagger that was beneath his upper arm. How many weapons are administered to these Guards, wondered Sylvester absently, almost absurdly. “You are the Abominable King, Sylvester. An abomination of the very Magik that brought you to us!


“Your line was great but you have destroyed what it means to be the King of Decennia! Letting that kriffing Malforcrent weaken your status! Your power!” Sylvester’s face reddened slightly at this remark as this was an icy truth being slammed against the king’s own psyche. “I thought that you might be redeemable, King, but your revelation regarding just how useless that rock in your neck is put me over the edge. Made me realize that I too was chosen for a reason!”


“Chosen?” asked Sylvester franticly, looking about the darkening room that seemed more constricting than ever. “Who chose you?”


Shaking his head, Vest said, “Doesn’t matter. You won’t live long enough to savor the truth.”


Sylvester felt like a fool. He had blindly trusted this man, this Vest. And why?


Because he said he was a Gousherall. “What of your order? The other Gousheralls?”


Vest chuckled once more. “The words I’m spouting? I’m repeating. Almost all Gousheralls feel this way, Sylvester. Looks like I’m the first to realize what needs to be done. The first to take… care… of—“


Tuette stepped in the Guard’s way once again. She appeared to be operating autonomously, like a life-sized puppet might behave. Sylvester realized that, essentially, Tuette was a puppet. But could I hurt her? Might she be more beneficial in this state or as a well-aware sorceress? She seemed to harness additional strength but she also had the knowledge of basic Magiks when she was wholly conscious.


Again, he asked himself if he could hurt her. Or at least put her body in enough peril to exorcise the Artificial.


Vest inadvertently attempted to solve the problem by attacking Tuette with his dagger. It was a lunge fueled by whatever was driving the Gousherall; possibly hatred for the king or even the entire system he served. Sylvester wondered how long the man truly was resentful.


And if Terry was the same way.


Puze began to buzz at Sylvester’s ear but not before the king witnessed Tuette grabbing up Vest’s lost dagger and using it to parry against the bulkier Guard in a short-range melee. “Keeeng. Thar cou’t beez heee-r’n ‘hor-r-rtly. You-z muss ba hidzz.”


Still drawn by the potentially lethal scuffle, Sylvester could only nod. His mouth was suddenly too dry to properly formulate words. Distantly, he heard Puze direct the king to a door against the closest wall. He absently moved to the door and opened it slightly. Peeking inside, he only saw a set of stairs that went however deep was prescribed for such a design; he didn’t know. A small part wanted to find out.


But a larger part wanted to stay and insure Tuette’s safety. I can’t leave her alone to fight my battle. Leaving the door slightly ajar and ignoring the fly’s protests, Sylvester moved back towards the fighting pair which had also been impossibly moving towards the king. That probably means Tuette is losing ground.


Was she losing the battle, then? Or is the real Tuette intentionally trying to force out the Artificial by making it believe the host is in some kind of danger? For some reason, Sylvester doubted it. Merely because he just didn’t know.


The combatants were beginning to actually move more quickly. Thrusts and even slight punches were thrown. Tuette took them in stride while never making an attempt to clear spittle or even a rivulet of blood from her nose. Vest seemed to grin wider with each strike. Each grin faded as quickly when Tuette would land a decidedly more vicious hit or an even closer strike.


Sylvester stepped closer and Puze was buzzing in his face. “Doooo nut, Keeeng! Tha Gurrrd whilp keel youz!”


“I can’t stand by while he attacks her. She’s…” But he was disallowed from finishing whatever he might’ve thought to say because what he saw next was too shocking:


Vest, with a grunt, shoved his dagger at Tuette and she took it at the chest with a bellowed croak from her unused throat.


Sylvester felt his own chest tighten and his stomach flip.


Tuette fell to the wayside, a decidedly pained and painful look tying up her facial features. Vest himself looked more surprised than anything at having scored such a strike. Did he truly intend that or is he just trying to get to me in whatever manner presents itself?


He might’ve been set on killing me but that doesn’t mean he presumes himself to be an executioner over everyone else. The king only hoped these thoughts were passing through the betrayer’s head too.


The Guard’s eyes looked like they were catching up with reality as he slowly, almost defiantly, stared into Sylvester’s. Tuette was on the floor, clutching her chest. Sylvester was frozen in place but from his vantage, saw no blood. A kind of anger was beginning to rise inside the king as he saw the Cursed sorceress writhing on the floor in agony. It was quickly distilled by Puze’s action: the fly yelled for the king to flee one last time before hurling himself at the Gousherall Guard.


Vest looked equally surprised at the action and bucked his neck around to avoid the insect. Puze had an advantage in his tiny size and easily landed on the man’s neck. But he didn’t move when Vest brought his hand slowly up as if to smash the invasive fly.


And when Vest clapped his hand to his own neck, killing the fly in the process, he vanished.


Just like Beverane! Thinking it also caused him to wonder the final stance of the beneficial bird.


A deep groan from the floor drew Sylvester’s attention and he finally knelt down to see what he could do for Tuette in her final…


But there was nothing wrong.


Tuette groaned but she was no longer clutching at her chest. She turned slightly as if fighting to stay awake. Where there was the slash through her tunic, a leather-wrapped Stone was partially spied. “Tuette?”


There was a twitch and nothing more. Vest is a powerful man. He probably drove some might behind that final stab. This wasn’t the time to leave someone important lying around. Sylvester knew that at least. Thinking about where Puze had originally directed the king to run, he hoisted up Tuette’s lithe form, nudged open the door with his padded foot, and descended into the darkness with more confidence than before.


Because I’m not alone. Confidence is bolstered by numbers.





*          ~          *          ~          *





It smelled weird in the lower level of the count’s castle. Like something he might’ve dreamed. Every other step he took down the stairs led him to think he might topple forward and land atop Tuette, crushing her somehow. I should’ve thought this through. But what could’ve been done? Puze, in some remarkable feat, had transported Vest away from the Sylvester and Tuette.


And Roost is more than likely marching his way through the twilit landscape to deal with the very monarch that he’s been plotting against for… a week? The more Sylvester thought of it, the less he worried about tripping down the rest of the way and eventually wondered if, in fact, this whole scheme had been in action for longer than a week and some days. A month? A year or more, even?


Sylvester had been the king for quite a while and even if he didn’t know this Count Roost personally, he surely wasn’t born into title. The meeting that introduced this menace sprang up in the king’s mind and he was able to recall that Boost had only hosted the current governor for a year or two. Was it less? Perhaps Roost had been plotting this for a while and becoming this island’s count was merely another link in a long chain of events.


The idea that someone could’ve possibly devoted so much time and effort against Sylvester personally chilled him.


He then realized that it was probably more than just Sylvester, the man, but the king. Yes, this is most likely an act set against the king. But would it have occurred if King Gould was still been alive?


Probably not. His father would’ve remained king for at least another year had he been alive.


For Sylvester, it felt very much like it was a personal attack against him and his sensitive monarchial status. Does Roost know about the kingstone? Does he know it’s essentially worthless?


Sylvester didn’t have time to answer his own question as he found himself at the bottom of the stairs. They had curved at odd points and he was standing near a closed, heavy-looking door. Am I under the pitiful castle or have I moved beyond the area we intend to offer up for Dorothy, if she really exists?


If this all really works.


He looked down at Tuette in her arms, folded into a near-fetal position. Her face looked less pained, as if she had allowed unconsciousness to take away any discomfort that Vest might’ve caused. I’m putting a lot of faith in her. But why? Because this journey has opened my eyes to the fact that some beneficial Magik might exist, even if my own inherited form has proved wholly benign? That was the dominant idea at the moment: that he might be prone to believing something terribly fantastic because he was trained to since birth… but nothing fantastic had ever come from his kingstone.


And Tuette is comprised of the fantastic lifestyle, basically. She knows various forms of sorcery and she’s Cursed.


I feel Cursed myself, lately.


The kingstone and his own upbringing had failed him greatly and he was deemed an ineffectual king. That was the only reason that Vest sought to end him and Sylvester knew it.


Trusting in Tuette’s faith and ideals seemed the only sensible alternative now. Vest clearly was not going to bring harm to Count Roost. He was practically working with the tyrant. Terry was possibly still loyal to the king – The kingstone, anyway – but he was protecting Cherry.


If Roost comes upon the others and realizes what we have planned, he will assuredly stop them at any cost. The supposed tome is yours, Roost, so you must…


He realized his mental-misstep just moments after thinking it, after expressing the passive doubt. Sylvester had referred to the mastery tome, the collection of Spells and Curses, as a supposed item, implying it might not exist.


Sylvester looked into Tuette’s face once again. Her features were softer in this poor lighting. She almost appeared to be glowing even though Sylvester knew it was nothing but the drying sweat she had exerted reflecting the candlelight.


Why are there candles down here? According to both Joy and Puze, the count likes to stay aboveground when plotting. What’s down here, then, that requires near-constant candlelight? He knew it was a constant light source because of the amount of wax drippings that adorned the walls and that had built beautiful stalagmites just below the ancient wall sconces.


The underground hall smelled of the stale wax and fresh dirt and the candles only went to a certain point. Whether a wall was just beyond the lip of darkness or a tunnel into further oblivion, Sylvester didn’t know. Only one door was visible and as it was the only place to go, the king proceeded forward while keeping his ears tuned to any sound that might be carried down the stairwell they had just exited.


Tuette began to fidget in his arms, nearly causing Sylvester to drop her. Is she writhing because she doesn’t know what’s happening or simply because she’s being carried? He couldn’t know so he didn’t answer his own question. Instead, he brought his face closer to hers and tried to lull her with a stream of shushing sounds.


As he stopped and then started to say her name, she bucked her head upwards and cuffed his chin with her forehead. He felt his lower teeth slam abrasively against his upper teeth and small spots came about. Sylvester felt slightly dazed then and stepped backwards to land with his back to the wall. Tuette was moving about with her eyes closed. When she finally opened them, she calmed down and looked around, blinking rapidly.


She then let out a groan and put a hand to her forehead. Sylvester slid partially down the wall and when he reached a certain point, Tuette was able to swing herself out of his cradling grip. She tottered as it about to fall and Sylvester wondered if she might not accidentally impale herself on one of the wax formations. He leaned forward in an attempt to catch her should she head in that direction.


But she didn’t. Tuette stabilized herself and looked around. “Wh…?” was all she managed to stammer out.


“We’re below Roost’s castle. Puze told me to…”


“What…?” she started when she felt the spot on her chest that was mostly holed fabric.


“Vest tried to stab you. The Dehydro Stone. I’m guessing that’s Eafa’s. I guess it saved you.”


“B-but…?”


“An Artificial took you. Vest tried to kill me. Said I’m not worthy to be king.” He felt a tremor unexpectedly inhabit his throat, causing him to take a quick breath. “Those other Artificials never tried to kill me either. But if someone had, the kriffing things would’ve tried to save me, it seems. Guess Roost really does want me ‘live.”


Tuette looked more perplexed than ever, as if she also couldn’t understand the reasons why Roost might want Sylvester to still be alive. Sylvester himself started to wonder if it wasn’t so the count could swing a killing blow himself. Rumors purport him as being malicious enough with Cursing, anyway.


She took on a new stance as Sylvester noticed her sniffing the air. “We’re in a healing place.”


Sylvester sniffed slightly and realized that the atmosphere reminded him of the waiting room of Ac’s leading ta. Was he a healer? Seems like a good, proper leader should know how to heal, Sylvester suddenly supposed…


But the king looked around again, taking stock of the surroundings. “Looks like a dungeon to me. Fyse has a few in the mountain itself.” He shrugged then. “So I’m told. I’ve never thought to prove their exis…”


“Well, dungeon some time ago, yes.” She moved towards the only visible door while pointing out the heavy bolts that were presently unfastened. “But currently, it’s an infirmary. That smell is haj root. When boiled, it gives off an aroma that’s supposed to be soothing.” She sniffed again. “But it hasn’t been boiled in several months, at least.”


A bout of whoops and coughs sounded from the other side of the door then and Sylvester felt his pulse jump.


Above, the heavy door they had both entered through a short while ago opened noisily, the sound carrying easily down the stairwell.


They both tensed and Sylvester silently motioned that they at least move into the room. He wasn’t prepared to face the count. Tuette was reluctant. “There’s at least one person in there, maybe more.”


“Right, and he’s probably sick so he won’t be putting up much of a fight.”


She chewed her lip while looking into his eyes. “What if he’s stick with something contagious.”


Sylvester hadn’t thought of that. But I don’t want to risk ambling around in the dark that makes up the rest of these catacombs.


Still listening, Sylvester heard the footsteps fading and he recalled that Vest had lit something upstairs that would be visible from outside. It was obvious the count would head for the top of his tower before examining the lower level.


Haphazardly ignoring her warnings of possible contagion, Sylvester reached past Tuette to push against the heavy door. He was actually surprised to find it unbarred. Tuette held her breath but Sylvester wasn’t sure if it was an involuntary reaction or because she didn’t want to breathe something in. “We just need a few more minutes, right? Before the Corn Circle is done?”


As if she had forgotten completely about their plan – her plan – she released her captured air and, while rolling her eyes, stepped into the room.





*          ~          *          ~          *





At the entrance was a three-tier shelf. Tuette’s hand reached out and grabbed a rock. Probably a Magik Stone of some kind. While her eyes roamed the room, the king’s went straight to the single bed and its seemingly-diminished occupant.


He looked more than twice as old as Sylvester. He had thin hair which stood out on his head in a variety of ways that spoke in comical and depressing ways. It said to Sylvester No one really sees me, so why care about my appearance? Sylvester himself suddenly became self-conscious about his own curled hair and how it wasn’t hiding his kingstone like the high collar was currently doing.


Around the bed was mismatched tables and surfaces and upon those were stacks and stacks of scripts and various texts. Sylvester recalled Tuette’s repeated warnings about keeping certain iterations of ink away from itself but such a precaution seemed lost on the old man. Or whoever is supposed to be caring for him, be it the count or someone who works for him.


Thinking about the tiny castle, Sylvester didn’t recall any servant activity and how that was just another way that Fyse Castle differed from Castle Tigra Lei. In Fyse, there seems to always be someone around every corner at all hours!


But does a count have time to take care of an elderly man?


Obviously not, judging by the blatant signs of neglect.


“Please,” he rasped. Tuette’s head jerked to the old man as if she hadn’t noticed him yet. “Sit with me.” Neither approached. The old man cracked a partially toothless smile. “Or stand. It makes no difference. Company is company.” His wrist twitched and he winced but immediately shrugged it off as if it hadn’t occurred. “Are you callers to the count? Has he left you alone while he addresses more pressing matters?”


Sylvester wasn’t sure how to answer such a question and apparently Tuette wasn’t either as she offered up nothing.


The silence was too much for the man to handle, especially with two new faces to provide potential conversation. “My name is Coge. What’re your na—?”


“What are you sick with, Coge?” asked Tuette.


The question seemed to catch Coge off-guard, to say the least: he physically slumped further into his cushioned bed and lost slight focus in his eyes.


“I suffer from… Mylup’s Disorder.”


Tuette stiffened at the confession.


Sylvester stiffened at Tuette’s reaction.


The old man raised his arms. “Please, no. I am far beyond the stage of contagion.” But Tuette didn’t relax. Sylvester wondered if she simply wanted to bolt back the way they came but also found himself wondering what the disorder actually was.


So he asked.


The old man sighed again though Sylvester imagined it was more a physical discomfort rather than hesitance over talking about his condition. Being kept in a dungeon might make people want to talk about anything. Dressing it up with medicines and scents doesn’t really make it any kind of healing place.


“Mylup’s Disorder is a condition of the muscles. It’s contracted when someone’s bitten by a semi-carnivorous plant called a kettle’bot. For animals, it proves fatal. But for us lucky humans, it’s a long life of suffering that increases with age.” His cheek twitched then and Coge looked pained for it.


Tuette spoke up then. “Random muscles twitch at intermittent times. There are moments when several muscles spasm uncontrollably.” Tuette gestured to the shelf next to the door. “That’s what the Pain-Less Stone is for, I assume. During the worst moments.”


Coge grimaced. “The kind count has the best intentions, anyway.”


Sylvester exchanged glances with Tuette. “We actually believe he has anything but the best intentions. He’s put a Curse on the kingdom!”


Coge frowned as if finding this impossible to hear. “A Curse on all of Decennia?” Sylvester nodded. “Then every Decennian will be affected?” Tuette nodded. “Then I guess… it’s a good thing I’m not a true Decennian.”


Sylvester’s mind stopped all thought processes and a cold sensation began to creep into his arms and legs. “What do you mean?” Tuette, who was slightly in front of Sylvester, began to back herself against the king’s body as if trying to move him with the might of her delicate form.


“Well,” began Coge as he sucked in his lower lip and turned his eyes upward. “Since I was born in Gor Bilesk, I don’t have anything to worry about, King Sylvester.”


Sylvester’s heart dropped and he felt he might loosen his bowels.


This decrepit man knows who I am… but how? Not even those who spent every day under the shining sun recognize me. This man, this Coge, has probably spent the last few years in a dungeon, more or less, being treated for a Disorder and…


“Are you the one…?”


Coge let out a slight laugh. His elbow twitched and the laughter instantly died. “No, no, king. I can’t Curse anything. Anyone.” He raised his hands in a type of defeat. “No matter what I might think of my uncomfortable situation, I’m not under any type of Curse, myself.”


“Then the count…?” started Tuette.


Again, Coge raised his hands, palms up, but also let a smirk break out. “Whoever wanted to wreak havoc on my family, obviously. That’s who Cursed him.”


“You—Your fam…?”


Coge simply nodded. Tuette offered up nothing; she was speechless.


“Count Roost is your son?”


“Roost is just the name he adopted. He wanted to distance himself from the family vine. Blames me for his childhood tormentors, I guess. And since I know your full name, King Sylvester, you should know mine.


“It’s Coge Nyken Voidet.”


Voidet.


The name hit a nerve with Sylvester and was probably striking more than that with Tuette. Sylvester instantly recognized it as the name of the Cursed sorceress’s former teacher, the one that had Cursed her and effectively changed her desired course within the Magik community.


Looking at the side of Tuette’s face, Sylvester saw that her cheek had drained of color and she was now putting more weight against the king, as if she might fall from the shock of it all.


The coincidence was finally catching up to Sylvester though.


This old man’s son, Count Roost, has Cursed my entire kingdom. And it appears that Roost has been orchestrating it, not for my destruction to deliver me to the very land that holds his ailing father. But is Roost simply trying to bring his father and I together? Is this why he doesn’t want me to meet my demise?


Sounds of a struggle reached them all simultaneously. Weapons clashing without shouted words, which seemed strange. Sylvester thought of Vest possibly fighting with the count, but the idea of Dermy or Terry entering the castle also entered his mind and he became fearful for them. For Dermy at least since he still wasn’t certain of Terry’s true allegiances, and also because Terry had at least some fighting techniques.


“Your son,” began Tuette. Sylvester looked again at her pale cheek and saw how tensely her jaw was clenched, as indicated by the way she was now clamping down on words that might otherwise escape her grasp with ease. “He Cursed…”


“Decennia, yes,” said Coge though Sylvester detected that she had been on the verge of implicating Roost’s actions against her years prior. “But he was told to.” Coge sighed while gently shrugging his shoulders. “It seems like it was the only way to roust you off that mountaintop retreat of yours, King.”


Roust? “What do you mean?”


Coge twitched and sighed the pain away again. Sylvester couldn’t imagine the type of pain associated with such a motion. “The only way to get back what is mine,” Coge said through tight lips. His face, amusingly affable before, was now showing veins. His arms shuddered and it was a few tense moments of having to listen to weapons clatter above before the ailing elder decided to explain.


“I contracted Mylup’s when trying to get it myself. It was then that I realized it wouldn’t work that way, so I settled down and raised a family.” His eyes pierced Sylvester’s. “Do you know how difficult it is to find someone Cursed who’s willing to take money for the sake of Cursing someone else? Apparently, they don’t want to spread their misery though I can’t understand why.”


Sylvester thought about Tuette quickly Cursing Terry and how she had been adamant on Reversing the Curse just as quickly, all for the greater benefit of intellectual gain. Not knowing much about people in general, Sylvester saw her logic but also wondered why more people weren’t Cursed, if only to broaden the afflicted community and create a sense of belonging to something. But each Curse came with it’s own stipulations and Tuette seemed to understand that everyone, Sylvester included, wished for a sense of autonomy; free will.


But Coge continued, tensing at the random pain and ignoring the fight upstairs – a fight that was generating louder clashes of metal and now included the occasional grunt or groan. “To have my son Cursed before he was conceived was the hard part. Raising a bastard of a child came along easy enough. Letting him abandon me in my hour of need, that was a piece of gorja. Guilting him into trying to obtain the Godblade… that was tricky, but it worked, obviously.”


The Godblade.


Had Tuette mentioned it a day or so ago? It seemed a hazy memory now. She must’ve recognized the word as she let out a gasp when Coge mentioned it. “You’re seeking something that doesn’t exist? And to this extent?” she nearly bellowed, indicating the room and castle above in one sweeping gesture, possibly including the impending Curse against Decennia as well, but Sylvester could never be certain with her.


Coge didn’t seem to enjoy the suggestion that the blade didn’t exist though.


“It does exist, girl. Valtos’ arm, lost to the Mortals of Valent and forged into—“


“Forged? How?” The color was returning to her face as a splotchy red that also spread to her neck. She seemed to be radiating a kind of heat as well as the debatable topic seized her. “Why would Valtos sever his arm and give it to us? Immortals enter this plane and they crystallize. They can’t exist here in any other form. That crystallization can’t be altered. Not by us Mortals. Therefore, no blade.” Sylvester thought she might’ve rolled her eyes but his angle didn’t offer any kind of confirmation.


The elder looked angry as his face took on a shade considerably darker than Tuette’s cheek. “Look—“ was all he managed before Tuette rushed to the shelf by the door, picked up what she had labeled as a Pain-Less Stone, and looked as if she would smash it against Coge’s skull. Instead, she stopped short when she flinched him into silence and put the Stone against the man’s exposed forearm. She said something under her breath and Coge went slack.


Sylvester was baffled. “I thought you said that Stone took pain—“


“It merely relieves the rest of us from the burden of having to suffer helplessly while someone in real agony writhes about nearby.” She hefted the Stone one-handed. “I guess its label is a misnomer. Maybe just call it a Paralyzing Stone?” Her eyes went a little glassy as she chewed her lip while looking at the Stone. “Although, translations from early Valutian text might indicate the confusion—“


“Tuette. We need to get going. I don’t think we have a lot of time before the Corn Circle is done. It’ll be confiscated by Dorothy whether we’re in it or not, I assume?”


Tuette nodded before pocketing the Stone. It bulged slightly from her hip. He wondered if she might be mistaken for having dislocated her hip bone. “You’re right. We need to get out of here.” She looked up at the ceiling of the dungeonite infirmary. “But we have to go back up. I don’t think we should risk going down the tunnel any further, since it might not even lead anywhere.”


They left the room in a hurry and Sylvester found himself wondering what it was that had originally drawn him to the castle in the first place. He remembered when a decidedly loud clattering sounded, indicating a fallen sword: he had come to insure Roost remain stationed within the Circle. But part of him also wanted to know the reason behind why he had put a Curse on all of Decennia. From what Roost’s father had revealed, the count might’ve had no choice in the matter. His mental obligations swayed his path.


Upon realizing this, Sylvester understood that Roost was very similar to the king himself. The notion made him stop on the steps and Tuette, charging up behind him, ran into his lower back and he fell forward, only to catch himself with both hands. He turned over, sitting for a moment on the dark steps. “Roost and I are the same.”


Tuette scowled at the king in that familiar “Quite being stupid” manner. “What? No you’re not. Not even close. And he’s not Roost. He’s not even a governor! He probably murdered the last guy and took control with Magik. Happens more often than you might think in these smaller communities.”


He looked at her. How can she break this all down with so much glib? So much disaffection? In her eyes, Sylvester thought he might recognize something else though; something that he saw in himself all too often. Yes, Tuette needs answers. Even before this quest, Sylvester knew he would’ve preferred to understand the reasoning behind his placement as the King of Decennia – in details that extended beyond bloodlines and tradition. He wished for answers from his kingstone and received none.


With breaking down the rationalities of the predicament, she could finally focus on why Roost – Voidet – did the things he did. Part of the answer had only presented itself: in some delineated way, the faux count had wished to redeem the legendary Godblade. But if what Tuette said was the truth, then it was a fruitless journey.


And if steps on the journey are meaningless, that means the Curse is unnecessary. Pointless.


A part of Sylvester flared up with anger just then and he found himself hoping that the Godblade was as real as the sky was high because otherwise, his kingdom had been put into reckless jeopardy. Yes, Sylvester suddenly realized with this simple line of thinking that he ached for even more answers as well. And that the only way to find them was to confront Roost head-on.


But time was now against them for a different purpose. Assuming the Corn Circle worked – and a part of Sylvester was still reserved to believe that it wouldn’t – they didn’t have a lot of time to find out what Voidet wanted from the king and how anything like what he possessed could be used to procure something as unattainable as a piece of the very deity that governed their realm from afar.


Without a word, Sylvester stood and charged up the stairwell again.





*          ~          *          ~          *





After charging upwards, Sylvester admired how the door at the top of the stairs framed a picturesque moment: the foyer was lit in fading orange and through the window in the stairwell that led up into the castle’s sole tower, Sylvester could see burgeoning stars coming out as if to glimpse what they might otherwise never see: sunset.


The moment was robbed of them quickly as an unfamiliar silhouette was encased by much of the doorway. It was black from this angle but Sylvester imagined that his own face could be seen easily. He wasn’t sure about Tuette’s though: she was still behind him. The figure was panting though, as if labored. He didn’t hold a weapon but one seemed to be fastened to his arm.


A kind of liquid could be seen dripping from the double-pronged end and Sylvester felt sick inside. Seeing as how Vest has turned coat, it isn’t likely that he struggled to the death against someone who is adamant about harming the kingdom. Then again, Vest wanted the king dead, not the kingdom. He had seen himself as being the ultimate patriot that way and for this, Sylvester felt the faintest amount of admiration.


Still, the silent mass atop the stairs could just as easily have skewered Terry or Dermy or even Cherry, the gifted dullard. Thinking about any of them – or possibly all three of them – being dead worried Sylvester briefly and not just because they had grown a type of bond that is uniquely fused by travel. But because that meant the Corn Circle might not be completed.


Sylvester didn’t relish the idea of having to fight a person: the idea made him as sick as the notion of his friends being dead. The kingstone held many combative skills, but he knew it was beyond wishful thinking to hope that the knowledge would trickle out of the ether and into the king’s head and hands.


“King Sylvester, I pre—“


The large front door creaked on rusty hinges, drawing the silhouette’s attention if only for a moment. He then disappeared from the doorway and the king rushed up with Tuette on his heels.


As he came into the foyer, he saw Vest at the foot of the ascending stairwell. A pool of blood was beneath him and his face was actually twitching into half-smiles and half-frowns. It was unsettling. Turning to the front door, Sylvester caught the sickening sight of Dermy being grossly impaled by a noticeably-clean shaven young man.


Sylvester felt like retching and Tuette let out a muffled shriek. The shriek surprised even Sylvester but it was the killer that seemed more surprised than even Dermy, who looked more stunned than pained. But the double-pronged skewers were easily puncturing the diminutive man’s chest, his heart. A tremble took over as he fell to the wayside, off the skewers. Blood from Vest still coated the weapon – Or maybe weapons? – so he couldn’t be sure exactly how deep they had entered Dermy, but they seemed to do the trick: Dermy lay on the floor, on his side, struggling with a poor sense of dignity to keep blood from escaping his wound.


The assailant had already decided that Dermy was no longer a threat and was turned fully back on Sylvester and Tuette. His face was contorted in shock as he looked not at the king but at Tuette. Sylvester seemed confused. Why would a terrorist’s assassin be shocked by—


“Tuette!” cried the killer though it wasn’t clear whether it was a cry laden with more anger or grief or just plain disbelief.


Looking quickly at Tuette, Sylvester saw her face screw up in quick confusion and then just as easily settle into a cold, impassive state. As if the blow to her one-time companion had no effect on her. Proving her appearance of indifference, she said, “Hello, Corunny.”


Corunny? She knew… but it dawned on Sylvester later than he would’ve liked to admit. Corunny was the count’s actual name. The manner she had described him before, he was supposed to be an engrossingly obese man. But this ruthless fighter and killer was lean and demonstrated keen combative abilities that someone overweight shouldn’t be primed for.


Of course, he has Magik backing him and most likely is going to use it to his full advantage. Looking at Dermy on the floor, Sylvester wondered what had drawn the farmer here and if his earlier fears weren’t valid: if the others were still alive and performing the ritual for calling down Dorothy.


Thinking about the unfortunate proclivities of Vest and his ideas about what a king should be, and seeing Dermy writhing on the floor in an untold amount of pain, Sylvester felt something inside him change. It was a sense of something needing to happen and he knew he had to do it himself.


He felt insane doing it but Sylvester bolted towards Vest’s corpse and his dropped short sword. But his footing escaped him and he fell face-forward. The sword was at arm’s length and he was able to reach for it and propel himself back to a standing position. Sylvester felt hot in the face and the manner of his movements seemed to have shocked the count and Tuette; they hadn’t moved in the time it took him to regain his footing with the weapon in hand. Gripping it and holding it in front of him, he was reminded of when he had used Terry’s to poorly teach Tuette a lesson.


The handle on the sword felt different and Sylvester recalled that Terry now had Vest’s sword, but then where had this one come from? The king could only assume that, during the deceased Guard’s meanderings upstairs, he had come across it. He could imagine the Gousherall being approached by the false count and, when Voidet revealed how he wanted to the king to live, Vest grabbed what he could to save his life.


“What’re you doing?” asked Tuette, but Sylvester didn’t really know. He just knew that he felt threatened by the man. He might not have been able to order the man to die before or even do the deed, but his blood was boiling to the point that he felt he might be able to do anything. A kind of crackling energy seemed to rifle just beneath the surface of his skin and he wondered if it was real or imagined and if it would travel into the blade and shoot sparks when it made contact with Voidet’s odd weapons or even his skin.


“I’m… I’m…” he breathed deeply just once. “I don’t know, but…” and then he lunged at Voidet or Roost or whatever he wanted to be called. Why so many liars? And in this room alone!


With a two-handed, wide swing of his short sword, he already felt out of control of the weapon but his anger at the situation wouldn’t allow him to stop. In his peripheral, he only glimpsed Tuette’s dimly-lit features: she seemed surprised at the outcome, but not more than he himself was. What’s driving this inside me? His sword connected with Voidet’s long prongs and he looked even more surprised then Tuette, but he was welcoming it. A part of Sylvester’s mind was clinging to the recently-confirmed fact that Voidet, Tuette’s former teacher, didn’t want the king to die and he wondered if this was why he felt compelled to wage combat with the man: because he knew his demise was most likely impossible.


The connection was brief as the count absorbed the blow easily enough and swept the king’s weapon downward. When the sword clanged against the stone, a spark shot off and a similar spark burst inside Sylvester. The fuel of fighting is what sparks our blades, he said to himself in a moment’s respite, thinking about the unnerved-feeling he still possessed. Is fighting the only way to get rid of it?


If so, I’ll wage on. At least until Tuette’s plan comes about.


He again wondered if it would be worthwhile to count on the desired outcome but came upon the conclusion that he really had no choice. Whatever Voidet had planned for the king, it obviously wasn’t desirable either. He still intends to Curse an entire kingdom! No, I won’t let a common or even uncommon terrorist twist what my future holds. So I’ll fight on and pray to whoever listens to prayers that Dorothy swoops in and saves us all.


That’s assuming a god even cares about us, he thought grimly as he cast out another weakly-powered swing. It was met with ease and refuted by Voidet. If she cares, it’s a few more minutes. If not… then we just keep fighting.


Knowing that only two options were immediately available, Sylvester felt better. It was what might follow either option that began to unnerve him.


He hated uncertainty.