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 |  A fantasy-adventure: King Sylvester and Tuette, a Cursed sorceress, must save Decennia! |
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The complete book is here. The latter chapters don't have their italics because that takes a long time to add. But I wanted to have the complete novel on the site. Enjoy! "In the world of Valent, Magik is accessible to all but held in check by a few. King Sylvester is the latest to be born with the kingstone, a birthright that decrees him to be the leader of Decennia. He was called at a young age and it has never worked for him, rendering him a poor king. Tuette is a roaming sorceress who must avoid Magik communities: she is Cursed and there are strong prejudices against such people, from all walks of life. Through something akin to fate, the king and sorceress’ paths will entwine as they aim to stop Count Roost from putting an absurdly devastating Curse on the nation of Decennia, a feat never before accomplished. Along the way, Sylvester will discover what it means to be a good leader and Tuette will realize that the most sincere acts are those that are wholly selfless." |
| The midmorning wind cut against his skin, what little was showing. As befitting a modern king, he was robed from neck to toe. The cliff he stood atop only amplified the wind and he wished to be elsewhere. But still, he looked out, beyond the cliff, ignoring what was at the bottom. He wished he could forget what was at the bottom. The gulls swooped as if in time with the crests of the sea. He suddenly found himself with a string in hand that inched through the sky to clamp against a wind-sail that was commonly used in birding excursions. He looked up further to watch the gulls as they began to take notice of the writhing fish that was attached to the tail of the birding wind-sail. As each gull swooped in to take more of the tiny fish from the sail, he began to notice the clawing sound; a kind of scraping. He glanced behind himself, making sure something hadn’t caught on his lengthy cape. A futile gesture of hope, he knew the sounds were coming from in front. He just didn’t want to go through the experience again. Lately, it was occurring more frequently. He resumed guiding the sail with his string, coaxing the birds back and forth to see if they would swoop as he pleased. They did and the crests from the waves below, beyond the base of the cliff, changed with the swoops. At times, it sounded odd and other times, he wished it were true; he wished to control the crushing sound of waves with the simple swoop of a bird. But the end was always the same. The dismal, nightmarish finale that he found himself attempting to avoid at the last possible minute. For a handful of moments, he was seeing through the eyes of one of the gulls, watching himself below while fighting to keep a whole fish in his jaws. The fish fell and the gull swooped low and brought with it a tremendous crash against the rocky outcrop of wall that was almost as tall as the cliff itself. The gull, not fully comprehending what it was seeing, forgot the fish momentarily and let it fall to swim freely below and succumb to a natural death. What the gull saw on the cliff’s face – which was barren moments ago – were strange figures. Figures shaped like the one on the cliff’s edge above. The king’s vision reverted and he was aching to get the taste of gilltain out of his mouth while hoping the creatures on the cliff weren’t truly there. The fear of those figures caused him to tighten his grip on the string which then became taut as the air sail above was battered by an extremely large gust of wind. The gulls were blown away which was fine since the gilltain bait had been either taken or lost. With the wind’s blow, he found himself moving forward towards the cliff’s edge. The crashing waves were silenced now and only a calm noise came from the water below. But the scrapings and scratchings increased and he knew the creatures, the figures, were ascending. Now they would come up to take him. As he moved closer, he refocused his attention on the actual edge of the cliff. This particular spot was supposed to have a barrier due to its popularity with the birding crowd and its recent tragical history. But at the moment, no barrier existed and he was approaching at the speed of acceptance. A withered hand threw itself over the precipice. It was white and the flesh on the surface seemed to be loosely connected to the firm bones beneath. As it applied pressure to the surface, it flattened itself and split at the sides, spilling a minimal amount of water weeds and fish eggs. With that pressure came a draped shoulder and eventually a waterlogged head with a glittery, golden crown conservatively peppered with rare gems that matched what he himself was supposed to wear but rarely did. Seaweeds were meshed among the gentle prongs of the crown and a gurgled moan rolled out of the slacked jaw. The eyes were always what bothered him most. They looked as if they were filled with bile water and about to fall from the face that held them. They focused on him with such intensity that he always let go of the string with one hand and tightened his grip with the other, moving his free hand to rub the back of his neck. It was smooth when it shouldn’t have been. There was no kingstone there to protect him and he sighed, resigning himself to the situation. The climber’s other hand, barren of flesh, was thrown over the edge and dug deeply into the surface, hauling the rotted, watery corpse up to finally stand in front of the frightened, sad man. Frightened because he always feared the same fate. Sad because he knew it would come again and again, without plausible end. Other bodies in similar and deferentially vulgar states of decomposition began to sling themselves over the cliff, each wearing a crown and as overly-dressed as their victim, the king. They all moaned or screamed softly or let parts of their insides come out through their torn faceholes. He had moved beyond the point of being squeamish about these sights. The corpses, he knew, would get him as the string he held now wrapped around him; the sail above had been conscripted by the wind to perform the binding task. The monarch was helpless and in a state of despair as the spongy bodies swarmed. Their scent was stronger up close: the stench of months-old rotted flesh; of dying children; of forgotten dreams. The sobbing began, first with him, in heart, and then from the bodies, in mock. He wished for the end to come, to let his next chance be dealt. The soft creatures, the graveside dwellers, helped him complete his journey towards the cliff’s edge so he could go over it. The crowns glittered menacingly as the previously dull prongs began to elongate and curve to grow down and into their bearer’s heads. More seawater and weeds spilled out from those wounds to bathe the bodies and make the man gag and finally collapse under the weight of the wraiths. Closing his eyes tightly, he felt cold, bony fingers pry open his mouth and dig into his ears, his eyes, his head and even his heart. Hatred for them began to swell and the man writhed violently, kicking his legs as best he could. He attempted to scream loudly but with every attempt, the things would force their fingers into his mouth. The disparaged king jerked his entire head to empty his mouth and the taste left behind made him wish to have the gilltain fish. They moved him more rapidly towards the cliff. The moaning increased. The stench overpowered. The warped crowns glinted brighter than ever through his clenched eyelids. And in the huddled mass, they all went over the cliff. The water was silent below and he knew the crashing end would never come. King Sylvester knew he would wake up before the end. He always did. * ~ * ~ * The king sat up in his bed with a start. It was light outside; a golden band rimmed the thick curtains. He sighed heavily, wiping sweat from his forehead, blinking rapidly as he feared that a stray drop might enter his eyes. King Sylvester didn’t sigh again but his breathing seemed laborious. He was thankful to be alone as he was tired of publicly appearing weak. He wanted to sob but thought better against it for his eyes would later betray the action . Instead, he withdrew himself form his heavy bedding and set his feet gently upon the brazenly cold wood flooring. In a few moments, Penson would appear to brush out the king’s hair and shallow beard, to wash away the buffering layer of dead skin, and to all around transform the king from a bedraggled man suffering from night terrors into a stately figurehead that might appear to menace the mountain with leadership and confidence. Sylvester knew he had a few moments still and he stepped softly towards the window just behind the head of his bed, pushed back the heavy curtains, and looked to the east. As his bedchamber dominated the tallest tower of the castle, three of his four windows were set to gaze lazily in their respective compass directions. The entrance to the chamber was a double door on the western wall. A large window rested in the antechamber on the other side, but Sylvester preferred to keep the doors closed, especially during dusk: a setting sun tends to wash the color out of a room, blinding the occupants to their surroundings. In the east, Sylvester saw the nearest land through aged glass panes and nothing of the ocean that was in the further distance. The rising sun, opposing its dusk counterpart, blinds one from seeing too far and puts focus on what is immediate. Mount Reign was not in the exact center of the continent-sized kingdom of Decennia but rather tended to lean more towards the east. The king was thankful in being unable to see the distant ocean; the nightmare he had just vacated always took place on that disparaging shoreline. He shuddered and closed the curtain, blinking away white spots that had been planted by the sun. Soft steps were heard from outside the entrance and Sylvester moved to the vanity to begin the quasi-ritualistic morning cleansing that was to come at the hands of his groomer. A gentle rap was heard. Sylvester knew that the man on the other side had to pound fiercely for his effort to be registered through the thick wood. “Come in, young Penson” bellowed Sylvester. He hoped he didn’t sound as horrible as he felt inside. Lately, with the frequency of the nightmares, he seemed to carry a sense of terribleness about himself and feared that it might eventually be displayed for all. Penson the groomer entered with that a chipper smile on his otherwise bland face. Sylvester wondered if the man knew about his internal thoughts as he was the first person to see the king almost every day. He imagined sometimes that, under less demanding circumstances, they might’ve been good friends. As it was, he was contracted to work under the crown, whoever happened to be wearing it. The groomer moved directly to the king and made a comment. “Young Penson, sir? That’s hardly befitting the reality of my age. I merely know how to preserve my looks, but you often forget that I groomed even your father when you were his age, young Sylvester.” Penson smiled weakly but almost aborted it as if he saw something cross the king’s face. He didn’t mention it but his smile seemed hollow, as if he wanted to ask what was bothering the king. Sylvester knew Penson had obviously sensed something: the groomer was the kind of person who was attuned to such sensings. Penson also knew when to ask questions and when to leave well enough alone. This morning, Sylvester was thankful for the feigned blindness. Penson finished brushing the back of the king’s head to cover the kingstone imbedded in the base of his skull. “Okay, sir. How are we presenting you today?” Sylvester took that moment to look over his general appearance. His thick coal colored hair and his shortened beard did well to hide much of his face, as he preferred. His emerald eyes were anything but piercing; glancing might’ve been how he described them. Glancing green eyes and a scruffy complexion. First he would be cleaned up and then properly robed and the same day would begin anew, like any other, until he died. Which might take a while if I don’t eventually produce an heir. While he refrained from sighing, he said, “Well, I’m meeting with the Malforcrent. Let’s aim for ‘intimidating’ and see if that works.” “There’s no reason to believe you can’t be intimidating, sir.” “There’s no reason to think I can be, young Penson.” * ~ * ~ * The Malforcrent was an advisory council whose existence was rare to Decennia. Following the unexpected death of the previous king more than a decade ago, the council was created by the eight tents of the variously sized regions of the kingdom. Appointing their own successors, these advisors to the throne moved to Mount Reign and saw it best that they make the choices that the then-prepubescent Sylvester couldn’t properly handle. They had risen in a time of unforeseen crisis and Sylvester had been more than accepting of their helpful role in the early months and years following their creation. Now, with Sylvester in his early twenties, he found that he loathed their invasiveness and manipulations with each passing day. Most acted under the public guise of being an advisor to the king while some laid themselves back and did little, if anything. One of them, Dothel op Prissen, seemed determined to always be doing nothing but occupy a previously cold seat. What was worse was that they all demanded the king stage a meeting with them once a month as if to legitimize their own positions within the government. In the wake of his father’s death, Sylvester had been pulled from his studies in the northern Fortright Isles. The general teachings and molding of morals that took place in the Isles had been required for all Decennian kings since the first ruler had been selected from that region following the torrential Dissociative Wars. The time when a king produces an heir leading up to when that heir is given the throne is crucial for an active king. During that time, a contingent of diligent protectors known as Gousherall Guards is assigned to protect the throne where the kingstone and its Magik cannot. It had been this way for centuries and rarely produced the scenario where a king was thrust into the kingdom’s helm without proper preparation. Presently, the situation was far from ideal. When his had father died, Sylvester had been rushed to the throne, leaving his studies with less than half of the curriculum notched on the post. He yearned to return to those studies - to that time in general. A decade had passed and he felt his very soul to be weathered and he desired to escape out from under the crown he rarely wore. When he entered Wakefield Hall, the Malforcrent were already seated. An elongated dining table played host to the council. With the table’s extreme length and minor width, several people were supposed to sit along both sides and the king always sat on whichever end he wanted. Almost always. At the moment, as with all advisory meetings, all members of the Malforcrent were on one side and faced the only unoccupied chair on the other. Though he knew he was carrying a semi-determined manner about himself, he felt anything but enthusiasm for these proceedings. He had no attendants with him while each councilman had one or two aides seated against the wall to their rear. Sylvester sat down heavily, adjusting his robes accordingly, and surveyed the situation. On the farthest left sat Trisden Fellows, former tent of the Fortright Isles region. His blonde hair sat limply against his head but betrayed the inner spirit that the king knew all too well; Trisden was a power hungry man and had spoken out strongly regarding such issues as restructuring the powers of the king in relation to his advisors and even how he felt the borders between the regions were being crossed far too frequently. “How’re we to accurately know who we are governing if we can’t tell if someone is from our own region or are under the umbrella of another tent?” That was a common conjecture of Trisden, but Sylvester didn’t care to think too much about that. Next to Trisden was the Dekenna representative, Kren Solarpaste. Kren was the kind of member who would prefer that nothing truly exciting happen in the kingdom as it might disrupt his comfortable position near the throne. But Sylvester didn’t loathe Kren as much as he did the man from the Whismerl region. That region was very secretive and it housed no considerable benefits for the kingdom at large. And the councilman, Dothel op Prissen, was adamant in making sure that nothing advanced in Decennia. He never agreed with the majority of the Malforcrent and Sylvester couldn’t help but sometimes sympathize with the other members in regards to Dothel’s stubbornness; after all, the Malforcrent was designed to work fluidly with the crown. As it was, Dothel sat there, chewing on some pip and staring lazily around the room. Sylvester could smell the odd blend of oils and strong spices that Dothel liked to use on his clothes and hair. “Probably to cover up the stench of his decaying mind” Sylvester had muttered once. He recalled saying that and let a little smile cross his face, masked fashionably by the shallow beard. Sitting in front of Sylvester and just to his own left was the woman from Broze, Marylyn Coiper. As Broze was the one region in all of Decennia that monopolized most of the continent’s coastline – from one northern corner almost all the way to the central southern tip – she seemed to worry more about external visitors or invaders more than anything. She was constantly reassured by everyone, including the king with his fragmented lessons in history, that it had been a very long time since any other foreign body had attempted an invasion of the once-powerful Decennia. Even the distant land of Gor Pyron had stopped claiming islands off the east coast for several decades. Still, with much conviction put into her tiny, stickly figure, she would advocate for fortified means of protecting the coastline. To Marylyn’s left, Sylvester’s right, Misren OkLat of the southern Javal’ta region was placed. He was a portly man as denoted by many from that particular region. He almost always had a meal in front of him and forced those around him to speak more loudly than they otherwise would have due to his obsessive chewing. This was a problem for the tiny-voiced Marylyn Coiper. The auditory issue was no problem for the towering man from Serres Mor, Brinttal Por Tyrenna. Though his region was one of the smallest in Decennia, he used his imposing physicality to make things happen for Serres Mor, such as the coastal defenses that Marylyn would have more greatly employed. “Just because no other lands are as close to my borders as they are yours, Madam Coiper, doesn’t mean they don’t need proper defenses! Suppose someone was smart like myself and decided to risk the voyage across the treacherous Fanway Ocean to cut deep into the heart of Decennia itself!” This had been boomed out at a previous meeting and always made Sylvester think of Brinttal as nothing more than an opportunistic bully. Rounding out the final two regions and seats were the twin advisors Foyle and Pocquet Ghin’ra of Uv-Hren and Jint respectively. No one knew the exact details that led to a pair of siblings like the Ghin’ra twins to becoming tents of their regions and, by consequence, members of the Malforcrent. Sylvester often wondered if it was not a petty act of sibling rivalry, whereas the brother had become tent in one region and the sister, not to be outdone, had risen to become tent of the other. Sylvester was not exactly sure how this worked because he was certain that only an individual born within a particular region could become its tent. But here was just that situation and he didn’t want to think of the rules broken or the ones preserved and simply bent due to unusual circumstances. As it was, the twins were usually very solemn during the meetings, always murmuring to themselves and making other members of the Malforcrent nervous for no particular reason. Thus, the meeting began. Trisden leapt into it without any formalities, much to Marylyn’s tiny cries of dismay. The candles seemed to flicker at the sounding of his voice. “I think the academy of Fortright Isles need better fortifications. The various bands of pirates and sea bandits have increased their raids and the marshals present have noticeably decreased in number. We either need more island marshals or maybe some ships and platform stations further away from the school grounds.” The Fortright Isles were home to the schooling system for not only the king but for those that served him. Whereas coastal defenses weren’t wholly important for the shorelines under Marylyn and Brinttal’s realm, the Majramdic Academy was seen as being publicly essential to the preservation of the Decennian way of life. Without a properly educated king, the members of each state might look to overthrow him either through their representatives on the Malforcrent or even with personally vindictive motifs. If such an act occurred, many members agreed it would be the beginning of the end because violence would take precedence over a heritage that had been in place for centuries. This was a near-impossible request as ships and boats of all degrees were extremely difficult to build in Decennia; large quantities of lumber had been diminished in times of rapid expansion by previously minor communities. Any ships that had been crafted beforehand had been, by now, lost to the oceans. Misren spoke up. “Just conscript some of the Gousherall Guardsmen. Without an heir, the king doesn’t need all of them.” He took a breath and then a loud bite of something greasy. Without swallowing, he continued. “Wiff de Gawdsmen preshent, de stufents wild de more com-for-table when dey lib on da – gulp - mountain.” Sylvester couldn’t help but sneer at Misren with disgust, but the other councilmen simply nodded. They agreed with what Misren had spittled out and accepted that he would do it in that manner in the future, just as he’d always done. Trisden seemed to think that was enough for his part and he settled himself into his seat. Marylyn looked as if she were about to say something but declined and put her hands in her lap, slouching slightly. Brinttal spoke up then. “The folks of Iigriana claim that they’d like to start exporting their cliff-grown figgle chutes.” Sylvester let a tremor of unease pass over him at the mention of any cliff, but hid it quickly. He didn’t know what a figgle chute was and didn’t care to ask as he knew Brinttal would treat him with a smack of idiocy, as would Trisden and some of the others. “They’d like to travel up and down the coasts of Serres Mor and possibly move along the edges of both Dekenna and Javal’ta in the process. I just wish to make this known, dear sirs and madams, so you may inform your tents that the figgle chutes are coming.” At that, some of the Malforcrent nodded with smiles. Others, like Dothel, just sat there. Sylvester then mentally drifted as he became bored with the proceedings. In his thoughts, he focused on the notion that Dothel never brought any points of order up in these meetings. If anything, the only time he ever made a fuss is if it proved disruptive of any goings-on inside Whismerl. Sylvester sometimes wished to act boldly and confront Dothel on the matter, but he never did. Sylvester never felt he had the proper authority to do such a thing, despite the fact that he was the land’s king. This bothered Sylvester greatly because he was the king of Decennia. His bloodline was the only one designed to rule the kingdom, as was decided centuries ago. The Malforcrent might be seen by some as a pure abomination of the throne. There were those in the castle or on the mountain, like Penson, who sometimes expressed doubt in what the Malforcrent did and wondered if they had the notions of Decennia as a whole in their hearts. Sylvester didn’t know what to think. He knew that the Malforcrent handled complicated issues specific to each region and that these former tents were best suited to handle them, but they seemed to be selfish and somewhat kipheaded in their decision making. And there was Dothel who refused to move towards any kind of progress. Sylvester wondered if he even cared for the Malforcrent or if he was just filling a mandatory seat that would’ve otherwise left Whismerl without any representation. As the meeting wore on, Sylvester began to grow uncomfortable and would prop himself against his arm, hoping that the feeling in his rear would come back sooner rather than later. In propping himself up, he absently slid his hand against the back of his neck, rubbing gently over the stone there. He was certain that none of the Malforcrent knew of it’s presence but didn’t take any chances. He had been told from a very young age that the kingstone was born to the first child, always a male, sired by the king. With it, knowledge preserved by the bloodline was supposed to be passed down and made accessible to each king. As it was, the kingstone did very little in aiding Sylvester. Glimpses of the past were afforded but they were of unimportant events or situations. No one need know that a woman in his family’s past made the best crustbread cake in the land or that a former king preferred the company of livestock over more commonly domesticated creatures like felines and canines. No, this was useless information. It, combined with the improper amount of educational experiences, made him feel like one of the most ineffectual kings that had ever bore the crown. King Sylvester became even more disheartened when he remembered, yet again, that the kingstone was also designed to save him from death itself. It was a powerful Magik that Sylvester himself didn’t think he could comprehend, but when it was boiled down and explained to him, he took away the fact that he was deemed some kind of Immortal until he fathered his own offspring. But none of these advisors, this Malforcrent, could know that. They couldn’t know that he was both impervious and incompetent. If they did, they’d most likely focus all of their attention of getting him a bride so that when a baby was born with a kingstone of his own, they could act. Though one kingstone was said to protect without fail, two at the same time were vulnerable. That’s why the Gousheralls had been created. Misren had mentioned their present lack of use in regards to the king, but Sylvester was certain that the Javal’tan was recalling past arrangements. These and other thoughts bided Sylvester’s time as the meeting with the Malforcrent wore on boorishly. He glanced at Misren as the squatish man motioned for one of his aides to bring forth more gravy, which sloshed onto the smooth table in front of Marylyn. She sneered in disgust and scooted her chair from the table with loud floor scrapings. Noting the small amount of food that Misren had left on his plates, Sylvester deduced that he should animate his attention again as the meeting was likely to be over soon. He picked up on something that Kren Solarpaste was saying. Something about passages or pathways. “My citizens of loyal Dekenna have expressed concern over the deterioration of the Nementor Paths. How they are finding it more difficult to travel here to Mount Reign or to and region that borders Dekenna in some respect. The Nementor Paths were fashioned in a time when free travel was not only condoned but encouraged.” This was true. Concerning the Nementor Paths, Sylvester knew that much. They had been cleared to make at least one continuous pathway throughout the kingdom, primarily as a means of promoting trade, but also to allow regional citizens to feel freer in conversing and “getting to know” their respective neighbors. It was an idea crafted by King Nementor centuries ago, during a time when the regions had stifled under bouts of isolationism. The paths had apparently fallen into various degrees of decomposition. It was most likely a result of disuse as most regions tended now to maintain a policy of “If you weren’t born here, you shouldn’t live here.” It would’ve made King Nementor sick to his stomach and, presently, it was making Sylvester a little agitated. Kren, being of Dekenna, was advocating for their rebuilding as that region had always been extremely loyal to any and all ideas fashioned by kings of the past. Knowing this now, Sylvester found it odd that it was Kren who had suggested the creation of the Malforcrent over a decade ago. The king never lost humor in the dry irony. The supposed loyalist continued. “Like Brinttal stated earlier, merchants from one region might wish to trade their wares in another region or just sell their stock elsewhere in general. Their immediate markets risk overexposure if the consumers aren’t already tired of the same items designed for local retail.” Sylvester nodded as what Kren said made sense. But Trisden interjected. “And once these paths are refurbished, who will guard them? It’d be the same problem my academy is facing.” Sylvester let slide the idea that Majramdic Academy belonged solely to Trisden but silently decided to not forget the slip of the tongue. “There aren’t enough people under the crown to be spread across the whole land of Decennia.” Kren turned towards Trisden, pushing his chair slightly back and away so that he could face the islander. “What difference does it make if they work directly under the crown or are hired within each region? It’s our tent’s primary job to safeguard the citizens of their respective regions, is it not? And the tents answer to us, to the king,” he said as he motioned in Sylvester’s general direction. Actually, he motioned to a tapestry behind and to the right of the monarch but, again, Sylvester let it slide as it was generally nice to have someone take up for him. “So, Trisden of Fortright Isles, what do you say to that?” Trisden seemed to boil and Sylvester resisted the urge to squirm at the looks of confusion on the man’s face. Even Dothel was sitting up, taking notice of the proceedings. Sylvester thought that it was mostly because Kren had pushed his chair against Dothel’s and had forced him to pay attention. Finally, Trisden spoke. “And who will protect those that refurbish the paths? Who will actually perform the repairs? Who will pay for it all, and will it all be done at one time or in seasoned batches? Have you, young Solarpaste, given any of these notions a second thought?” Kren made as if he was about to speak, but didn’t. He obviously had not thought of such ideas. His face reddened and Sylvester felt heat rise in his own face, but he was not sure if he was empathizing with the loyal Kren’s embarrassment or if he was angry that the man hadn’t thought through what he had put forth. The man of Dekenna reset his chair, allowing Dothel to resume his lazy gaze, and Trisden continued loudly while addressing all of Wakefield Hall. “I’m well aware of the legacy left behind by King Nementor. But it would be best if certain advisors researched their proposals more thoroughly.” Kren blushed again, despite Trisden failing to acknowledge him visually. “I agree that the Nementor Paths would be better suited for bringing together our great nation, solidifying the already sturdy bonds that have been in place for all these long centuries. Eventually. I agree that this is a project that should be undertaken. Eventually. Right now, it’d be best if we allocated guardsmen and funding towards situations that can provide more immediate results. Like my own requirements at Majramdic Academy and the necessary assistance that will be upon those merchants traveling the western coastline of Decennia.” Sylvester didn’t understand why guardsmen could be allotted to those two specific cases of potential need when something like restoring the Nementor Paths would be more gratifying and beneficial to the whole of Decennia in the long run. But, again, he didn’t put such a thought out where everyone could see it, poke holes in it, and force him to take it away, damaged and possibly unrecognizable. He didn’t want to give this Malforcrent, this advising council, that little satisfaction. He, as the king, probably wouldn’t know what he was talking about anyway. I often wonder if I ever know what I’m talking about. Trisden blithered on and the rest of the Malforcrent were roped into his way of thinking, one way or another. The aides were gathering their respective notes – dishes in Misren’s case – long before the meeting was officially adjourned, but once it was, the advisors were quick to leave. That is, all of them except Dothel op Prissen and Misren OkLat. They stood, conversing in low tones. Dothel then seemed to give something to the glutton and Misren pocketed it. It looked like nothing more than a rock and Sylvester thought to ask, but Dothel was away through the closest entrance while Misren exited through another on the northern end of the room. He didn’t know which to follow as he didn’t want to have to deal with the lazy mannerisms of Dothel or the boorish attitude of Misren. Instead, he stood and propped himself forward against the solid table. The gravy stain was on the surface. It hadn’t spread as much as Sylvester thought it should’ve and he noticed how it sort of, in a fashion, resembled what many map makers had made Decennia out to be: it was basically a smatter on the top of a table. Crumbs from stale-yet-devoured bread rested in the liquid and Sylvester faintly wondered if this was how the gods viewed Decennia from above or afar or wherever they were stationed in regards to the world of Valent. Peering more closely, he realized it was upside down, with his own body being closest to where the northern Fortright Isles were obscurely represented. He let out a weak breath, straightened himself, and left Wakefield Hall. Someone else would clean up the mess. |
| The gentle wind of late afternoon brushed her face; that was the only bare flesh she dare expose. Her Curse disallowed her extremities much freedom in the sunlight. She had lived in this area the longest since leaving home. She exhaled sullenly as she realized that the incident of that morning would eventually bring the usual mindless crowd. Tuette had become quite keen on judging the time it took for a small town to organize themselves and move against a blindly-perceived threat: less than half a day. Once the setting sun broke the horizon, the torches would travel from the town’s center towards her uniquely shaped dwelling. Their chants would sound, to them, terrifyingly original, but she had heard it all before. “No more Magik in our sight!” “Kill the Mage!” “Hang the Harlot” That last she had heard on more than one occasion and it only fueled Tuette with the strong notion that these abolitionists of Magik honestly knew nothing of the craft. Harlots are half-breed humans for Valtos’ sake! she would think to herself after such a ridiculous statement. She had spent her midday mealtime packing up her belongings and securing her home for the trip, for the next leg of her unending journey. Once she turned around, she heard the premature chants. Tuette turned and gazed to the north. Apparently, the residents of Pair Nor were quick organizers. She had little time to act as they were rushing against her. She knew the mob did not want her to escape. Most anti-Magikals either approached their target slowly, allowing escape, or they moved for a quick capture and a quicker death. The Pair Norists wanted the latter. Tuette bolted into her swan-shaped home through the main entrance on the side. She did a final visual survey of her workbenches, shelves, wall-nets, and cupboards and decided that everything was secure. She snatched the only egg she had left on her fastened-down table. Clambering up the inside of the swan-house’s neck, Tuette reached the top and forced her head, arm, and part of her torso through the vacant eyehole-window. She could smell the smoke from the torches and saw the first of the previously-friendly Pair Norists enter her the clearing. She repressed a final shout and smashed the Charmed egg against the swan-home’s head. Quickly, she retreated into the window and braced herself. Outside her front door, she heard bangs, shouts, and curses. They were not real and effective Curses, but they served to make her ears slightly uncomfortable. Peppered amongst the bouquets of verbal anger were promises that she would be sorry for bringing Magik into their lives. Tuette could only frown and force back tears. These people, only a day ago, had been kindness personified. She finally hoped that she had found an accepting home in Pair Nor. But a damning ray of stray light had erased all of that. The sight provided by the sun had blinded them of who she was, washing away the self-made illusion and exposing who she truly was: a Cursed woman, a woman of Magik, a sorceress or Speller of sorts. Tuette knew that all Cursed humans weren’t associated with Magik, but it was rare since Cursing required Magik. If someone had been Cursed, that usually meant they knew someone who performed Magik. Tuette was such a victim and even if she had not been, everyone reacted the same to a Cursed individual: blind rage that is the center of a mob’s mentality. Outside, the hate-infused shouts continued. They also began to spatter expensively rare and flammable fluids against her structure but Tuette knew that no harm would come to her. The newly-Charmed home wouldn’t allow it. As if in sync with her own thoughts, a honk from where Tuette had just been was heard and a shadow fell across her windows. She knew the shape of her home, the sawn, had become animated and was making for a retreat towards any safe haven. She wished for speed to embrace the Magik-inspired swan as Tuette did not want to hear the constant swears and heated shouts. With the movement of the swan’s wing came shouts of surprise from the people outside. Their was a lurch of movement as Tuette knew her home had stood upon its stilt-like legs, inspiring gasp of awe. Tuette recognized more than a few voices and it panged her heart that the realization always affected everyone. It’s like being doubly Cursed, which is Magikally impossible! The wings began to move rapidly as the swan attempted to liftoff. The mob outside was now quiet as they realized they were no match for an overbearing swan graced with a hide of mortar. Ordinarily, Tuette timed these departures for sunset so as to produce a fly-by-night endeavor, leaving her time to land in a new area before the Charm wore off at sunrise. Such displays weren’t supposed to be witnessed, but she valued her life more than the commonly adopted rules that resided behind the use of Magik. When ordinary people witness a feat of power, they usually attempt to foolishly mimic it. And usually with drastic results. But with the early takeoff, Tuette knew she would have the chance to move even farther away. She had, at one point in the past four years, decided to travel slowly west. Sooner rather than later, Tuette knew she would run out of land and be forced to hide in some other manner. Unless she Reversed her Curse. But that day was yet to come and the swan, following whispers from its mistress, would land in another remote location, most likely on the edge of a forest or lake. Tuette hoped it would be a forest as the swan tended to drink water from lakes. The water damage in the past accosted to the interior of her home had made Tuette aware of this possible threat. After providing the guiding whispers, Tuette set herself upon her gentle bedding and felt a rush of exhaustion wash over her. She recalled a time when she had been afraid of heights. That felt so long ago. * ~ * ~ * Tuette awoke with a start. She rubbed her eyes harshly, hoping to wash away the images produced by her horrible dream. The thin amount of water on the floor of her home told her it had been no dream, that she had been forced to abandon another decent living situation. She propped herself up on her bed and took in the familiar scent of lake water and fish. Two such fish flopped about in the death throes. Tuette felt little sympathy for them and realized that it was probably those dying creatures that had ultimately awakened her. When she started her travels, she used to have to tell the swan-shaped home to land in very specific regions. For the last year, the Charmed dwelling had seemed to develop a sense of what was a desirable location for its Charming mistress. Judging by the water and fish on the floor, Tuette realized that she had been mistaken in thinking she could afford such a luxurious sleep. The stench was subtle though, and didn’t serve to bother her. Removing herself from her cushioned bedding, Tuette got a large shawl so as to wrap it about herself, concealing her lengthy hair. She needed to step outside and do a general survey of where she was and she didn’t need her Curse to make her stick out again in case her home had chosen a none-too-prime location. Upon opening the door, she released what water was left, kicked her shoes dry, and stepped out. As she had suspected, the swan, now with its head and neck in their usual upraised fashion, had chosen a spot near a large and sparsely populated lake. Tuette looked around and saw further that she was on the edge of a forest that ended halfway across the lake. On the other side of the lake was a vast and clear open field that seemed to have been designed to solely give her a view of the mountain in the distance: Mount Reign. Though it was the tapering end of a mountain chain that stretched from the northwestern corner of the kingdom to its just-east-of-center point, Mount Reign was the tallest of mountains. To Tuette’s great displeasure, it housed the residential king of the land. She didn’t care to know who the current king was as she was of the Magikal community. Tuette knew, like many other Magik casters, that the bloodline of the king had been chosen centuries ago following the bloody end of many dreadful conflicts, the last being the disastrous Dissociative Wars. She also knew that it was a poor manner for choosing a ruler. Tuette felt that leaders, like the maperryta that guided Magikals, should earn their respective title either through being selected as a successor or chosen by a subservient mass. She recognized that the first king chosen – with Magik, nonetheless – might have been acceptable for that period of time but the kingdom as she knew it had fallen into shambles. There was no underlying supportive economy. There wasn’t even a reliable network of roadways to support regional travel. Had Tuette not possessed her unique building, she felt she would have lost her way in more than one manner of speaking. Tuette did not appreciate her present location in regards to the land’s monarch. It was this sentiment alone that made her wish to be done with her running, with escaping. But she didn’t know how to end it. She had been Cursed by none other than her own teacher, four years prior. With spite backing him, he had placed the physically astounding Curse of the Hood upon Tuette. Though it could often be construed as something comical, Tuette felt it was anything but. At the time of being Cursed, Tuette had within her possession a hood that was designed to look like a swan when worn properly. Much to her amazement and horror, her lengthy blonde locks reformed themselves to make it appear as if a swan were perched atop her head. This occurred when sunlight touched the hairs on her head. It was a malleable form, but only in the sense that the neck and wings could be repositioned. And it was anything but a prime situation for Tuette. She moved around the backside of her home, where the forest’s edge was. She went about reciting Spells of protection and dropping Charmed seeds with each sentence’s end to affect any who came near. These Spells were specifically designed to cause anyone who ambled upon the site to ignore it without alarm. She thought it was better than the decidedly final alternative. Moving to the edge, she paused and gauged her current position. Looking behind herself, she noticed that the dwelling had suddenly taken on a golden ambience; the sun had finally peaked over Mount Reign. She took a deep breath of the lakeside morning air. The unmistakable scent of burning wood was present. Raising her head, she stepped backwards and sure enough, above the tree line, a stack of smoke was climbing towards the clouds. Tuette knew that where there was smoke, there were usually people. And maybe a belcarotia. She cautiously stepped forward as she was one of few people who knew of the truly inherent dangers surrounding the smoke fiends. Especially in an area as heavily wooded as these. But first, Tuette decided to turn and retreat into her home to retrieve a sturdy staff. It carried no Magikal properties, but was stronger than others of its ilk. Using it as a walking aide, she entered the forest once more, hoping to avoid exposure to the smoke. Normally, such actions weren’t taken but Tuette knew that she was running low on resources, like foodstuffs, various spices and roots, powders for general hygiene and her ever-essential supply of eggs. Though older eggs tended to make her Give Life Charm less powerful, Tuette knew that to keep none in stock was foolish. She preferred keeping helpful items in supply rather than useless foolishness. She made quick time in the forest and before long began to hear murmurs from other humans. She did not know their general nature but felt ready to deal with anyone at the moment. Tuette feared slightly that they would smell her before they saw her as she felt oppressively grimy, but decided that the smoke was probably masking her general scent. Spying a glimmer of fire to her left, she moved in a cyclic manner towards it. Tuette felt that coming from a direction that wouldn’t lead straight back to her swan-home was an advantage worth having when dealing with strangers The crackle of dancing flames was then heard and the murmurs began to soften. She knew that these people behaving foolishly as, before long, the smoke stack would reach a diameter wide enough to house a territorial belcarotia. And the creatures loved wood. Sinister in appearance only, Tuette knew a belcarotia was a being that existed entirely of smoke and fire. Some Mages believed it to be the product of a SecGen Curse – or Second Generation Curse – gone awry, leaving its victim in a perpetual state of Life, but only within the realms of smoke. The origin story made sense to Tuette because the belcarotia behaved like any human: always wanting more. It acquired more land and life by shooting combustive sparks that ignited wood and killed a human in a ghastly way. It was unknown if more than one existed as none of the few reported instances had been sighted at the same time. Though she liked comparing it to a man, Tuette truly believed it was something a little simpler than a Cursed human with an affinity for destruction. She liked to think it was nothing more than some kind of Demon left over from the time before the one World became several Worlds. As she neared the small clearing, she could see three men sitting to one side of a still-growing fire. They were simply clothed and Tuette felt a certain familiarity about them. She paused when she realized what it was that seemed familiar. It wasn’t the men themselves but their clothing and, more importantly, the rucksacks that each had on the ground between their feet. These were not regular people but Mages. Which meant that Tuette was without hope. Within a normal community of non-Magikals, Tuette could have attempted to blend in and keep to herself in regards to her Cursed condition. But with other casters, she knew better than to even try. It was a too-common occurrence that the Magikals would follow the myth surrounding Cursed individuals rather than the facts. Many Magikals believed that life threatening maladies and activities gravitated around people who were under any type of Curse. It was nothing but mere coincidence and superstition as far as Tuette was concerned, but that idea was difficult to place inside other people’s skulls. She knew that wherever these young Mages had come from, it would be no safe harbor for her. She turned to head towards her home and was stilled in her tracks by a soft, wispy purr. It was a gentle sound in her ears and mind. It was also enough to get the Mages to stop talking and pay attention to their circumstance in regards to the flames and, more importantly, the smoke. Tuette knew what had happened: belcarotia had inadvertently been summoned. Peering over her shoulder, she could still see the slight clearing that housed the trio. The youthful Mages had ashen faces and looked unprepared as they fished about in their rucksacks. With clarity, she also watched as they were pierced by something that extended itself effortlessly from the smoke: small projectiles that left tendril-like wisps of smoke to define their paths. They must have had some notion of protection inside their sacks, but whatever that had been was beyond their aide. Smoke sputtered from their wounds as they writhed about in soundless agony. Even at this distance, Tuette could see the clothing burn slowly, revealing the skin beneath as the veins became ash. By craft, a belcarotia had the ability to start fires just beyond its own range for the simple sake of expanding its smoke stack. This was how forest fires began. When humans got in the way, it was almost always a very painful death that followed. Tuette aimed to keep herself in the exceptional category of survivors as she raced through the forest. But which direction had she come from? Witnessing the Magikal trio dying had unsettled her mindset. She was no stranger to death, but such a foolhardy means of passing disturbed her. Whoever said ignorance was bliss was wrong. * ~ * ~ * In the short time she had been in the forest, she had been turned around and wondered if another Spell might have been at work. It was rarely hypothesized that World Spirits offered up sacrifices to a belcarotia as means of preserving their wooded environ. Tuette doubted the hypothesis, but would not have put it past any World Spirit. Of the few she had learned about, none seemed too kind. Still, she ran, using her staff to push brush away from her face and trying to remain soundless. The smoke fiends were said to have incredible hearing. This was not Tuette’s first encounter with such a creature, but it was turning out to be her closest. Years ago, while under the tutelage of her former and accursed teacher, Tuette had asked about belcarotia and, in the middle of a vibrant field, had witnessed the summoning of one. The fire had started small but grew larger with controlled consumption, the lush field acting like a potential prison. Green, healthy plants were harder to burn. Then the creature seemed to materialize within the smoke and direct flaming projectiles from itself, purring in that hard-to-forget guttural fashion. With distance, Tuette and teacher were safe and she was thankful for the knowledge but now Tuette wished she knew what to do. Belcarotia were dangerous and why these now-dead Mages had been playing with fire was nothing more than a mystery to the Cursed woman. As she moved, she started gasping for air; she was not much of a runner. Tuette’s side began to cramp and she cursed her own inactivity. The light, enjoyable, and often lazy times amongst the Pair Norists had produced unkind results. She labored on through the woods, hearing the rising sound of crackling flame and wood just behind her. A belcarotia could shoot considerable distances, but took time between each shot; firing upon an item that burns in the distance was thought to be wasteful as there was no guarantee the smoke stack would join the belcarotia’s. Tuette felt the rising heat and, ahead of herself, witnessed a thinning of the forest. She prayed to Valtos that it was the lake and, upon making it into the clearing, felt the warmth of the sun confirm the power of such prayer. Behind her was the growing fire trail that, if the fiend was following her, was being blazed by Tuette personally. If the fiend made it to the clearing, it would know that traveling the tree line would have been easy enough to reach her swan-home. She was not sure if her slight Charms would hold up to a belcarotia. Deciding that they would not as the flames would destroy the seedlings that anchored the Spells, Tuette began to rumble over other alternatives. If she did not act, Tuette knew the belcarotia might move to destroy her home, her only means of practical transportation. If she moved north of the shoreline, the creature could choose to ignore her and envelope the small building anyway. Either way, Tuette had to keep in mind that belcarotia moved however they desired. She knew she would have to stop the creature somehow. And, most likely, she was going to have to use one of her Potes. Moving towards her home, ever mindful of her shawl covering her hair, Tuette knew that the Pote strong enough to possibly stop the belcarotia was her only vial of Freezing Pote. It was a Pote she had developed with a former associate during her Curse-inspired exile. The crafting of Potes was typically a solitary excursion of which Tuette had had plenty of time to practice and hone. Over the many months, she had perfected a handful of unique Potes, all of original design. She had based her uses of Pote Magik on already-existing ideas but tweaked them or reshaped them to her own needs. The Freezing Pote was the only one that she had crafted with another person, an old friend named Dermitalus Tasciturn, or Dermy, as he was often called. He had not been much of a Mage but he knew a great deal about plant life and the properties inherent in each. Drawing on a rare blossom pointed out by Dermy that had protectively paralyzing venom, the sh’cor lip, Tuette was able to fashion the Freezing Pote. Falling to financial securities that were offered up by the monarch, Dermy had moved to Mount Reign to assist under the agricultural division of the crown. Though the physically diminutive man had attempted to maintain contact, Tuette thought it better to avoid the traitorous man as best she could. The fact that she physically moved around made little difference for the duo shared Communication Gems. She never wore hers. Entering her now-imperiled home, Tuette went straight to a cupboard she rarely opened. Her day-to-day Charms and items were kept closer at hand. These powerful Potes, due to the length of time it could take to make any one of them, were deemed too valuable to use on just any occasion. Presently, Tuette felt justified in using one. She opened the cupboard that was no cupboard at all but a crawl-through; a space where she could access her precious concoctions. The space itself was one of the hollowed wings, now settled in the restive position. This was the best place for anything valuable because the Give Life Charm held all contents firmly so as not to betray any notion to the swan that it was anything but alive. Hoisting herself up while being ever mindful of the slowly intensifying purr outside, Tuette put herself halfway into the dark crawlspace. She had not thought to bring a candle or torch of any kind which was for the better she decided: one of the Potes, the Firedom Expansion Pote, needed only a drop of flame to fulfill its purpose. It was definitely not the Pote that Tuette was looking for. Feeling around in the dark and eventually growing tired, impatient, and deathly worried, Tuette finally found her rucksack, hoisted it out, and used the sunlight to see into the bag. After only a handful of seconds, Tuette had her Pote, but feared she was too late. She carried the entire sack out with her, came around the dwelling and had to take a breath. A large portion of the forest’s edge just north of her home had been engulfed by the flames produced by the smoke-born beast. At the forefront of the intensely heated area was a thicker billow of smoke that seemed to possess itself of two faintly discernable glowing eyes and a nasty sneer of a mouth. The eyes were solid white and chilling. It didn’t move or speak. She thought she would freeze on the spot, despite her vial being unopened. The vial. Momentarily absent from her mind, she remembered that she had to save not only herself but her home, her safe haven. Tuette unstopped the vial of Freezing Pote, a twinge of regret in having to do it as it had taken three months to craft such a fine Pote. And also because of what she desperately needed it for in the long run. But this is surely a dire situation, Tuette! She hurled the Pote, vial and all, at the belcarotia. No incantation was required to activate a Pote. The Freezing Pote sailed towards the belcarotia… and the vial passed right between its eyes to land upside down on the ground smoldering behind the creature. Tuette froze as if the Pote had been poured onto her very heart. The vial had proved ineffective, passing harmlessly through the target. The belcarotia was going to burn her home to the ground and still attempt to claim her life along with the Mages. How could they have been so careless as to accidentally summon such a creature? She might hope to escape, but she would not find safe housing within the Magikal community that most likely rested on the other side of the forest. Surely, by now, they’re attempting to stop the forest fire from spreading elsewhere.. As if sensing her despair, a smile graced the area that would have passed as the belcarotia’s mouth. Just as quickly, the smile waned and the creature seemed to enter a state of solidity, if but for a moment. With smoky rage, it turned and followed back along its path of waning smoke. Waning smoke! She thoughts first how other Mages were dousing the flames, drawing the creature away from her as it posed a terrible threat to anyone nearby. But she saw that was not the case: the smoke was dissipating. If water were being applied, the smoke would have doubled in strength, surely killing Tuette in some fashion. She finally saw the cause of the lessened smoke; her Freezing Pote had worked. It had traveled through smoke and flame to land upon the ground and Freeze the very embers that fed the fire. With no embers, there was no fire, and with no flame, there could be no smoke. Tuette heaved a hefty sigh of relief and could only smile while letting out some post-tension shakes and jitters. The belcarotia acted as if choking on the cleaner air and finally disappeared altogether. First leaning and then sitting against her swan-home, Tuette rested for several minutes as the crackles of flame decreased and eventually extinguished. Again, she was a little disheartened that she had finally been forced to use such a necessary Pote, but for the sake of safe passage, Tuette was ever more thankful to have had it. Fondly, she remembered Dermy and the seemingly brief times they had shared. Forgetting the fact that he had left her to work for the very government that she had vehemently voiced against, she had found their friendship as being convenient in more ways than one. Other than his extensive knowledge regarding fauna and floral properties, Dermy had been what no one else had been since: a companion. He had been someone that she had thought would be there with her, leading up to the point in time when she was able to Reverse her own Curse. But he was gone, and that was that. Getting up and beginning to feel nostalgic, Tuette entered her home once more, reached into her rucksack that had remained in hand, and pulled out the Comgem. It was set into a bracelet and she put it on, thinking that she might suddenly feel the warmth that denoted the wearer of someone’s attempt for contact. No such warmth came and Tuette, feeling foolish, moved to take it off. In mid-motion, there was a four-tap knock on her door. It had been left open and Tuette saw a single woman there. The unexpected sight made Tuette flinch. The stranger was taller than Tuette, had lengthy brown hair tinged with gray, and she was dressed in a manner denoting her occupation - a lengthy robe comprised of a maroon dye. She was a Magikal and around her shoulder hung a rucksack of similar design to Tuette’s. The stranger said nothing. There was no need. She could clearly see the tightly-clutched sack in Tuette’s own hand and already know plenty about what the Cursed woman was capable of. Except that I’m not Cursed, for all she knows. As long as she stayed shielded against the rays of sunlight, she would be splendidly protected. The woman stared expectantly, not entering as that type of intrusion was thought to be extremely uncivilized. Tuette finally spoke. “Yes?” she asked simply, quietly. The woman looked as if she were about to cry. Her eyes were glossed over with unshed tears and Tuette faced her fully, putting her sack on the table. The vials of Potes inside – the unsecured ones– rattled around. Tuette herself counted three rattled vials so the woman also had to have heard them. Tuette didn’t know if it was best that the stranger was blind on how much defensive Magik was in her grasp. The stranger took a deep breath. “Thank you” was all she uttered. She then threw her hood up to cover her hair and left Tuette’s frame of view. Tuette stepped forward to see where the strange woman was headed but when she peeked her head outside the window, she saw no one. Tuette knew that teleportation without a wholly external Magik aide was impossible. More likely, the stranger had cast an Invisibility Spell about herself. That or she had blended Chameleon Silk into her robe. Either way, Tuette had decided against immediately seeking out the stranger as no malice had passed between them. But she felt she would like to know what she was being thanked for. Tuette also didn’t like surprises when it came to people walking up to her home and leaving at their own will. She was a very private person. She reached into her rucksack, secured the loose vials into their straps, and placed the whole of it back within the wing-deep cupboard. Grabbing more seeds, she cautiously stepped outside to replace her only passive means of defense. The forest, though still singed and burning in small spots, was safe. She then wondered, ever so carefully, if the belcarotia would have come her way or even tried to burn down the forest if her presence, in some mystical way, hadn’t distracted the young Mages from what they had ultimately been doing. After letting such thoughts pass, she could not help but wonder if, in fact, life-threatening situations and maladies did encircle a Cursed person. Was she nothing but a threat for all that existed around her? She hated to think so. Tuette hoped, in the end, that her Mortal existence would bring about something wholesome for all of Valent in the long run. But, so far, she felt she might have set the circumstances for those young, dead Mages. |
| “I’m not certain if I’m hearing you correctly, young Puze,” sneered the count. “I have… eenformed thee hue-man… of thee sit-you-ation… and thee Magi… eenformed me dat… it is set for remady. S-s-sire.” Count Roost nodded at the clarification. He hated when the little fruit fly didn’t take the time to articulate his words. The count had the perfect plan set into motion: by sending his Cursed messenger to Maperryta Cafeglian Dormaset, the self-proclaimed “Magikal Governor” would be able to witness the extent of Count Roost’s powers. Now Dormaset had to make the next move and, by any means, get the king of Decennia to go along with it. Roost didn’t care how the aged man came upon the task, just so long as it happened. He could almost feel the eventual power at the tips of his fingers. For too long, it had been beyond his grasp, but now it was much closer than ever before. A bellow came from below; a low moan that served to undermine the calming effects of the waves that crashed on the shoreline further down. The count knew better than to expect a calm eye in the torrential storm that was his life. Puze, in his glass-mesh cage, looked from the count towards the door and back again. Roost thought the creature might be feeling sympathetic for what was causing the bellow. He then snorted at the though. As if the thing feels sympathy. Count Roost ignored Puze’s movement, but could not ignore the moans. With a sigh, he went to the heavy door, opened it, and began his cyclic trek downwards. The spiral staircase wrapped around the inside of his sole tower, opening out to each room. Count Roost passed the room directly below the one he had been occupying, giving a glance to the recently-uprooted and exotically unique flower that stood there, slightly wilted. I should water it. Or something. He continued down and stepped off at the bottom, only one room deeper, at the base of his tiny castle. The moans were louder down here and carried an undercurrent of caustic ruin. The count still had a little way to go. Moving to the other side of the main hall, he opened a prominent, heavy door, letting the moans double in strength as he descended into the hollowed out sub-flooring. Decades prior, they had served as the former ruler’s cellblocks for island dissenters. Currently, it was a shabby infirmary, home to but one creature, one lonely man. The count, having performed deeds of the dastardly sort in the past, almost always had to abbreviate these moments in which he would deal with the man. Roost had found he could not maintain the presence of a dying man. At the end of this stairway and continuing towards the only usable room, the count knew why the impaired man had been moaning: his torch was going out, as evidenced by the dim glow that silhouetted the door. Slowly, with measured practice, Roost grabbed an unused torch and went into the room. Using the dying torch’s embers to light the new one, he effectively replaced the tiny room’s source of light. In the warming light, the count could see that the resident’s pile of read prints had grown and the unread pile had become smaller. Roost would have to gather more so as to provide the terminal man something useful for passing the time. He wondered, briefly, if he could just reshuffle the pile read and put it under the pile to be read. He knew he could not do that, but it honestly was not the first time such a notion had crossed his deceptive brain. Another contradictorily cold thought entered Roost’s head: he knew he could burn the prints and the bedding and the old man too, and he would not even have to go through with what was being asked of him. He, Count Roost, could be free. I’m the ruler of an island after all. A municipality! But, as always, the thought subsided and the count felt shame for letting it take root once again. He patted the newly-quiet man’s hand once and immediately felt like he was not there anymore: with light bringing the elder’s attention to his prints, Roost was invisible. It stung in an expected way, but at least he didn’t have to use the PainLess Stone this time. And at least the old man didn’t talk. With the moans quieted, Count Roost could return to the main floors. He moved away from bedside and had only one foot on the first step when he heard more mutterings: a voice. He slowly rotated himself to look at the man again. In that short amount of time, the ill man had fallen asleep, head back, latest unread text in his lap. His mouth moved almost silently and Roost knew words emitted from that home of too-few-teeth. The count did not have to move closer to know what was being said over and over again, without rhythm. “I am trying, old man,” said the count. Before he let himself lose his composure, the count moved out of the room and up the stairs with a quickened pace. The word hung forever at his earlobe as if designed to haunt him into submission and humiliation: Godblade. “I will recover your accursed Godblade. And this – all of this – will end. No more Dying Man Dance.” No one heard these words, but they helped with the self-affirmation that the count needed to complete his task. The hardest part was already over. Now all the pieces would fall into place, whether they wanted to or not. * ~ * ~ * The count was in his sole tower once again as dusk settled around the island’s shore. He was preparing the Curse that would change all of Decennia. The land would not change, but the masses would. Rubbing a closed eyelid with his cool left thumb, Roost wished to have the ritual over with. He was not sure how long it would take. The tome in front of him, filled with nearly a hundred scripts, detailed the sequence, but not the length of time it would take. The oppel ink each script was written in was known to be dangerous when compressed in close proximity of itself. But that was why the tome was bound with yoppa leather; its properties nullified the dangerous side effects of the powerful ink. Roost went to one of the many marked section of the book. Each marking represented a kind of Curse. This particular one was similar but different. He was not only attempting to manufacture a new Curse, but he was looking to establish the parameters of the victims without having to possess personal “leftovers” of the intended victim, like hair lost or skin shed. Usually, to cast a Curse, the caster had to be Cursed and fuse a piece from his body with a similar piece from his would-be victim. Hairs were common enough, but the freshness of the leftover was necessary and differed between Curses. Rather than using the infusion method, Roost was going for a land mass specification. He knew a healthy dose of time would have to pass before the Curse actually took effect, but it was worth it if the end result was possession of the acclaimed yet mythic Godblade. This volume he owned was filled with powerful Magik. The benefit he most enjoyed was the ability to craft new Curses. And right now, he was aiming for the largest Curse he had ever known to exist. Roost was looking to put a Curse on the entire kingdom of Decennia. Such a lavish expression of power was almost necessary when it came to his final goal but he knew that he had to quell the dying man if he was to ever proceed with his own life. Voidet was so demanding when it came to his personal desires. But Roost had the plan for acquiring the Godblade and Voidet would be happy and either die peaceably or somehow be restored to full health; Roost was not sure of the exact properties inherent in the legendary blade, but he knew that he could not allow the man to slip away before at least attempting to procure the arcane weapon. He sometimes wondered if the blade’s absence was even keeping Voidet alive. With so many gales in motion, Count Roost set about to finally Curse the kingdom and ultimately get the monarch to leave his post and personally deal with the menace that the count himself was constructing. It was a dangerous game when Magik was involved, Roost knew, but would ultimately be worth it as it was the only way to silence the malignant forces that haunted his own life. Haunted, yet motivated him to acquire so much more. He was the island’s governor, which was ideal for now, but he had bigger gilltain to fry. Eventually, he might even get to return to Gor Bilesk. Or even cross the Fanway and serve under Gor Pyron’s leader, Topoto. He was the one who would ultimately be inheriting the kingstone. Plus, with the Godblade and no more ties to this sullied kingdom of Decennia, that action seemed most appropriate to the count. |
| The time passes all too quickly. Sylvester walked again towards Wakefield Hall. It had been only a dozen or so days since the last meeting with the Malforcrent. All of a sudden, this “emergency session” had been called by the councilpersons. We’re supposed to meet once a month! The king did not wholly enjoy surprises. They usually ended in his disfavor. In the weeks leading up to this presently unexpected meeting, Sylvester had performed as usual: he did very little. The king was hardly ever called upon to do anything apart from the usual guest appearances for publicly accredited holidays. Just this past Sargentee, he recalled, he had made a short trip to New Opal to celebrate the festivities with that town. Decennia as a kingdom was on the brink of running itself. But the disregard of the Nementor Paths rested uneasily in the back of his mind. It was not because he was culling some ancient wisdom in regards to the routes but because they seemed to make public the very idea that his kingdom was not as sound as he had been lead to assume. So he had done some checking; some research. According to writ, the king had access to all printings that existed in the land. When he delved into the stacks within the bowels of the mountain, Sylvester found not so much in the way of knowledge but endless yarns of discrepant information. How could the paths have become neglected if each region was supposed to contract local smiths and laborers to provide upkeep? And how did the regional tents confiscate funds for those laborers if the crown did not pay them for their services? And why, when looking at a recently-woven map of the kingdom, was Whismerl and Javal’ta so poorly represented while the seemingly insignificant regions of Uv-Hren and Jint were exceedingly detailed? If the paths had been kept up for the last handful of decades as lawfully decreed, then the present merchants on the west coast wouldn’t need so much money and guardsmen reallocated for those specific purposes. He felt like he did not understand the finer manipulations of his own governmental policies due to the sole fact that he could not understand the meaning that rested within the actions or inactions in this case. That didn’t stop him from pondering on the funds of the tents. The whole Malforcrent was comprised of former-tents and they seemed to be doing well off. Misren was very much the glutton – somehow more so than his fellow Javal’tans – while Trisden was always so well robed. The Ghin’ra twins seemed to have a new jeweled thread or two added to their collective outfits with each passing month and even Marylyn seemed to be more pasty-white than any of them, meaning she spent more time indoors rather than outside as most professions based inside her region were recognized for. Where was the wealth coming from? Were there tariffs or fees imposed that Sylvester had no knowledge of? As far as he knew, tents earned a wage or bartered like all other contributory citizens. Being subjects of the crown, they normally accessed everyday necessities with no cost, same as their immediate aides. The wealth provided to the king and his potential family had little to do with actual currency and more to do with how much the bloodline contributed to the kingdom as a whole. In short, Sylvester paid for nothing. Whatever he needed was always present, at hand, much like with the tents and the advisory council. Within reason. The one thing he knew he needed though could not be provided by those who served the crown or apparently by any who lived within the confines of Decennia: Sylvester desired the knowledge of his kingstone, of the bloodline passed. Shaking his head, he exhaled but did not break stride. I’m barely a king. He had little useful knowledge and had known it for some time. Who was he to question the very people who served him loyally? The Malforcrent, in all its manners of action or inaction, knew what it was doing. He had nothing more than baseless suppositions. And when it came down to it, why should he, as king, care about whether or not one region was represented more fully on a map weave than another? It was his job to keep the kingdom as a whole in mind. And that was what he would do, to the best of his abilities. With this rehashed sense of determination, he entered Wakefield Hall and let a hiccup enter his step as what he saw before him admittedly surprised him. At the elongated table that dominated Wakefield Hall sat the Malforcrent but not in their usual fashion. Four advisors, those of Fortright Isles, Dekenna, Whismerl, and Broze were on his left hand side. The other four were on the right with the twins closest to him and Misren sitting across from Marylyn. Picking up his pace once more, he approached the table and, for the first time, noticed the ornately decorated chair that rested at the head. It wasn’t much as chairs went but seemed to take up just a few more spatial dimensions than those the Malforcrent occupied. Another instance that seemed a little eerie for the king was the deafening silence provided by the seated advisors. A steady flame was burning in the wide fireplace to his right but the crackle echoed all too loudly and Sylvester silently wished that someone would say something or make any kind of noise. As it was, even Misren was silent. There were no plates in front of him and he sat stock-still, staring straight forward. Sylvester could tell he was making Marylyn uncomfortable as she pulled on her earlobes in the way she always did when anyone was talking to her. Confrontation seemed to unsettle her in all regards of the word. Even the aides were silent, as they usually were; they stood against the walls. Misren’s had no plates or dining accoutrements either. Perhaps the seemingly brief time between meetings had disallowed the obese Javal’tan from having his regularly enjoyed meal or meals delivered by someone under order of his region’s tent? For all the pleasure this was giving the king, he could not help but feel a little more delight seeing the likes of Trisden and Brinttal slightly squirm under the ropes of this docile situation. Apparently, whatever the situation, it was serious enough indeed if Trisden was not already shouting about having to sit in such an obedient manner. Sylvester sat finally, suppressing the urge to smile: he was literally and considerably elevated over those that advised him. Somehow, this felt more than okay with him. This felt right. Was it like this before? Back when the Malforcrent had been formed, had they been completely obedient to nothing but a child? Even if he had his kingstone’s knowledge to draw upon, it would contain nothing on how to deal with the present situation. Only one other king had called the Malforcrent, and his mental capacities had been called into question anyway. Across the table – which in this moment seemed entirely too long for any conventional use – was placed an extremely large bouquet of colorful plants. He did not detect any particular scents but Sylvester got the slightest impression that the bouquet was doing something besides balancing out the surface of the table. Was it attentive? The king simply could not know or spend any more time pondering the colorful plants, flowers, and pottery that housed them. Refocusing on those at hand, Sylvester cleared his throat and finally spoke. “What is the present emergency, my Malforcrent?” None answered. Did they appreciate or loathe being referred to as his Malforcrent? And should I truly worry over any potential offense? He didn’t know but pressed the question again, leaning forward as he asked. Trisden began to shift in his seat, bringing forth the idea that the problem related to his academy. True, it was not the only academy that was erected within the borders of the kingdom but it was the largest and it was the only place where kings were generally crafted. But that would not have been the case as their seating arrangement would not have changed as wholly as it had. Trisden was a forced participant. Brinttal, Sylvester knew, was also in the same pen. The pair looked like it was trying to make eye contact but was afraid in carrying out such an action. It was Misren whom spoke then, with a slight gurgle and a gentle wheeze. “There is a problem hailing from my own region, your kingship.” There was a pause as he took a deep breath and continued but, again, without clearing his throat to work out the gurgled echo of voice. “A municshipal’s governa’, the count of Boosht within the Sheegulf Islandsh, hash shent messhage to Ten’ Copely of ackt-e-ons he aim to perfor’ ant, in all like’hood, hash ak-reedy garried out.” The words were becoming noticeably garbled and it was Dothel of all people who leaned forward and said “Misren, perhaps you should drink a beverage to clear your throat?” Misren nodded once and continued to sit there. He said nothing more but his breathing continued as if labored. The Javal’ta aides exchanged glances and one of them, with confusion and slight horror on their face, rushed over to the refreshment table near the Halls’ entrance. He poured a liberal amount of the precious water and hurried it to his employer. The scene made Sylvester a little uneasy. Is this how these advisors always treat their own aides? If so, how do they treat their regional citizens? Do they all scamper with a layer of fear on their costume, spilling drops of clean water in the process and hoping their lords don’t notice? Before Sylvester could focus further on it, the goblet was in front of Misren and he grabbed it and forcibly dumped a portion of the contents into his maw of a mouth. Once he swallowed, Dothel nodded, sat back, and Misren continued with a more understandable diction. “In all likelihood, this count has already carried out his threatened actions.” Silence again, seemingly unnecessary since most of those present had already understood that much. Trisden looked as if he had wanted to say something and Sylvester started to ask of his opinion but Dothel, again, leaned forward and asked “What exactly does this Count Roost claim to have the power to do?” “He is named Count Roost,” started Misren, as if Dothel hadn’t already stated the name plainly. Obviously, the man from Whismerl was very knowledgeable even of island governors outside his own region! “He says that he has put into motion the means for Cursing a large portion of the kingdom, if not all of it at once.” Cursing? Sylvester knew of cursing but only in the sense of using offensive language directed towards another body possessed of an incapable mind. It was the king’s turn to lean forward slightly. “He plans to verbally offend all of Decennia?” Brinttal sighed dramatically and Trisden covered his face with his hands and proceeded to rub his temples with his thumb and forefinger. The Fortright Islander spoke up. “Syl- Sir. Your highness. A Curse is more than just something offensive. It is a… legitimate form of Magik.” “Magik?” His mind tingled slightly at the mention of Magik, as it always did when mentioned by a Malforcrent member. Sylvester knew it was only a matter of time and dwindling chances that the advisors would learn of the kingstone and its present weakness. He knew it was grounds for a potential usurping. He knew that a conversation centered upon Magik was not one he should be actively taking part in. Sylvester leaned back then, propping himself on one elbow and using that hand to cover and gently rub over his precious and useless kingstone. “Yes, Magik, good king.” What’s with all the flattery? Trisden’s vocabulary was a little disturbing but the present topic was more unsettling so he ignored it. “Magik has been known to be used for more than just cooking, cleaning, and the occasional healing process. Magik can be used for more sinister purposes.” Brinttal interjected then. “It can be used to dramatically alter or even destroy a person’s life.” Misren continued to sit and stare forward while Marylyn seemed to shrink away from the table, moment by moment. “In the case of Cursing, Magik can be used to curb one person’s path in ways they cannot control. For instance, perhaps, a Curse that makes a person jump when someone says the word ‘corporeal’.” “Or even a Curse,” continued Trisden “that causes you to write in another language.” “Or a Cursing of Truth” stated Dothel. Trisden exchanged glances with the usually silent man and Sylvester, in a mental aside, was attempting to remember how many times Dothel had spoken in other meetings. Did the fact that this was an emergency meeting make him more talkative? “Yes. And there are Curses that alter physical anatomy or mental conditions or even circumstance outside of a person’s body. The point is they are not to be dealt with lightly as not everyone has the privilege of Cursing others” said Trisden. Privilege, thought Sylvester. Privilege? He wondered how anyone could denote the act of altering someone’s existence as a privilege. “How does someone go about Cursing someone else?” asked Marylyn. Obviously, as revealed by her question, she did not know too much about the abstraction of Cursing either. Brinttal cleared his throat to answer. “A prerequisite is the fact that whoever is casting said Curse is Cursed as well.” Sylvester’s mind jumped at the possibility to seem like he was paying attention and also to present that he thought of such questions. “If that’s the case, then who cast the first Curse? The very first one?” He suppressed a smile but felt proud of his observational speculation. “No one knows the origins of Cursing” said Trisden. Dothel cleared his throat. Trisden continued. “But Curses can be Reversed. Almost always.” “So this… Count Roost is Cursed with what exactly?” All eyes turned to Misren as he had brought up the initial circumstance. The large man continued to sit and said nothing. Dothel cleared his throat again and spoke up. “Uh, I don’t know if that’s, uh, relevant, but if what Misren says is true, then we might have a problem to deal with.” “Well, if it can be Reversed, what’s the problem?” Sylvester was beginning to wonder the purpose of this meeting. Was it to inform the king of this potential upriser down south or to make him knowledgeable about more lethal Magiks… or both? He was getting a little worried and with worry came suspicion. Just who was running this show? Was Trisden playing a strange game or was someone else stringing the sail? His mind tingled again but not because of the overt talk of Magik; it was his mental analogy to the wind sail, which brought forth his briefly forgotten nightmares. Which served to make him lean back and decide to merely listen further; he was without knowledge here. “The Reverse has to be set by the caster or, in some rare cases, can only be achieved upon the caster’s death. If the Curse is devastating enough to affect the whole of Decennia, then there’s also the chance that all of our people will be too affected to even attempt the Reverse.” Brintall’s clarification made sense to Sylvester, as did the seriousness of the situation. He felt foolish then for voicing the earlier statement alluding to Cursing in the form of obscene vocabulary. Is there such a Curse? Can someone be Cursed to only curse? He shook the question away and plowed forward. “So what is our option then and what exactly is this Roost fellow planning to Curse us all with?” Misren then spoke up once again, much to Sylvester’s relief. The king felt the Javal’tan had been quiet for far too long at this point. “Count Roost has not specified his Curse but if he has already cast it, an amount of time is required for it to complete itself. Curses of such magnitude require extensive time to mature though an absolute timeframe is not available at this moment.” Up until this point, the Ghin’ra twins had been silent but Sylvester noted more than blank knowledge on their faces: they seemed a little afraid. Did they have a reason to fear the properties of Magik as well? It only reminded the king of their unique situation. It was while making this observation that Foyle risked a glance in Sylvester’s direction and could not help but maintain eye contact. His throat then moved as if he was attempting to swallow something small and Pocquet turned towards her brother and then the king. Sylvester broke eye contact with the man to look towards the woman but she had already turned her gaze again towards the conversation. When he refocused on Foyle, the advisor was doing the same as his sister, staring into the storm of words and propositions. Sylvester wanted to continue with the little distraction in part to stay away from the main topic but also to get a little hint of what was going on beneath the surface of the twins. Dothel then cleared his throat again and the king’s attention was fully restored for the sake of the meeting. “Uh, sire, we may not know what Misren has to report on Count Roost’s personal situation but the Curse he aims to cast – or has already cast – on the kingdom is something we need to garner more information about, if none is already in hand or mind.” He then glared almost menacingly at Misren and the obese advisor drank from his goblet once more and pressed on with whatever else he had to report from his native region in regards to the Seagulf Islands. Briefly, Sylvester wondered why the Seagulf formations were considered islands and the ones of Fortright were isles. This was hardly the time or venue in which he could ask so he adopted listening ears and kept the question to himself. “Count Roost of Boost revealed towards my sources that a Reverse has already been set. That means the Curse has already been cast and that the Reverse can be carried out to halt such drastic actions.” Silence ensued. Everyone waited for Misren to continue with what exactly the Reverse was. Sylvester was growing a little impatient with the proceedings and could see similar judgments on the faces of other Malforcrent members. Trisden looked the worse for wear, as if he was ready to go through Kren to get to Dothel for an honest throttling. Sylvester pondered again about not only this meeting but all others before it and how the Malforcrent usually behaved. He could not remember a time when they were arranged as they presently were. Nor could he remember a time when Dothel spoke so much. In the past, as Sylvester recalled, Trisden usually ran the meetings with Brinttal backing him up at every turn. Marylyn would work hard to stay clean while Misren would work seemingly harder to stay full. The twins rarely offered anything that would pass as helpful advice but they participated more than Dothel ever did. Until this day. This very unusual midday where Dothel was speaking up and Magik was being actively discussed and Sylvester was becoming entirely uncomfortable with the blank territory. Was Dothel up to something? Was he making a move within the Malforcrent? A slightly more offensive thought entered the king’s mind: did Dothel know about the kingstone? Sylvester’s hand went to cover the base of his skull yet again, drawing Dothel’s wandering eye with the movement. Does he know? Outside one of the Hall windows, a bird chirped. It was somewhat rare at these high altitudes but Sylvester could not help but notice it; they were such active parts of his past and acting parts in his nightmares. Dothel looked towards the window too, as if noting the same bird. Was that something he should have noticed, Sylvester wondered? Exchanging quick glances, he deduced that no other advisors made note of the bird chirping outside, so why did Dothel? Trisden stood up then, drawing both Dothel and Sylvester’s attention towards himself. “What is the gootin’ Reverse you slab of a slab?” The shout echoed commandingly around the Hall and finally seemed to find Misren’s ears; the fat man continued. “Count Roost has stated that to stop the nature of his Curse from being carried out, a forest of living chickens is to be created.” That floored Trisden, or more appropriately put him back into his chair. His face was still as red as a cuemfrey. Marylyn, who had finally disappeared from Sylvester’s line of sight due to being nonplussed by Misren’s constatnt staring, spoke up in her barely perceptible voice. “Wha-what’s that mean, Kren? Bri-Brinttal?” Neither men answered. “Trisden?” she called, drawing the blonde haired man’s attention her way. “What’s th-that k-kind of, uh, um, Reverse say – I mean do?” As she spoke, her hands fumbled over themselves. She was evidently more nervous than she was accustomed to. Trisden only shook his head, mouth slightly ajar. No one else optioned the fact that they knew what it meant. Somehow, Sylvester was not too surprised when Dothel cleared his throat to speak. Misren took a small gulp of water as if about to say something but Dothel spoke first. “Perhaps, your lordship, fellow advisors, perhaps it means, ah, that someone has to do exactly what is stated, maybe?” His actions were not very convincing. Sylvester assumed he knew exactly what the statement meant and was behaving as if he were speaking to a group of unintelligible adolescences. Sylvester leaned forward then, moving slightly beyond the fear of sounding off without knowledge. “And exactly what does that mean, op Prissen?” The tone was not mistaken as all others of the Malforcrent seemed to stiffen of spine. Sylvester liked the action but couldn’t explain why. Is it the synchronization of it all or that fact that a small amount of fear rested behind it? He didn’t know which answer he preferred but didn’t find himself dwelling on the thought. He had achieved a small goal; a victory. Sylvester had addressed someone by their last name only, a sign of utter dominance and knowledge over not only the person being spoken too but their entire familial bloodline. The suspicions that rested behind this meeting had drawn it out of the king and he was glad such a subtle yet effective means of enforcement was within his social grasp. And besides, no one would call a bluff against such an idea as the king not having the knowledge and power of an entire bloodline. He was still the king, after all. The effect was seen most clearly on Dothel’s face; there was more than a tinge of fear. Sylvester could not place it but it seemed like shock coalesced with… pain? The man from Whismerl stammered slightly and looked at the table before continuing. “I think, your highness, sir, that what Misren has told us is all there is to the matter. A forest of chickens – living chickens – has to be fashioned somehow.” Kren spoke up for the first time then. Apparently, he was uncomfortable with talks of Magik as well; otherwise he would have been in the thick of it like Dothel and Trisden. “And how is that, Dothel?” He obviously felt a certain sympathy for the man as Kren had failed to take up on the notion of addressing Dothel by his bloodline’s name, as sanctioned by the crown. Sylvester made a mental note on this fact as Kren continued. “How is a forest of living chickens to be created? Such a notion is assuredly absurd to say the least!” Sylvester had to agree partially: the least to be said was that the idea was downright insane. His mind boggled on the notion of such a feat. He directed himself towards Misren, hoping that Dothel would not intercept the king as Sylvester feared he might. “Misren, was there any specification from your sources that might elaborate on how such an act is to be carried out?’ Misren sat still. Marylyn could be heard finally scooting her chair to her left, closer to the oft forgotten bouquet, so as to move from his line of sight. The man stared forward though and failed to react to the loud scraping sounds generated by the chair against the stone flooring. Sylvester began to wonder if the councilman was well. As thoughts on the man’s condition began to blossom in the king’s head, a sound could be heard from below the table. It sounded like a liquid had spilled onto the floor near Misren but no one but Misren had possessed a goblet. A familiar odor entered the air and Sylvester knew exactly what the liquid was that had been spilled: Misren apparently had just ejected his amber fluids. Brinttal backed away from Misren first, bumping slightly into Foyle, who in turn bumped into Pocquet. Brinttal then stood up and cursed viciously as he pulled a small cloth glove from his robe’s inner pocket and began to wipe his thick sandals. Dothel went to the other side of Marylyn before he bodily moved over the table to stand next to Misren. Dothel pushed Misren away from the table and Misren chose that moment to fall unconscious. Sylvester, still seated and thankfully free of the splattered liquid beneath the table, looked at all members of the Malforcrent. Of all of them, only Trisden seemed to look truly angry. The monarch could only guess that it had something to do with a member of the esteemed Malforcrent losing control of his body in the middle of a meeting. An emergency meeting of all things. An emergency meeting that looked more and more out of his control, especially when Dothel stood up straight and said “I believe we shall postpone this meeting’s finale or ending or what have you for when Misren of Uv-Hr… ah, Javal’ta is capable of understanding the actions, uh, carried forth – out – by other members of the—of the Malforkent—Malforcrent!” Sylvester was glad to object but Trisden beat him to it and stood in the process for good measure, elevating his voice even. “No, Dothel of Whismerl. No, sir! This emergency meeting summoned by Misren will continue with or without the man.” Sylvester didn’t understand the reason for emphasizing Misren’s name but was glad to see someone think along his same lines of reason. “We will decide, as a group, what action will be carried out. Forget Misren. He will be briefed upon obtaining consciousness.” Dothel looked panicked but could do nothing more of the matter as Trisden called for a quick and decisive vote by the Malforcrent and the majority passed. Even Marylyn liked the idea of continuing but Sylvester suspected it was only because she could pay attention now that Misren was not constantly staring at her. Only Kren Solarpaste had aligned with Dothel. The Whismerlian could only walk around the table, going the long path, and finding his seat. Sylvester, for a moment, was distracted once again by the large bouquet of plants. He wondered if the aides against the walls appreciated how the large bouquet balanced the action of the table in relation to the room. He then realized he was purposefully letting his mind wander to detract from the subject at hand and Sylvester readjusted his attention. After all, he finally had someone like Trisden in his corner. “A forest of living chicken” said Trisden. Sylvester nodded though he wasn’t entirely certain as to why. “Obviously, a form of Magik has to be involved. Not all Curses, your majesty, require Magik to operate the Reverse but in this case, the only way to craft a forest of live chickens seems to be with Magik.” The twins nodded in conjunction with the logic of it. Marylyn leaned forward to look down the table at Sylvester. She was taller now too as she was clearly sitting with her folded legs beneath her; she did not want any of Misren’s fluids upon her booting. “Sir, perhaps we are to trim an already-existing forest into the likeness of chickens? Or the shape of one large chicken?” Trisden waved his hand at the suggestion. “No, that couldn’t be it, Mary. If it was something so simple…” “It’s Marylyn, actually.” There was a pause at her statement which made even Sylvester sit up and ask “I’m sorry? What’re you referring to?” Marylyn squared her shoulders away, took a deep breath, and looked at the king. “My name is Marylyn, sir. Not Mary.” Sylvester wished then that he had let Dothel ask the question; this gentle hostility would then be directed towards him. Apparently, of all the things that Marylyn would put up with, being referred to by anything besides her actual name was something none too crisp. Trisden dipped his head towards the table slightly. “Begging apologies, madam.” The madam bowed with a smile and Sylvester snagged a subtle sneer from Pocquet’s thin-lipped face as directed towards Marylyn. What was that about, he wondered? Trisden’s continuance discerned that thought. “But what I was about to say is that such a solution as that would be entirely too simple with a Curse so drastic. We’re looking for a Magik remedy; a way to get this Reverse done as quickly as possible, if it’s even possible.” Sylvester started thinking about Curse Reverses and wondered if there might be some that were deemed impossible to perform. He wanted to immediately ask about them but knew it would sidetrack the current topic, of which he wanted to be done and over with. Marylyn seemed to accept that answer despite the fact that it came from Trisden. She set herself on her haunches and rested her forearms on the table, no longer working her hands about each other. Trisden appeared then to be thinking, pulling softly on his lower lip as if he wanted to make sure everyone knew he was within ponders. Dothel resigned to leaning back. He looked as dejected as ever. Misren was sprawled unsightly against his chair with his neck hung over the back of it, his head turned away. Sylvester could not see it but imagined the man’s tongue to be dangling from his mouth, like a canine of sorts. Brinttal also appeared to be thinking within the same realm as Trisden and had the furrowed brow to prove it. Even Marylyn was now silent and appeared to be mentally examining possibilities despite her initial response being clipped from the skies like a gilltain. Trisden was the first to propose the suggestion; Magik dripped off of his solution. “We could employ one of the Freezing Clans for our cause.” Sylvester sat back to stroke his softened beard and became aware of, for the first time since the meeting, the awkward crown on his head: it had shifted with his movement just then. Freezing Clans, Sylvester knew, were groups of people who had the hefty task of Freezing blocks of water to be delivered and installed in the various dwellings of more than half of the citizens of Decennia. Delivered, that was, to those who did not have ready access to the few waterways of the land. The blocks were temporarily guarded against melting in accordance with their distanced destination and their Clansmen. Ordinarily, a holding device called a holster was built into the upper reaches of different types of dwellings and structures. The holster was fitted with pipes and chutes, all built from any number of materials, that snaked their way through the buildings, providing a variant of running water whenever it might be needed. The holsters were reloaded on a periodic basis by the same members of the same Freezing Clans. Sylvester did not know any finer details but had an idea what Trisden was referring to. “Are you suggesting, Trisden, that we consign a Freezing Clan to literally Freeze a flock of chickens?” Trisden nodded. Dothel sighed heavily. Misren snored and a tremor subtly ran through the stone flooring. “That would be well and good, Triss, except for one thing.” Trisden raised his eyebrows towards Dothel and Sylvester felt a flash of anger towards the Whismerlian; namely, his shortening of the Islanders name without the king setting such a precedent. “Misren reported to us that the Reverse required a forest of living chickens. A Freezing Clan could not help in any way. Not with their aged devices.” The king frowned a little and felt bold enough to ask the question. “Why won’t that help us out, Doth?” He hoped the abbreviation of Dothel’s name would not go unnoticed by Trisden. As it was, the Fortright Islander nodded towards the king and Sylvester felt a soft flush of appreciation. “Because, my lordship, Freezing Clans use literal Freezing Magik; they turn the water to ice. That’s how their business works. If they didn’t work that way, then water wouldn’t be as available as it is now. Even they have preventative measures for ensuring that fish do not get caught in their water blocks. For one thing, a client would become agitated if they unlatched their pipe and a fish or waterweed popped out. Secondly, they strive against Freezing living creatures in general so even if they had the proper devices of Magik, they would most likely be against helping us.” “Even under order of the crown, young Dothel?” Dothel let out a slight breath and Sylvester saw the corners of Trisden’s mouth pull upwards. He felt like doing the same thing. “Well, of course, your highness. The Freezing Clans, along with any other public interest group, would be more than willing to follow a ruling of the crown. But the notion of Freezing chickens this way won’t help out the kingdom in the long run.” The king went for the wrist then. “You certainly know a great deal about Magik and Freezing Clans in general, Dothel op Prissen.” The twins exchanged glances and Foyle’s eyes briefly glanced over Sylvester’s. They did not meet for more than a moment. Dothel sat up as if stung. “Sire, the Magik of Freezing, though a protected practice, originated within the borders of Whismerl. And it has often been reported as being one of the factors that speak towards our nation’s prosperity. We have no people dying of thirst in this land, which is known for its weak dispersion of waterways. My people are proud to carry that distinction.” There was a pause that felt almost unhealthy. “Your highness.” Sylvester was not sure why but he felt guilty for attempting to provoke the man. Obviously, he was part of a greater heritage than the king had assumed. Kren was nodding next to Dothel, as was Marylyn. They felt some kind of sympathy for him, Sylvester guessed. Would Misren be nodding if he were conscious and of full bladder? This emergency meeting was something that was making Sylvester’s mind race. His personal thoughts and slight allegiances had been somehow tested and pulled and he was not sure if it was good or bad. Before even this session with the Malforcrent, Sylvester had assumed Trisden was nothing more than an opportunist with sights on the crown; that Dothel had not cared for progression for the sake of the kingdom; that Misren cared for nothing more than progressing his own gravitation. In just this one meeting, Sylvester felt more lost and unsure than ever. Facets were turning and he didn’t like it. This meeting, as he had guessed due to its surprising nature, was certainty within his disfavor. He wanted it to end. But this rogue governor, this Count Roost, had apparently put a call of challenge against the kingdom, threatening the crown and the people loyal to it which was obviously everybody, indeed. A forest of living chickens? Sylvester had never heard of such a thing. He knew that Magik was something powerful though. It was the only reason he was here. Magik was the only reason he existed. He huffed and leaned forward, resting his palms on his kneecaps. This action grabbed the attention of the Malforcrent, minus Misren. “Malforcrent, this problem needs to be solved, no matter the level of ridiculousness. Is it safe to say that this Count Roost is offering up a legitimate threat? Can he truly Curse my kingdom?” All eyes exchanged contact with each other with most landing on Dothel: he did seem to have some grasp on viable answers. Dothel spoke up. “We can send markers of the crown to verify the situation but it might be safer to assume that Roost is substantial in threat and action.” “If that’s the case, advisors, what’re we to do? It sounds like a technical nature resides inside Magik and therefore cannot call on a Freezing Clan for our purposes. What other options do we have?” No one spoke. No one even looked around this time. The birds, Sylvester absently noticed, had stopped chirping outside and he missed the external distraction. He wished Misren had remained awake; he might have had a suggestion at least. Whatever gods listened to thoughts of privy must have been listening then for Misren finally did stir. He was not pleased about his current situation though. Misren began to shout a bit, startling his aides into action. “Where am I?” he bellowed, knocking over his goblet finally. He went to catch it, missed it as it rolled over the lip of the table. He bent wholly to the side to retrieve it and adopted a cross look. Sylvester guessed it was because he touched the expelled liquids still sitting below. Misren pulled his hand up with a disgruntled face, sniffed the substance on his hand, and his eyes nearly bulged. He apparently then felt the wetness of his seating area and stood up, throwing his chair behind him and knocking that into one of his aides. He stormed readily out of Wakefield Hall without dismissal, wailing about how he wished he knew what was going on. Dothel and Trisden appeared to be sharing a laugh like they knew something of what rested behind Misren’s actions. It was quite comical in nature though and most likely brought out these tense shutters of laughter. Sylvester stood then and said, “Men and women, with that, we adjourn.” Advisors began to protest but Sylvester hushed them with a slight action of his hand. “No, this will end now. We will resume tomorrow, early, when all are bodily accounted for. By then, I expect a plan of action that we’re to follow, yes?” The Malforcrent agreed reluctantly and Sylvester gave one last, curt nod. He left, entering the foyer of the Hall and breathed the sweet, clean air. Sylvester had not noticed how sour it had begun to smell in there. He wondered if it was because of more than just the urine. |
| Tuette awoke. It was midnight or somewhere close. She could not tell; the moon was not visible from this vantage in her home. It was an optimal time for the sorceress; without sunlight, she could wander about freely, not having to worry about covering each strand of hair on her head and body. As such, there was not an hour of day that went by in which she verbally cursed her Cursing mentor. She hated wearing the hoods and shawls and general head dressings: they itched something horrible most of the time, especially when she was exerting herself. Feeling well-rested once more, she took a deep breath and nearly gagged. The stench of burning leaves and wood still clung to her clothing and most likely had latched onto her bedclothes. She would have to Wash it out. She was thankful to be perched on the edge of a lake for more than once in her traveling life. Lifting herself from the surface of the bed, Tuette stood, stretching her muscles, allowing various joints to pop like a soft fire, ever mindful that the floorboards were still damp from the lake water. She removed the bedclothes, leaving the makeshift mattress bare, and proceeded towards the door. Running her hand over the thick nail head in the center of the door, she noted its coolness which was the telltale sign that no humans were nearby. It was merely another Charm that she had procured from her teacher that she currently was thankful to have retained. But the Charm was not perfect: it could only tell if a human body was nearby. It was useless near a cemetery or any burial grounds as it tended to always remain warm, glowing red, as if threatening to burn the door from its plastered frame. Tuette knew that such an action would not occur but she didn’t like taking chances. She liked her privacy. Unlatching the door, Tuette exited her swan-shaped home that had aided her unduly for four years. The full face of Estella gracing the sky, allowing for several points of starlight to compliment it nicely. She would have plenty of light to work by. Tuette dropped the bedclothes onto the ground, went around to the rear of her home to open a secured hatch there, and retrieved a wooden basin that was large enough to wash a small child within. She walked to the edge of the lake, dipped the basin into the water partially, and then set the now-heavier item onto the sand. Tuette picked up a fist of sand in one hand and pulled her worn Washing Stone out with the other. In the moonlight, Tuette could see that the Stone was bordering on useless, developing cracks and waning in its luster. It would take a full eleven days, skipping the fourth, to charm a new Washing Stone. She was confident in her wardrobe’s ability to hold out for long periods of time without being Washed. Tuette knew she would fashion such a Stone when morning came; it required the light of dawn anyway. Putting both hands together over the subtly filled basin, Tuette rubbed the sand over the Washing Stone and watched as sand particles fell into the confined water, glowing whitely with their now-Charmed Washing Powder properties. She located a piece of driftwood nearby to stir the water; using her hand would have bleached her skin whereas washing the bedclothes first would dilute the Washing Powder and let her cleanse her skin and clothing all at once later. Tuette deposited the bedclothes into the basin, knowing that the Washing Powder would go to work immediately. She poked the cloth beneath the surface of the water entirely before standing up and surveying the area, pocketing the Washing Stone in the process. The light from the basin dimmed some due to the bedclothes but Tuette still had the bright moonlight, doubly so as the undisturbed surface of the lake crafted a mirrored visage. She wondered distantly if Estella ever grew tired of looking at herself over such bodies of water. Letting the wonder wander, Tuette looked towards her swan-home and the forest around it. In the dark, she could easily spy where the belcarotia had burned out an even darker patch of forestry, just behind and to the right of Tuette’s home. The forest to the left of the dwelling had no blemishes and Tuette was thankful for that much at least: she had always enjoyed the beauty of a serenely planted wood. Her trek through that forest on the previous day – just before the belcarotia attack at least – had been pleasant enough. Tuette’s mind drifted then to the three Mages that she had seen in the forest; the ones that had been burning that large mound of flame-feeding material and risking the eventual summoning of the fire-spreading beast. Why were they doing it? Being Mages, they should’ve known the dangers of harvesting such a Potent flame, shouldn’t they? Perhaps they weren’t Mages. Perhaps their rucksacks were stolen and they were playing with Magik recklessly. But what of the woman who thanked her and then vanished? Tuette did not know. Her knowledge of the belcarotia was limited, as was that of the people in this area, but at least she knew how not to encounter such a dangerous beast. It was information culled from her now-despised teacher. Tuette didn’t like focusing on her mentor but couldn’t help it sometimes. Her current Curse and life-situation was entirely because of that hateful man. She sometimes fancied ideas of going back to him under the guise of begging forgiveness and securing his demise instead. But she knew that was pointless: he was too well guarded by aspects of Magik that Tuette herself aspired for. At least not by herself. But no other Magical will give me the time of day. She silently vowed with each passing day that she would Reverse her Curse though and Corunny Voidet would suffer for his impetuous action against herself. Tuette let those thoughts drift away with hefty breaths. She knew that focusing upon that avenue of action wasn’t helpful if it was constant. And now it would be several months before she had a new Freezing Pote. Tuette clenched her teeth at the lost Pote but again breathed the subtle regret away because she knew that in the long run, she was thankful for the situation. For one thing, she was wholly confident that she could make another Freezing Pote that was as equally effective and it had saved her swan-shaped home. Though it was impervious to the casual torchings and the like, she had no doubt that the belcarotia could have demolished her house with its projectiles of flame. Yes, she knew she had done the right thing in saving her house by Freezing the creature’s embers. And the months, she felt, might pass by more quickly than she anticipated. This time… The basin of water, Washing Powder, and bedclothes began to bubble vociferously then, indicating that no more sods of dirt or grime were left to cleanse. She reached her hand into the water, knowing that her skin would be fine now that the Powder had been dimmed somewhat. Wringing out the cloths, Tuette silently wished for the knowledge that would allow her to not have to exert so much force when performing such a task. After coaxing as much water as possible from the bedclothes, she brought the damp cloth into her home. Tuette then spread the bedclothes on the ground, leaving little space to walk. Skirting the edge of the clean cloth, she reached into a drawer and retrieved a smaller, waterproof slip of thin leather which was wrapped around yet another Stone. This was a Dehydrating Stone or sometimes called a Dehydro Stone. Fashioned in a time when the Charmer is parched entirely of thirst, the frantic properties of the dry mouth are applied to a simple rock, along with some minor chanting and, oddly enough, a large amount of salty water. Tuette had not enjoyed the time it took to craft such a Stone but was thankful that it took less time and required not as much delicate handling to craft it, unlike the Washing Stone and its casual eleven-day commitment. Tuette took the Dehydrating Stone and placed it in the center of the wet blanket. She did not worry about the blanket getting the flooring beneath it wet; the Dehydro Stone would dry that as well. In time, such a Stone could absorb the moisture from an excitingly large area as long as the Stone was either large enough or the area not that damp. A Dehydrating Stone, like a Washing Stone, had a lifespan. This particular Dehydro Stone, Tuette knew, had a lot of time left to its use; it could still absorb a great deal of water. And besides, Tuette knew that she could finally get her still-damp flooring dry before dawn; the stench of the lake water swallowed by the swan would become absent after that. In time. Grabbing a new garment complete with lengthy sleeves and an adequate hood, Tuette exited again, stripped down, and cast her robes and shawl into the basin. She knew it would be a while before the water bubbled due to the Potency being diminished. She threw splashes of the water against her skin, gently massaging the conservative layer of cleaning wetness in. The night air seemed to chill though she knew it was just the wetness forcing her to become more aware of it; moisture tended to possess such observatory properties that made it perfect for cleansing. Tuette put on the new garment, knowing that no one was watching – she spied the colorless doornail before even disrobing – and garbed herself again, thankful for the thicker fabric as the chilly lakeside air had finally coerced a shiver from her. Rubbing warmth through the sleeves into her arms, Tuette walked behind her home. It was slightly warmer but only because of the lingering effects of the forest fire. Also, it smelled awful. Tuette wondered if the stench was due to crisped vegetation or, Valtos forbid, a stray beast had been engulfed by the flames. Tuette also wondered if the stench was any of the three young Mages that had been crisped with such ease. Had the bodies died instantly? Tuette could not recall but placed in her mind the image of one, two, or even all three Mages flailing about, sending swears to the skies above while flaming from head to toe. The belcarotia wandered listlessly around them, smiling that faint flicker-grin it possessed. Tuette shivered at the imagined scene. She was mindful that it had not occurred that way; she knew they had died almost instantaneously. She also felt that the manufactured memory should somehow stay with her, reminding her that her very presence was what probably brought about the turn of events. Tuette was Cursed after all. Shaking those thoughts away as well, Tuette stepped onto the blazed-away path of the forest, feeling the crunches beneath her soles. It reminded her of the times when she traveled in the northern snowy patches of Whismerl, when she had first started her Apprenticeship. Just after leaving home. Tuette, with a twinge of regret, missed her early life just then. Time with her small family and friends and fellow residents of New Opal had been good for Tuette while growing up. They had been stable some times and adventurous others. She had had a marked future back then. With remembrance, Tuette thought of times when she took small treks through the rocky outcroppings just west of New Opal. They were the tapered remains of the Selenqual Range that ended – some conjectured began – with Mount Reign. As New Opal was almost nearly at the base of the throne of the king, the large town was always relegated to provide for Fyse Castle what could not be readily crafted by the residents of the mountain. Namely, New Opal provided shoes to the crown. And Tuette’s father had been the managerial body behind the family-owned business that created those shoes. They were the best of the region, if not of Decennia entirely, and everyone knew it. But Tuette wanted no part of that business. She had learned of Magik, despite the minimal impact it had on her own young day-to-day life. Tuette recognized early on Magik how could be compounded for greater effects and prove more beneficial than the simple cleaning agents and healing liquids that were generally marketed in some regions. It was during once such remembered trek that Tuette had told her father that she would not be entering into the shoe business. It was then that her father told her that service to the crown could not be denied. She continued to state her own purposes for the kind of future she wished to lead. He concluded with forcing her into a shaming exile. “If you will not follow your blood born path, you will have to seek out a new one. Away from New Opal,” he said with no expression on his face but contempt. Tuette’s mother did nothing to ease the situation which only angered Tuette more. She could not help but hold the betrayal deep inside. She decided that she could not trust her family then or the crown that forced such labors. Not even — There was a crack then that halted Tuette’s bitter remembrance. A snapping branch as if under the weight of someone’s foot. Tuette’s mind flittered to the mysterious woman from the day before and she instantly grew afraid as she knew nothing of what the woman intended with Tuette. She had given thanks for something unspecified and left. Still, Tuette could not deny the fear. There was another snapping of twig: soft but closer. Tuette did a mental survey of her current possessions: she had her thick robe and the Washing Stone that she had transferred from the other rankled dress. She was away from the Charmed seeds that she always littered to perform a crude perimeter of passive defense; it would do little to stop harm anyway. The seeds planted commonly enjoyed images, like instantly recalled yet faded memories, in the forefront of anyone’s mind. Swans were greatly used in the images so that when someone stumbled across Tuette’s home, they would not be so alarmed as to want to destroy it or even investigate the unique structure. Other than the length of driftwood that she had decided to carry as means of a guiding stick through the darkened wood, she had nothing else of use on her. Tuette silently swore at herself for being so careless as to begin a nighttime trek without anything more than a Charmed Stone, a stick, and her fading wits. “There is no cause for alarm, sorceress.” Despite the assuring tone of the feminine voice and the message it conveyed, Tuette couldn’t help but feel her level of alarm heighten; sinister perpetrators tended to adopt reassuring guises. Though she was not skilled in wielding many weapons, Tuette hefted the driftwood with both hands. The weight was light, the surface smooth, the shape slightly irregular: it curved outwards. It would be of little defensive use. She knew there were Spells or chants that could assist in Charming the stick with helpful energy but she didn’t know what any of those Magik rituals were. Tuette thought she might try but such an attempt might prove as ailing to her as she wished it to be towards her Potential attacker. The voice in the night then called out, much closer, to Tuette’s right. “Sorceress, I only wish…” She swung her stick in that direction, striking a tree and dropping the stick; the vibrating wood was too much for her hands to manipulate. The woman stepped out of the shadowy forest to the left, causing Tuette’s heart to pick up a quicker pace. The thumping of blood in her ears nearly threatened to drown out anything the stranger might have to say. Tuette was ready to charge the body with her own. If I can rush the woman into that tree, I might knock the wind from her, giving me time to run back and find something more powerful to wield — “Madam Sorceress,” she said with arms held in front of her but with the backs of her hands facing Tuette, implying she had no malice behind the Potentially disarming stance. Tuette witnessed the act and immediately slackened her position. This strange woman knew the honorable form of acknowledgement amongst strange but friendly Magikals. Tuette could also see there were no bracings or wristlets upon the woman’s arms, another aspect of the greeting: this woman was as equally as powerless as Tuette was. On the surface at least. “Who are you?” Tuette asked without preamble. “My name is Fy’tay om Yett, resident ta of Zharinna, which is to the immediate west.” Tuette relaxed a bit more; she knew a ta to be a trained Magikal, almost always practicing the healing properties of Magik. “Ta Fy’tay, how is the night?” Tuette asked, knowing that her voice still carried the tremble that served as portent of her very recent fear. “I am well, as is this night. And yourself, Madam Sorceress? How are you?” Tuette realized she had not given her name. “I am Tuette, Lady Ta. Apart from the fear you generated inside me, I am good. Just washing a garment next to the lake.” She paused then, applying an ear towards the body of water, listening to see if the basin was bubbling yet. She didn’t want the Washing Powder to attack yet another of her robes as that tended to happen if left alone for too long. She continued then, refocusing on Fy’tay, noting that the ta had not moved. “And checking the area. I’m new. And don’t like surprises.” Fy’tay smiled. “So I see.” She then took a slow step forward, entering fully into the blazed-away path. Tuette absently thought of the idea of using belcarotia to burn clean the clustered and overgrown parts of the Nementor Paths. But she assumed the beasts could not be tamed to perform as such and let the idea drift away. Fy’tay said “Tuette what? Just Tuette? No title or… area of expertise? No family name?” Tuette grimaced. As Fy’tay had been upfront with title and stance, she had expected Tuette to compliment the social gesture. But Tuette could honestly give very little. She was at a point in her life where she could not remember her own family’s name, just a general impression of consonants. She had gone by “just Tuette” for so long – fours years alone while Cursed and she could not unerringly recall when she was banished before that – that it hardly seemed to matter what it was. She did have a title though; technically, at least. She responded finally. “Yes, just Tuette, Apprentice.” In principle, she was but a mere Apprentice though she gathered that she knew a deal more than common Apprentices of the day. Tuette had garnered the information mostly on her own though, in the quartet of years she had spent Charming her way from place to place, both literally and figuratively: it took quite a bit of charisma for an established community to welcome an outsider. Especially in these ambiguous times. “Ah, an Apprentice.” Fy’tay frowned slightly, a movement only detected by the reflection of Estella on her pronounced cheekbones. “Traveling alone? Where is your teacher, young Apprentice?” she asked while clasping her own hands and tilting her head to the side. She sounded as if she were talking to an infant. Or a figgy pup. Tuette suppressed a shout of anger. This ta had expressed caution in approaching Tuette but now that she learned she was but a “mere Apprentice” and “just Tuette”, she felt she could dominate the Cursed woman. Cursed. This woman, a confessed Magikal, did not yet know that Tuette was Cursed. There was still hope for her concerning the notion of taking refuge in Zharinna. She decided it was as good a place as any as Tuette recalled Zharinna to only be a day’s hike from Opal, the seminally abandoned grounds of her own ancestors, before they had all moved to where New Opal was now, on the other side of Mount Reign. She lost perspective for a moment when she realized how close her home was just now. The other side of the mountain. Tuette didn’t have to look back to know it was less than a week away. A short hike when a new life was that much closer. But she knew she could not have that life. Tuette knew she could not even entertain the notion because Cursed as she was, the citizens of New Opal would never accept her. Even if she apologized to her father and was forgiven wholly. Even if she gave up the life she had been aspiring for. No, she knew that she had to first enable the Curse Reverse before she could even tickle her mind with fancies of returning to that other existence; that available life. Giving Fy’tay her complete attention again, Tuette crossed her arms before she answered, mirroring the Ta’s own tilted head. She decided to not let as much sarcasm drip into her remark because she knew she somewhat needed this woman’s knowledge of the area. And if she could help Tuette gain acceptance with the other Zharinnans, then all the better. “My teacher recently demonstrated some knowledge of lofty Curses. They scared me somewhat because I know that Curses are dangerous.” It was not that far from the truth, she decided, but the crucial element was that the Ta believed it. Fy’tay pursed her lips, lowered her eyelids gently and nodded, unfolding her arms in the process. Bubbling was heard in the distance and Tuette looked back, starting to move in that direction. She heard Fy’tay behind her, the distinctive crunching of frozen embers resoundingly doubly as a result. Once they left the frozen path, Fy’tay remarked “That was a fairly powerful Pote you used back there.” Tuette kept her smile hidden. She knew it had been powerful but acknowledgement from another wielder of Magik made her feel that much more secure about her abilities. “Yes, it took a couple months to craft wholly. With the help of a friend. By myself, it’ll probably demand three or four months to manufacture.” “More people helping with the process means less time for the crafting?” the ta asked once Tuette reached the bubbling basin. She reached in, letting the bubbles tickle her hand gently. Pulling out the robe and beginning to wring out the water, Tuette frowned inwardly: should a ta not already know that the more people that contributed to crafting a Pote meant less time was required? “Uh, yeah, more people, less… time, that sort of… thing” Tuette said while coaxing the water from the garment. “Didn’t you say you were a, ah, ta?” Fy’tay smiled then, letting a slight laugh escape through her teeth like beaten prisoners through broken bars: it landed clumsily on Tuette’s ears, making her concern rise up again. “I am a ta that specializes in healing meditations and herbal husbandry. I know almost nothing of medicinal liquids except that water should be ingested with almost all pain relieving herbs. Or a nice shot of Gryden stiff.” She smiled again. The explanation put Tuette at ease though not entirely. Glancing over Ta om Yett’s shoulder, Tuette spied the telltale doornail. It was not muted anymore but was a subtle blue which contrasted nicely with the darkwood door and the now-cloud covered moon: there was definitely only one human nearby. Fy’tay must have noticed the glance even in the waning light for she turned and looked as well. When she noticed what Tuette was looking at, she turned wholly and began to walk towards the door of Tuette’s swan as if in interest. Panic at the woman wanting to possibly enter Tuette’s home filled the Cursed sorceress. What was she doing? To stop the woman, Tuette thought only of what had already occurred between the pair, including the day before. “Why did you thank me?” That stopped the ta in her tracks. She wheeled around swiftly, letting Tuette see that her own robe was contrastingly thin in material: the better to act quickly in. But Fy’tay wore something else on her face, as if panged. Tuette, for reasons unknown, felt certain regret over mentioning it. “My thanks upon yesterday, dear apprentice,” she began, slowly stepping back towards Tuette, “was because you saved Zharinna from that forest fire.” “But those Mages died in the process. If I hadn’t…” “If you hadn’t what? Are you saying you killed them? That they weren’t merely trapped by the fire that scorched them?” Tuette wasn’t sure how to proceed because by the speech of the ta, she also knew nothing of belcarotia. Which might explain why the Mages didn’t know about them either. Tuette had a choice to make then: she could reveal to Fy’tay and possibly all of this more-than-likely Magikal community about a threat deadly enough to caution others against or she could leave the ta in the dark and risk something even more terrible happening to Zharinna in the future. As a sorceress, she was bound to an unwritten law pertaining to aiding other Magikals in the quest for greater knowledge and awareness. As a Cursed creature, revealing the truth heap might cause that knowledge to fall into the wrong hands, crafting a Potential villain who could use the unpredictable power of a belcarotia for the sake of their own agenda. Coughing once and noticing that she was as parched as her Dehydro Stone, Tuette realized that she had not had a drink of anything in a long while. The previous mention of Gryden stiff made her mouth water slightly. One might come in a bit – maybe even a sip of her rare uulota’o – but now she had to do what was noble. She inhaled deeply before exhaling the awaited answer. “The Mages were killed by more than just fire. They were pierced by expansion bolts cast from a belcarotia. Their veins were most likely boiled out by the effect of the beast. A belcarotia only comes forward when a fire is hot enough and concentrated in a single area, much like with what the Mages were doing: they were burning a mound of a size that the smoky creatures most likely yearn for.” Tuette took a breath, finding herself unable to gauge the woman’s reaction to her explanation. “So it was a belcarotia that took the Mages. They were careless or might’ve been summoning one on purpose with hopes of controlling it. I don’t know.” A thought came to her. “I’m sorry if one or all of them were known. What I mean to say, eh, is that if you lost a loved one - in the fire - then I’m sorry.” “And this bella-core-shee-a, it killed those men and then came after you, and your home?” she asked while gesturing behind herself towards Tuette’s swan, noticeably ignoring Tuette’s addendum of sympathies. Tuette nodded. “Uh, it’s a belcarotia, though. Pronounced bell-ka-ROASH-ia. But yes, that’s what happened. Again, I’m sorry...” She let her voice taper as Fy’tay glanced away as if thinking of something important. The clouds decided to stop hiding away Estella, allowing Tuette to see Fy’tay’s eyes soften considerably. The ta stepped forward quickly, grasping Tuette’s shoulders and smiling appreciatively. “Oh, young Tuette, I already know as much!” Tuette felt confusion and a jolt of fear again. What was happening? “What’re you talking about?” Tuette asked frantically. Fy’tay backed away, almost giggling to herself. She then stopped, smoothed the front of her robes and, for the first time, Tuette noticed that she was not carrying the telltale rucksack with her. There had been very little threat to begin with! “I am Fy’tay om Yett, yes, but I am no ta, dear Tuette.” Confusion continued to blossom inside Tuette’s mind. What was truly occurring here? “I am the perryta of Zharinna!” Understanding exploded then and Tuette could not help but shed a little tear. She knew what a perryta was: more than a ta of experiences, a perryta received orders from the maperryta in Gale Marsht personally. But in this region of Uv-Hren – if Tuette had her geography up-to-date – Magik was largely condemned on a public scale. Only in smaller towns and communities could a perryta effectively exist. Compared to a “traditional” town, the perryta was like a mayor. Tuette was extremely thankful to have encountered one and also to have chosen the path of honesty; if she had declined from sharing what she knew, Fy’tay might have made Tuette’s immediate future a bit more complicated. But Tuette felt a small sense of dread then. Of all Magikals in Decennia, most believed that Cursed people carried with them the uncontrolled impulse to entertain malicious activities. A perryta was such a person who would be forced to extricate a Cursed individual, even if they did not follow the same belief about Cursed victims: they had several people’s opinions and fears to consider. Tuette felt then that there could be no hope with anyone in Zharinna. She would charm an egg as soon as she could get away from Fy’tay. If the perryta didn’t behave in a difficult manner. “So, Tuette, I am glad that you chose to speak honestly. And your presence yesterday was actually more fortuitous: those Mages had been instructed with the warnings of belcarotia and, having been banned from acquiring more Magikal scripts, sought revenge against not only their teachers but all of Zharinna.” Tuette’s mind boggled at the idea. Fortuitous? Perhaps with this turn of reality, Tuette could help convince Fy’tay that Cursed people might be helpful to have around. “What is most amazing is how you arranged for the belcarotia to follow you, as without your presence, it would’ve most likely directed itself towards our small community. “That would have been most unfortunate, dear Tuette. Though we have resident Freezing Clansmen, they were all away yesterday and we would have had no defense against such a creature otherwise.” Fy’tay clasped Tuette’s whole hand in both of her own. “Thanks are in great order, Madam Tuette. Many thanks indeed!” Tuette did not know what to say. The events had turned mostly in her favor regardless. And with so many Magik practitioners available, she might be able be craft her Freezing Pote in no time at all. And maybe—finally—be rid of the Curse of the Hood! But if they were to help, the people of Zharinna couldn’t know why. What to tell them? Just because they had Freezers amongst them didn’t mean they could make the Pote any better: the embers were still frozen, even after embracing almost a full day’s light! No, she would have to work cautiously. Hopefully, it would all work out to her benefit and she could finally take a proper position and title within the ranks of those that served the maperryta. Tuette silently thanked Corunny Voidet for the knowledge he shared with her, despite the irony of such gratitude. Perhaps now things would work all the better for Tuette. She bid Fy’tay goodnight and said that she would visit Zharinna first thing after dawn, immediately following her enchanting a new Washing Stone. After setting her clean bedclothes atop the mattress and placing the Dehydration Stone atop her freshened robe, Tuette took stock of her dwindling supplies. In a Magik community, she could easily restock the necessities, such as certain grains, some finer gr’vvel leather, and even a newer jetella edge; her current one was currently in two pieces, resulting in fires produced being diminished in flame. Yes, she would maintain her secret just long enough to get what she needed from Zharinna. One day she could return and give proper thanks. They would be aiding in turning her life around. Perhaps there was something they needed further assistance with as well, like with their Freezers, or maybe she could temporarily teach for them? No, she knew they wouldn’t allow that because anyone, like Perryta om Yett, would only see her as an apprentice. She was not sure how she would repay them but it would be in due course. Tuette almost instantly felt better about her situation, hoping that such feelings would not be instantly contradicted by something dreadful. Something dreadful, like my Curse. |
| Count Roost awoke from yet another variation of the same dreadful dream. He performed his reassuring hand motion then: grabbing one thumb in the other fist, rotating around until he could grab the other thumb with the opposing fist. He continued for several seconds until the chilling effects of the nightmare subsided. Glancing from the end of his bed to the window facing the east, the count glimpsed that the sun had already risen and was almost clear of the seas on the horizon. Someone had failed to wake him on time. He felt a rage then at the incompetence and drew on that to bellow out “What does a governor need to do to get some adequate help on this island?” Something metallic, a goblet most likely, dropped to the floor a few flights down and Roost heard the pattering of awkward feet make their way up the stairwell. He imagined them passing first the room with the wilting plant and then his workroom and now— There was no knock as the youth entered, huffing excitedly. Count Roost did not recognize this boy. “I’ve scared off another one, have I?” The boy didn’t even nod out a confirmation which was verification enough for the count. “What happened to, er, Pestra?” “Petran, sire…” Count Roost raised an eyebrow and the youth took the hint. “Yes, yes, Pestra, sir. Pestra, ah, he couldn’t fittingly arrive today and, uh, he asked, or maybe said that I could come up and, uh, ta-take care of things here. Sir. Count. Sir.” Roost wanted to smile at the boy’s stammering but could not offer himself up as being able to be pleased. “And your name, boy?” he asked instead. The boy, who had to be in his earlier teens, Roost guessed, said, “Uh, Botchael, sir. Or Botch, if you like, or wish. Or like. Sir.” “And Batch Boy, why was I not awakened just before dawn, as instructed?” Roost knew full well that he had not personally instructed the boy to perform the task but thought that if the other had been too cowardly to follow through on his own work, then he should have been as equally competent in bringing the replacement up to speed on how things worked around Castle Tigra Lei. He immediately thought that the incompetence should have been expected since Petran had been too fearful to return; what reason did this new boy have to come back tomorrow anyway? Or the next day? Or the day after that? Roost knew the answer, obviously. It was why the islanders feared him. It was also why he had no need of the cells below ground. The count, as usual, would Curse any dissenter. A lock of Petran’s hair was already in storage. As it was refreshed less than a week ago – a Curse required that any hair used in a casting be nine days fresh from the victim – the boy would feel the repercussions by noon. “Uh, sir, Petr... Uh, Pestra told me that, uh, the old man needed, uh, first, uh…” Roost nodded and waved any further explanation away. Of course he had been tied up taking care of the old man. The dying man. The man that should, by all accounts and action, already be dead. Maybe if he was already dead, I could’ve moved on by now. But no. The count churned internally a little. He scooted to the side of his bed, dipped his feet into his thin yet comfortable slippers, and stood up, allowing a cacophony of popping joints to rattle throughout the room. Botch looked as if he had no idea what to do next. “Boy, Batch, my breakfast. And morning Jule-cor stiff. Fetch them.” Botch nodded and fled from the room. The count then moved to the cracked mirror on the wall. It reflected a lazy angle of the bedroom window and rebounded little sunlight into the room. He looked at himself, letting the crack pass diagonally across his face: it felt appropriate. Staring back at himself was a man of bedraggled black hair, trimmed neatly around the ears and at the base of the skull. It was ordinary to maintain a longer cut in this region but Roost felt himself as anything but ordinary. His eyes still looked tired – he hadn’t slept soundly – but still retained their spark-crazy malice that was hardly ever conveyed with a baby blue hue. He rubbed his stubbly face, knowing he would shave himself in a bit as he did not trust anyone else to do it for him: not with his history anyway. Roost stood up straight, noting his trimmed physique but feeling bulkier for reasons privately known. He popped the joints in his fingers then, except for his thumbs; there was no point as they never sounded off. Scents wafted up the tower’s stairwell. It was some type of egg being fried up for the count. Botch already has the advantage of learning from Petran’s mistakes. Obviously, the failed youth had shared as much as he could. Roost then imagined Botch frantically moving about belowground when he realized the sun had already risen and he hadn’t awakened the lord of the castle due to the boy having to clean up after the invalid: it made him smile. Roost then moved through the doorway and started down the steps to stop off in his workroom. Puze, like always, was in his glass-mesh cage. So pathetic, thought the count with a stitched sneer. As the cage was not fastened to its respective workbench, Count Roost hoisted it up into the air with ease – the glass threads were hollow – and shook the contraption around. The tiny creature inside made barely a sound. “Wake up, little Puze!” Roost shouted, feeling his own breath pass through the cage and slightly warm his hands. “Amm a-wak-ay. S-s-sire.” The count smiled, thin-lipped. “And you are aware of the day, yes? Of what you are to do?” The creature nodded, the motion barely perceptible due to his size. “Do not be wary, feeble Puze. It is just another step towards our goal.” “Yooo-ar goalie, Co—” Roost shook the cage violently again, cutting off the creature’s remark. “It is not nice to contradict our masters, Pew-Puze.” “Ind thee auld mann?” The count felt his face flush with anger at the creature mentioning the decrepit elder and immediately wished to cast a Curse on the denigrating Puze but felt a pang of regret: no additional Curse was possible. Instead, he hurled the mesh cage out of the small, glassless window and stood motionless, listening for the potential crash. If he had hurled it with enough force, then there would be no crash of glass but a deft plunk of wave as the cage sank into the nearby shores. Roost switched from looking out the glorified hole in the wall to staring at another glass-mesh cage, this one being empty at the moment. If Puze met his death soon enough by drowning or being crushed by his own shattering cage, then the little bothersome thing would rematerialize in the oldest glass-mesh cage, Roost knew. It was simply a small aspect of his overbearing Curse. The count heard the crash, subtle as it was. Regardless of how Puze died, be it naturally or at the maniacal hands of the count, he would constantly regenerate in a glass-mesh cage. As long as one existed. Roost felt a twinge of regret for having hoisted and lost yet another rare cage, especially with only three left in existence. He could not help but feel self-congratulatory though for having devised such an ingenious Curse; as it was, there were no other known forms of Magik that could even attempt to instantly transport a living being from one place to another without something incredible to transpire the feat, like with the dispositional Ring of Ten Minus Two. He knew that more Curses were in his arsenal as he had been developing his craft for quite some time, ever since leaving his hometown on his own volition several years ago. Despite the acceptance of his own Curse, family members, the rest of his supposed friends and the menial town folk that had embraced the refugee family eventually made life too much of a veritable hell. With anger, he recalled faintly his last night amongst that disparaging town, presently pumping his fists around his thumbs in the process. He could still hear the laughter; the cries. He heard gentle steps coming up the stairwell then, letting the bitter thoughts fade as new ones of breakfast entered. Roost said nothing and waited to see if Botch would notice that the count had moved to his workroom. Without skipping a beat, Botch wheeled into the room Roost currently occupied with a solid tray of breakfast and drink held firmly with both hands. He did not even glance at his surroundings but instead set the tray in the only free spot, that which Puze and his cage had recently occupied, and pulled up a worn, wobbly stool. Folding an unused parchment to even the stool’s wobble, Botch gestured for the count to sit and start consuming. Count Roost wanted to express praise for Botch’s competence but knew he could not: this server had to fear, above else, the man he served, however temporary that was. As the count ate his fried eggs and peppered meat strips – he assumed it was from a local farm animal but couldn’t place the exact creature – Roost realized that Puze had not returned. Regardless, the Cursed servant had a mission and knew that if he didn’t return with good, truthful news, repeated death-by-starvation was to be doled out. As Puze feared the count, he had no doubt the creature would perform as ordered. Botch then passed the workroom again with a medium-sized basin filled with a liquid that steamed, leaving quickly-faded phantoms in his wake. Roost let surprise enter his mind at the boy’s greater level of competence. He had obviously caught on quicker than most, more than likely drawing on the combined knowledge of failed and currently-Cursed servants from the past. Per circumstance, Roost was uneasy with suspicion. No one had been so adept with serving the count. Especially those from Boost. The count felt like striking the boy in that moment, as if to beat a truth from him. He finished his meal, leaving the mess, and made his way up the stairwell with caution; if ever an attack were to come, this would be a prime moment. Botch could easily hurl that steaming liquid upon the count and begin whatever form of effectual punishment he felt was necessary. But there was no attack. Botch was striking the count’s straight razor against the thick leather strap, both items that always rested in a shallow drawer beneath the fractured mirror. Atop the drawer rested the basin, filled as it was with steaming liquid, most likely water. Roost was again suspicious and attempted to sniff in the direction of the liquid. He knew there were substances from places all about Valent – few within Decennia proper – that looked like water but carried violently destructive properties. The liquid, as best as Count Roost could discern, was odorless. Botch had not made notice of the governor’s entrance into his own bedchamber until he was done sharpening the razor. Instead of wielding it, ungainly or otherwise, the boy set it upon the bed, folding the strap twice over and laying it next to the blade. He walked shallowly between Roost and the basin, continuing towards the door. After he was past the doorframe but before he could start down the stairwell, Count Roost quickly moved and upturned the basin, dumping the hot liquid all about the wall, the drawers, even splattering the mirror and dousing a weak flame that had apparently been lit to help keep the razor sterile – if the count was to make a positive assumption. The liquid also covered the floor, making Roost jump back to avoid contact. Botch immediately ran into the room, stepping in the liquid and Roost braced himself. The youth did not jump in pain or even react. “Sir,” he started. “Are you alright? Are you feeling o-okay? What happened? Sir?” The count, before answering, shook his head dramatically. “Uh, Batch, yes, sorry. I felt a bit dizzy and must’ve taken a small spill.” He cast his head convincingly down to gaze into the reflectionless liquid; wood hardly ever let water possess the qualities of mirrors. “Ah, the basin, my face and its stubble.” Botch looked a little fearful, as if he had made a crucial mistake. Count Roost felt that it wasn’t because of a failed assassination attempt. By the glint in his eyes, it looked like Botch was disappointed in his own service for the governor. “But I shall fetch that for myself, boy.” He let the faintest hint of a smile creep into the corners of his mouth then. “And you shall go to the beach. I require crabs with claws in tact. For a significant Curse.” Botch flinched then, as was Roost’s intent. The count knew the boy had nothing to fear though: this was for Petran’s insolence. Though if the newest boy turned out to be as helpful as Roost imagined, he might skip Cursing Petran and personally thank him. If things turned out as planned. He followed Botch down the stairwell, the boy heading straight for the rearward exit while the count went straight for the cooking area to heat another basin of water. His eyes drifted over the door to the makeshift infirmary. Count Roost imagined the decaying man down there, all alone, reading scripts by torchlight. His spine stiffened at the thought as he knew he could very easily be imagining his own future. Putting the thought out of mind, he moved to fill another basin, intending to finally be clean shaven. |
| King Sylvester felt sick. He was also tired. He hadn’t slept well and his lack of breakfast aimed to make his stomach churn and inspire a heaving to issue forth. His mind was racing and his pounding heart wasn’t easily quelled. Penson continued to pull a somewhat lavish comb through the king’s tresses but it helped very little. No, only the graces of death or deliverance could cure his current knocking of nerves. He didn’t believe that either would occur. Sylvester was being sent away from the mountain. And he was quintessentially terrified. The king understood amiably that his physical services were required but even with some Gousheralls and a specialist in his service, he had little faith in the idea that he could essentially stop Count Roost’s Curse. With the rhythmic pulls of the comb, Sylvester went back to the previous day’s meeting with the Malforcrent: all members were accounted for and even Misren was back in his usual state of languid eating. The seating arrangement was the same as well though Misren seemed a little taken aback by it, despite the fact that he had sat in that manner the previous day. Once his food was placed in front of him – the memory of singed meat wafting through the king’s nostrils threatened to presently unseat him – Misren was placidly present. Trisden was equally as placid in the beginning. Sylvester sat, enjoying the calmness of it all, supposing that with the pleasing state of the Malforcrent that they had worked out a means of stopping the Curse that was stated to have been cast by the malignant Count Roost. Thoughts of such dissidence from a foe so far away made Sylvester receive the man as a coward. When Dothel was the first to open discussion of proposed actions and he suggested that Sylvester himself be sent on a quest to dilute the count’s Curse, the king felt foolish for thinking of Roost as the coward: his own heart chilled at the thought of taking on such a task! A plan of action had been crafted, beginning with a visit to the Freezing Clan that was the initial Fyse Castle provider of the ice blocks used in day-to-day life, as aquatically-based needs went. It was a small town to the west of the mountain, easily a day’s trek by splintback. The castle’s finest splints were currently being checked for ailments and loaded with supplies for the journey. Sylvester had been coached in splintback riding long ago but rarely kept the practice up. Trips to the local towns usually required that he be placed in a carriage. Strangely enough, Sylvester couldn’t recall ever making a trip to the town he was headed for, which was named for a famous dancer or archivist or something; he didn’t remember what. The name itself was even elusive and Sylvester knew why: he was focusing on the fact that he had never been to this town before and realized that the reasoning was because he had never spent a night away from the castle. This oddly-named town was a full day’s journey. Sylvester realized that he would have to sleep elsewhere. This was not a fear that he related to the Malforcrent but kept private. Holding such a dread is probably what has caused my nerves to sizzle without end. A notion he did propose to the Malforcrent was exactly who would be accompanying the king. Dothel suggested that half a dozen Gousheralls attend to the king. Immediately, Sylvester wanted to suggest that Penson come along: waking up in a strange place was going to be all the worse when he knew that the familiarity of Penson wasn’t going to be there. Presently, Penson was staring down at the king’s head a little more intently than seemed reasonable. His mind was bothered most likely. “What’s wrong, Penson?” The groomer stirred slightly, apparently lost with the hypnotizing rhythms of the coaxing comb. “Um, yes, sir. Sylvester. Nothing’s wrong.” He bore a weak smile laced with tension. “I was merely thinking that this journey, this quest, that you are to go upon, it’s the first time you’ll be away from the castle since arriving her over a decade ago.” Though he had not said it, Sylvester felt that Penson meant to say “prematurely arriving”. It made Sylvester’s heart wane a little, despite the imagined origins of the idea. In voice, Penson had never made Sylvester feel as if he didn’t belong but the king had never been able to properly detain the thought because he had never felt like he belonged. “Though you arrived in your early teens, you seemed aptly designed for the position.” Sylvester wanted to snort at the notion. Aptly designed was far from the truth. If anything, he was the worst successor ever called to wear the crown. In fact, he had felt back then that leaving his home at Majramdic Academy was the worst conception of his young life; he had no standings or experience with kingly duties. Those practices had been set to come during his mid-teen years at the academy. Of which I was forcibly absent. He knew that the feeling in that point in his life was similar to his current sentiment; Sylvester was being sent to a position he knew nothing of. In the past, it was to manage a kingdom. Now he was to save it. Sylvester’s mind raced slightly at the scope of it: he was going to save the kingdom. Save it from a Curse cast by a maniacal foe. Provide salvation for the citizens of his country. Serve as security for a more hopeful future! But his mind halted there. How could he ever hope to save anyone? He was nothing more than Sylvester, a man with a shiny rock in his neck, a spear of doubt through his heart, and a crown of jewels that fit none-too-well. Penson continue speaking, interrupting his thoughts much to Sylvester’s pleasure. “I understand wholly, young Sylvester, that you are nervous but you are the best candidate for this mission. And I believe that with your own sense of morality, you will return victoriously. And even stronger for it, I would wager!” The king did not respond facially but felt heat rise to the surface of his scalp; he felt embarrassed then as the groomer had implied that, up to this point, he had not been a strong king. And obviously, Sylvester already knew that. Penson obviously felt the self-conscious flame. “Do not be embarrassed, dear sir. Though you think that you are unprepared for your duties, the fact that you are so bravely facing this journey tells me that you’re more than ready to embrace what it means to be a king.” He resumed combing, conveying the warmth of embarrassment away from the scalp. Sylvester imagined the comb with its metal teeth rising in temperature. Would Penson drop it due to not being able to hold such a hot item? Sylvester assumed so as he knew his warming embarrassment was limitless. “And when the kingdom sees what you’re willing to go through for its citizens, they can only send you swaths of love and respect.” Sylvester let a held breath loose that he had not been aware of. He was slowly feeling a gaining of confidence for this quest. Recalling again the meeting with the Malforcrent, when Dothel had suggested that six Gousheralls accompany the king, Sylvester noticed that it was Brinttal who balked at the notion. “How are my merchants traveling on the west coast to maintain protective custody if their Guardsmen are gallivanting southward with the king?” Sylvester wanted to object: was not the security of the whole kingdom more important than… Trisden voiced his opinion then and it made perfect sense to the king: he agreed with Brinttal. As the Fortright Islander stated, cutting the contingent of six Gousheralls to two for the king was a sound notion as long as some other protective manner was provided. “We are dealing with a foe who wields Magik. Might we send a Magik wielder ourselves?” Sylvester had not thought of that! Of course, if Magik were in action here, the Gousheralls could provide little assistance. Yes, Sylvester knew that he needed something more. Kren spoke up at that point, the memory serving to tire the king as the man seemed entirely too pessimistic. “We have no Magik wielders in employ of the crown, Trisden.” “Why must it be King Sylvester, fellows? Why not one of u-us?” Marylyn had asked tentatively. Apparently she had not been briefed on the majority-chosen plan. Dothel spoke up then. “We send the king, Marylyn, because his travels will bring him across more than one region. Perhaps two or three. He’ll start in Uv-Hren to the west, probably travel south through Jint and then into Javal’ta. In our nation’s current condition, as already confirmed by Brinttal’s suppositions, travel between the regions is not entirely safe. It would be even more dangerous if a former tent were to do the bidding of the king, even if under his protection.” He glanced hesitantly towards Sylvester. “The various mayors of towns and districts like to ignore the fact that they answer to a king. So they won’t think twice when you are seen crossing their midlands. Also, since the whole kingdom is being Cursed, the likely candidate for casting the Reverse is the figurehead.” He looked at each advisor in turn then with each returning dawning nods of understanding. “Sylvester has to be the guy, whether we ultimately want it or not.” Yes, this is making sense. Sadly. He had to be the one. Sylvester began to let his mind turn around the idea that the journey could actually be fatal towards him, and that it was fate curbing him towards that direction. Is fate only defined when fatality is brought into question? And, as Brinttal stated and Trisden confirmed, he needed more than just muscle. But who? He voiced such a question, using Kren’s fact as justification for the inquiry: he dared not put forth an original opinion for the Malforcrent to tear apart with easy logic. Foyle spoke up then, leaning straight-backed in his chair. “Since we’ve no direct access to a person of Magik, might we inquire about for someone who would be… for hire, or however it shall be termed?” Trisden shook his head, along with Dothel and Brinttal. The three seemed to be in unison on this path. Trisden spoke for them. “We cannot trust anyone outside of the king’s retinue. It wouldn’t be wise.” “We might have to think outside of a Magikal profession.” Sylvester caught the use of the term Magikal as it had been used, wondering why Dothel had not said “Magik profession”. Dothel continued. “Perhaps a person or persons of immense traveling experience.” “Like a hunter? Or a skilled splint rider?” asked Brinttal with Foyle’s nods of approval. “Or a cook?” offered Misren meekly. Sylvester assumed he had not been following the situation too closely. His concern for Decennia would be recognized. “Or a farmer,” Dothel said with a slightly projected voice while standing. This quieted the bunch, including Trisden who gently furrowed his brow in confusion. Even Sylvester didn’t understand such a notion. “A… a farmer?” Sylvester pondered Attention was entirely on Dothel and the king wondered if the glaring eyes made the Whismerlian uneasy. If he was, Dothel did not show it. “Yes, a farmer. Someone who would know a wide variety of plant life in case they needed to eat addition foodstuffs in order to conserve their rations. A farmer would also have knowledge of predators and most likely even a cunning means of fending them off; crops get attacked all the time and not just by parasitic insects.” The Malforcrent began to slowly nod with understanding. The idea made almost perfect sense. “With a farmer,” Dothel continued, “everything that has been suggested is represented plus the ability to locate and harvest sustenance. It makes the most sense.” All advisors looked towards each other, glad to be in agreement on the matter. The nods were becoming emphatic. Except for Trisden. His eyes seemed to be boring straight through Dothel’s head. Had this not been part of their discussions? “What do you think, Trisden?” Dothel asked with a genuine smile, obviously because his idea had been accepted by the majority. “I mean, you told me to think on the matter and this is what I was able to come up with. Misren’s behavior gave me the idea though.” All eyes turned to Misren who had been eating the whole time, focusing his eyes on the variously designed plates instead of the Malforcrent. His aides were working frantically to keep him stocked with gravy, side dishes, and the like. One of them hobbled while serving and Sylvester assumed it had been the one which was struck by the chair that Misren cast aside while fleeing from Wakefield Hall at the end of the last meeting. “Yeah, Misren was talking once about the different foods he enjoys and how some can only grow in his homeland and that got me to thinking on the matters of farming and how an agriculturalist would be best suited for this task.” He gestured towards the portly man. “Right, Misren?” “A coo… Yes, Dothel’s correct. C-O-rect. Yes.” He then resumed eating and everyone seemed pleased, aside from Trisden who seemed to be unwilling to be pleased. “And I suppose, dear Dothel,” Dear Dothel, Sylvester thought but let Trisden continue with, “that you have a suggestion in mind? A candidate?” Dothel nodded with confidence. “Why would we send none other than our residential agricultural specialist? He’s perfect for the job and, as I’ve already put the idea upon him, he’s more than willing to accompany the king on his quest!” The smile on Dothel seemed to almost be at the breaking point, causing Sylvester to feel alarmed with the size of it. Other than that, the idea seemed quite sound. In his present state of mind with Penson continuing to comb his hair, Sylvester was rethinking the notion. And how utterly absurd it sounded. The quest to save the kingdom from a crazed and Cursed fiend was being led by an inexperienced king, two of his personal Gousherall Guardsmen… and a farmer. The king could only grimace, an expression not missed by the groomer. “What’s wrong, sir?” “I am nervous. And frightened,” he answered without cushion. There was no reason to lie to a man that seemed to always know the truth concerning a person’s inner thoughts. “You’ve no place to be frightened, Sylvester. You are Decennia’s king, as affirmed by your bloodline. And this,” he said while lightly tapping the kingstone with the whole of a fingernail. “You are the perfect person for this task.” Whereas Sylvester usually reserved snorting at Penson’s ludicrous suggestions, he couldn’t help to hold one in now. “Perfect? Me?” He gestured towards his seated form looking back at him in the mirror though he tended to hardly ever make eye contact with his reflected self. As a result, he always seemed to be surprised when he saw that his eye color was green. “This is not a body built for questing, Penson. This is not a head built for a crown. This, inside here,” he said, pointing passively towards his own head and then his chest, “is not suitable for leading. For kinging! I cannot act as king when I don’t know anything about what it means to be king!” Penson stopped combing then – Sylvester’s hair had begun to curl due to the obsessive action, exposing the kingstone anyway – and came around the king to stand next to the mirror and stare at Sylvester. “I know that you are afraid, good king.” “I’m not…” “Yes, you are. You are a good king!” As usual, he had known that Sylvester was going to object to. “I know you are. You’re father knew you would be too.” “My father,” he said, sneering and looking away. “If my father were any kind of…” Penson quickly and forcibly slapped Sylvester then, the firm smack rebounding off the mirrored pane to land doubly upon the room’s occupants and their ears. It stung, leaving a warm handprint on the king’s cheek; had his beard been a little thicker, it might not have hurt as much. The blow carried the power to draw out a lone tear though even that was reluctant to leave the corner of Sylvester’s eye. Penson leaned in then and Sylvester noticed for the first time that the groomer was somewhat wrinkled. “You, dear Sylvester, are twenty-two years old. Normal sanctions of the past decree that the king is instated at the age of twenty-three and that’s how old your father was when I met him. You both were born into the same qualities of life and you possess the same kingstone he did.” “King Gould never had to quest away from the castle though, Penson.” “That’s right. Your father never had reason to leave. But that should be the cornerstone of your differences. You are so much like him, it’s hard to tell whether I’m still in the present or back in the past with that infallible man.” He touched his face then. “These wrinkles that you’ve so passively noticed help remind me of which generation I’m dealing with though. These are the only real difference.” Sylvester sat there, redirecting his gaze to land on his reflected crown; the sting from the strike fading on his face but leaving a mark on his mind and possibly his spirit. How could he be anything like a man he had hardly spent any time with? Following the first few years that are unremarkable to memory, Sylvester was sent to the academy for the refinement of his practices and the injection of social graces; it was believed that only a person physically raised in the Fortright Islands had the correct handle on being the king, as the first crown bearer had done. But Sylvester’s lessons were interrupted by his father’s death. As far as he knew, King Gould didn‘t lose his own father prematurely. As Penson even said, Sylvester’s patriarch had been instated like any other king. So how could the groomer make such a bold and largely-inaccurate statement? He lifted his eyes to peer back into Penson’s. “It’s your experience with the kingstone that has made you the same, sir.” This baffled Sylvester as he knew what a kingstone was supposed to do and what his iteration of the bloodline-Magik actually did, which was nothing. “Sylvester, your father told me the properties of the kingstone. How it was designed to pass on the knowledge of the previous kings so that a ruler may truly learn from his predecessors. How it’s supposed to protect you from harm when there is no heir apparent. How it’s more than a simple, physical accessory that I’m supposed to hide from everyone else.” “But mine…” started Sylvester. “Is just like your father’s was.” Penson’s gaze softened somewhat. “He could never summon the intellect of dead kings, a skill he wished for daily because there were several instances where he had no idea on how to act. At times, I felt so ashamed to be privy to his moments of frightened inaction because I could do nothing to help him. I‘m more than pleased to make up for the manners in which I couldn’t help him by making sure that I can help you. In any way I can.” The king sat there, stunned. Then quickly realized that he was more than stunned: he was relieved. And of all the persons that he had wanted to confide in, Penson was the first on a list of few others. To harbor trust made Sylvester feel a little more confident. He had a thought. “And of the protective properties?” Penson shook his head, raising his hands up slightly. “I don’t know. I mean, you were conceived when he was well into his forties – I was in my reserved, late thirties – and he had never been forced to test the theory. I imagine that since the kingstone divulges random bits of seemingly useless knowledge that it must provide more sound protections as they would be rarely called upon.” “Or,” Sylvester began grimly, “it’s a gambled chance that the kingstone could let me live or die at any moment.” Penson nodded in silent agreement. “In the years since your father told me the kingstone was more than just some genetic anomaly, I attempted to research it in the castle’s archives. There is little mention of the kingstones of other kings directly but there is always mention of past kings, just as King Nementor, who have sparked moments of divine intelligence and used it to benefit the kingdom as a whole.” “I imagine if King Nementor were alive now, he’d be astonished to learn that his legacy has fallen into disuse. Or more accurately, is a breeding ground for thievery and molestation of the weak.” “I’m not sure. Perhaps such blatant actions set against the position of the king ends up being what weakens its power.” “Or it’s too old.” “Or you’re too pessimistic, like you think Kren Solarpaste is.” Sylvester slouched at the memory then, realizing that this session with Penson, which began under a tense notion, was making him feel better about not only the upcoming quest but of what life for himself might be like when he gets back. He didn’t need Penson to point out that the Malforcrent, with all its blubbered talk, was looking out for the advisors personally and only their regions. “I’m still not sure I want to do this, Penson.” He took a breath, knowing his next question was going to make him sound like a child. He braced himself. “Could you come with me? Accompany me?” Penson smiled and Sylvester felt a little excited that he could bring out such an object as a smile in another person. The groomer shook his head. “I’m sorry, dear Sylvester. I cannot. The question is appreciated though.” He laughed then, only slightly, drawing Sylvester’s attention. “What’s funny?” The king was baffled. “Here I was, thinking that I was talking to a man advanced well into a state of disuse – I mean you talk like you’re twice your age in worry sometimes - and you make me reevaluate my opinion with such a simple question.” He tousled the king’s hair then and quickly reset it. “And besides, if I attend your quest, who will keep an eye on the Malforcrent? The cooks?” This made Sylvester smile; he had not realized it but Penson was correct. He was only twenty-two and he often felt like he was nearing fifty. The smile was also because he was thankful to have such a loyal individual backing him. “Thank you for striking me, young Penson.” The groomer smiled again, his face reddening a shade. “I’m happy to do it. Any time you want.” They both chuckled then. “But yes, I’m glad I was able to help.” Sylvester nodded and turned to look back at himself in the mirror while Penson moved behind him, continuing the hair-reset he had started moments before; hair tousling had a tendency to produce fastidious locks. Feeling better about the issue as a whole, Sylvester couldn’t help but let the meeting with the Malforcrent drift away from his memory. Why had Trisden seemed so angry when it was suggested that an invaluable farmer attend the king on such an important quest? Dothel had made clear the numerous benefits. A lingering doubt entered the king’s mind then which, if voiced, might draw another strike from Penson, Sylvester knew. What if there was no Curse? Was this some manner in which the Malforcrent was truly trying to get rid of the king? “Penson,” he started, forgoing the possible slap, “what if there is no Curse and the Malforcrent is just sending me away so that I can die in the wilderness of Decennia on some fool’s errand?” Penson finished resetting the hair to how Sylvester liked it – even making the curl on the back lay down properly – before he answered. “Well, I know very little about Magik. Except the kingstone and the feats it’s employed to enact.” He took a breath, gazing beyond the mirror in thought. “I imagine someone of a Magik background could verify that, indeed, the whole kingdom has been placed under this ominous event come the next full moon. They probably have means of detecting such anomalies. Like when a fly lands in a spider’s web: the web’s creator feels the vibrations all over and knows where to go to capture the intruder.” Sylvester’s mind shuddered at the idea of having to battle – or worse yet, work with – something like a giant spider just to get the information they needed. “Maybe when someone uses Magik to cast a spell or place a Curse, other Magik wielders can also detect it.” The king sighed then. “But we don’t have any Magiks or Magikans or Magicars or whatever the true word is: we have none in our service.” “You are going with the two Gousheralls and that farmer to meet some Magik persons, aren’t you? Perhaps they will first confirm that such a Curse has been enacted? Even though they just provide ice blocks for Mount Reign, they would probably be more than happy to oblige.” Sylvester nodded as this seemed like a hearty truth. “But what if all the Malforcrent is waiting for is for me to leave the throne, even under the pressure of servicing the kingdom?” “Why, then I shall signal you somehow. Fyse Castle has couriers of different types. If the Malforcrent starts behaving strangely, then I shall send one directly behind you. Most likely one of the trained birds. Then you will know to return post haste.” The king smiled in agreement for it was a fairly sound plan, as loosely bound plans went. He could not erase the doubts concerning his own abilities though and knew that Penson understood that. The night prior had been filled with unrest but now Sylvester, with a determined plan of action in mind, felt much better. Penson spoke up then. “You are meeting with the farmer around the middle of the afternoon, yes? The ‘agricultural specialist’?” Sylvester nodded. “I don’t believe I’ve met him. I’m always so busy with my hard-at-work activities.” “Well, I’m told he’s been here for almost three years now.” “And his name?” Sylvester ran it through his head before he responded as he wanted to get it correct; it was several degrees odder than that forgotten-town name, which is why Sylvester wanted to remember it all the better. “Tasciturn. Dermitalus Tasciturn.” * ~ * ~ * “Ya can jus’ call me Dermy.” Sylvester, along with Penson, looked the man up and down. Or rather, they would have if it had been a whole man. Presently, Sylvester thought that Dermy might be part dwarf; he was extremely short. The hair atop his head was thin with a prematurely balding spot at the crown. As befitting a farmer, his skin was leathered from constant exposure to the sun, possessing a darker hue. His fingernails held equally large amounts of grime underneath while his palms were edged with fierce calluses. His clothing seemed to be comprised of pieced together rags and the king wondered aloud if it was a prime time for visiting. Wiping grit from his palm, Dermy said “There none time like th’ pres’nt, eh, sir? I mean, Kingasir?” He then stuck his hand out as if to shake it. Sylvester thought it best to decline. Penson did grip the shorter man’s hand though. “And you are the agricultural specialist for the entire mountain?” Dermy cracked a smile, exposing his yellow-tinged teeth, and let a chuckle roll out. “That’s a sophist’cated title for a glor’fied farmer. Bu’ yeah, I meanin’ yes, your highness, oh. Tha’s wha’ I do.” He spoke more casually than Sylvester was accustomed too; even Penson conversed with the backing of a telling education. The change was a little refreshing to the king. Dermy continued. “I head mange’ment over th’ grip orch’ds here on th’ mount and th’ var’ous crops a’ sea level, oh.” “And your knowledge concerning vegetation is extensive, as is that concerning wild animals?” Dermy nodded, glancing about when a bird chirped. He located it in the nearest tree and went over to pound the bark with a rock at the base of the tree. Looking around, Sylvester noticed that all the trees – was this the grip orchard? – had one large rock at the base. When a subtle flapping was heard from above, the specialist placed the rock back where he found it. As the looks that the king and Penson were giving him probably conveyed confusion, Dermy said “In a grip tree like this’n ‘ere tall on’, th’ flappers will snatch ya fruit off in a stitch, oh.” Sylvester felt his own brow furrow. “You mean birds, right?” Dermy nodded and then walked past the king and the groomer towards the haulcart they had found him with minutes ago. Inside were various tools that Sylvester did not recognize. They didn’t hold his attention. “Dermy, is there someone else that you answer to or take orders from.” The short man nodded and Sylvester felt a flush of relief; traveling with such a man, however refreshing his mannerisms were, did not make the king feel entirely easy with the situation, especially regarding the degree of the quest. “I ans’er to ya cooks an’ chefs. They place ya food orders an’ I harvest ‘em. Arrange t’ harvest ‘em, at leas’, oh.” He grabbed the handlebars of the haulcart and pulled it behind him, away from the barn where Sylvester and Penson had first arrived to inquire about Dermy’s presence. The king and the groomer followed him. Sylvester looked back towards the barn and noticed that three of the workers had relocated their working area to the large entrance. “Uh, Dermy, you answer to my cooks and whatnot. But you are the senior, uh, agricultural specialist?” Dermy nodded while still pulling the haulcart. The tools rattled as the trio moved deeper into the orchard. Another bird was heard chirping and Dermy paused long enough to perform the same rock-pounding to get rid of it. Sylvester wondered if this was usual regarding grip trees but realized that he honestly did not know what a grip tree was, so he asked. “Kingasir, a grip tree grows tha’ fruit up top,” he said while pointing towards the upper branches. Sylvester and Penson lifted their heads to look. “Tha’ fruit has a juice abou’ itself tha’ can be used for buildin’. Grip juice is strong stuff, oh. Connects lots o’ stuff and what-sher, oh. When flappers peck a’ th’ fruit, they e’ther stick it t’ the’selves or drop it and sticky th’ grounds.” He shook his head then. “Can no’ have tha’ mess, nah sir, oh.” “And the rocks?” Pension inquired as he must have been curious too. Dermy cracked a smile. “Well I can no’ toss ‘em up th’ tree, can I?” Sylvester merely accepted that that made sense and let the conversation die as they finally stopped a considerable distance from the barn, which was still in view. The three figures had stayed near the entrance but looked like they had also stopped working entirely and focused on the king, the groomer, and the farmer. Dermy turned around then and began sifting through the poorly stacked pile of tools. Sylvester felt a sour mood envelope his mind. Was this midget of a man supposed to be the one able to provide ulterior means of protection for the king on his dangerous journey? In the corner of his eye, Sylvester spied Dermy grip a small hammer in his right hand. A strike of fear ran through him at the thought of being betrayed so early into the quest. Was this to be the end? The king braced his standing and made to fully face the tiny man. The hammer did not rise far before it fell against the bottom of the haulcart with a resounding crack. Sylvester flinched, noticing that Penson did likewise, as he felt a tingling surge pass through him. Everything wavered visibly around him, like he was suddenly put under water. Dermy was then not the man he had been only moments before. He was still short and thinning in hair. Still with the same patchwork clothing and smile but he was entirely different: he was clean and seemed to hold a stronger sense of self inside his posture and eyes. The change startled the king, making him a little weak in the knees: it had been entirely unsuspected. “I know what’s expected of me, sir,” said Dermy in a dialect that had been nothing like what had been recently portrayed. “But…” the monarch stammered but was cut off with a violent hand motion presented by the short farmer, if, Sylvester thought, that was what he truly was. “Yes, I’m different. I wear a disguise comprised of Magik. We’re presently encased, temporarily, by a Disillusion Spell. They’re rare, thank you, but if those spies see us three talking pleasantly, they’ll assume something is amiss. Like I said, it’s a rare Spell so you’d better appreciate the sentiment. Especially since we can’t have them see what is to truly transpire.” The hazy, underwater-looking vision had expanded beyond the three of them. The three supposed spies were still seen through the haze, wavered as they were. Even through the haze, the king could tell their attention was now completely directed towards the conversing trio. Sylvester then thought briefly on the irony over the title of the Spell: it revealed any illusions inside the field but outsiders saw something untrue. Did all Magik work this way? He decided to ask at a later date as, apparently, they had little time to spare. “I know that I’m to accompany you to Zharinna, yes. And that you even doubt the validity of the Curse placed by Roost. Trust me: it’s real. And if we cannot stop it, then your entire kingdom will be lost to the madness of the count.” “But what is the Curse? What will he do?” “The Curse he’s cast has threatened to, in ten day’s time, take away the thumbs off anyone born in Decennia.” Sylvester balked at the utter absurdity of the statement. It was Penson who found his voice first. “Thumbs? This man is after thumbs? What is so damned important about thumbs?” He looked like he wanted to slap the little midget of a man. “I’ll explain later, groomer. Or rather, the king will at some point in time. I understand that you are staying behind to keep an eye on the Malforcrent?” Penson nodded. “That is wise, concerning your loyalty. We need all the eyes and attention we can spare set upon that mismatched batch. Since this is the case, you will need this.” He handed a small object to Penson, withdrawn from his own pocket. Sylvester noticed that Dermy’s hand was shaking tremendously – just the one because Sylvester finally noticed that his other arm rested limply at his side – and his face began to lose its color. “Are you alright?” Sylvester asked with fear gripping his throat; obviously, this man was a much more important ally than previously suspected and he could not bear to see a companion fall ill so early. Dermy nodded vigorously. “It’s the Spell. The illusion. It’s… very draining. Penson. That ring. Pocket it now. Wear it. Only at night.” Penson nodded furtively. “Now, king?” Sylvester looked towards Dermy though he wanted to see what the ring looked like. “Hit me. Hard. In the stomach.” “What?” He did not understand. “What is being spied. By the others. It ends. With you. Striking me. I’ve made a scene. About having. To. Attend. Your. Que-que-st…” The color then left Dermy’s face even more, leaving his eye sockets to look like empty knots in a dying whitewood tree. Sylvester did as he was told, though he had never hit a man before, not in real life. The feeble attempts in his recurring nightmare had not prepared him accurately for the experience. The weakened man folded around Sylvester’s hardened fist with sickening ease. The king winced while he spied Dermy spitting blood against Penson’s white shirt. The groomer backed away suddenly, leaving the haze – or rather, the hazy barrier contracted into the haulcart. The three figures that had been milling outside the barn then darted towards Dermy in a dead run. “Boss,” one of them said though Sylvester assumed that by what Dermy had stated, these three did not swear any allegiance to the specialist. Penson caught on more quickly than the king. “Serves you right, m-maggot! When the king tells you what to do, you do it!” Sylvester looked from Penson to the downed farmer, now looking like when he had first met the man, and towards the now-present trio. All three wore garb similar to Dermy though were of newer patches and almost identical in stitch. One with close-cut hair sneered at the king. The king then saw Dermy’s eyes flutter back into his head and knew the man was unconscious. He was willing to risk his very life to help the king for this greater cause and had ultimately asked Sylvester to punch him. The king understood that the illusion, or disillusion, had required authenticity but he couldn’t help but feel guilty for having to strike such a seemingly helpless individual. But the part he knew he had to play though came to the surface easy enough. “When your baby of a boss wakes up – as I’m guessing he still needs a nap – tell him I’ll be ready to ride soon. In the morning. Dawn.” He wiped his mouth then as he had accumulated some spittle on his lips: he tasted grit drawn from Dermy’s clothing. “He’s to be ready for travel by then. Or else.” He then turned and retraced their path through the orchard with Penson walking submissively at his heels. Sylvester was annoyed by the charade as he felt Penson was equal enough to walk abreast to the king, but he also knew that it was required. For Dermy’s sake. The meeting with the man had obviously ended unrepentantly – Sylvester had expected to meet a farmer and instead met an ideally perfect man for the task at hand. The perfect man… as chosen by Dothel. This made Sylvester pause in stride, causing Penson to bump into the monarch. Sylvester knew that he should have presented a disapproving guise at the groomer’s inattentiveness but his thoughts were too displaced. “Dothel suggested that we bring Dermy along, Penson.” “Yes, sir. Could he know that the farmer is more than he seems?” Sylvester hadn’t actually thought about that but had merely assumed that Dothel did know. But Penson’s ponder could also easily be true too. The argument for bringing an agricultural specialist still made sense. “I’d like to see that… your new comb, Penson. Tonight.” Penson nodded and they both continued with the groomer walking even with the king, as he usually did. Even Sylvester understood that since Dermy had personally risked so much to convey something like a ring, it had to be earnestly important and therefore could not be taken out in public for all to see it. “Between then and now, sir, should we converse with Dothel on the matter?” It had crossed Sylvester’s mind, but the idea ended negatively. “No. Even Dermy agreed that watching the Malforcrent was of utter importance. With me leaving, there’s no telling what they’ll be concocting. Dothel’s of the Malforcrent…” “You said he’s usually lax in participation though.” “That’s true but he’s also taken some sort of special interest in this circumstance regarding that Cursed count. He’s even having conversations with Trisden, a man that even I would not relish talking to privately.” Sylvester rubbed his jaw, noting the lazy, late-summer sun beginning to redden as it approached the western horizon. From this vantage point atop Mount Reign, the western plains could not be readily spied as Sylvester thought to gaze, if only for a moment, towards Zharinna, as Dermy had called it. By the time they did find that point, the setting sun would wash out their vision anyway and they’d see very little. “I believe it’s time for a meal, Penson. And after seeing your rare gift, I shall retire early. As you know, I didn’t sleep well last night and though I’m exhausted, I don’t believe I shall sleep well tonight either. Even daytrips unsettle me, as you know. This journey, this quest, is to take at least ten days. But I suppose I should try to sleep.” The king then thought on what Dermy had said, about the count’s Curse against the kingdom. “Why thumbs, Penson?” Penson shrugged his shoulders but offered an opinion regardless. “Perhaps the sight of thumbs disgusts him. Or he wishes to cripple everyone in Decennia. Maybe he has no thumbs and is tired of being an outcast? I don’t know, sir.” Sylvester let the suggestions float marginally through his head as he could honestly not fathom that far on his own. The pair walked up the path leading from the orchard to the kitchens as that was the closest entrance to Fyse Castle. And closest to where their meals were to be served. |
| Upon securing her swan-shaped home, Tuette departed. Her shawl was pulled tightly against her head, fastened beneath her chin. Her hair was bundled up in a mess underneath but she enjoyed the simplicity of the wrap. She made sure to pack her rucksack though. Not wanting to find herself in a panicked state again with only a stick and Washing Stone at hand, Tuette insured that her Firedom Expansion Pote was within easy reach. She also packed some Flash Potes which would produce a quick burst of light once air hit the liquid, a Shock Stone that would give a jolting surprise to anyone the Stone didn’t recognize, and a pair of Climber Mitts as she never knew when she would have to scale her way out of a sour situation. She had a few stones prepared for quick Spelling even though she knew that no stone Charmed with only words had much defensive purpose. But it helped to be prepared. And sometimes prepping a stone for the Charm was half the battle anyway. Tuette trekked the short distance through the forest and met Perryta Fy’tay at the outskirts of Zharinna. Fy’tay was smiling greatly as if she had just seen an old friend after years of absence. “It’s wonderful that you made it on time, Tuette. I hope the rest of your evening was pleasant enough.” She reached her hand up then. “I love the pattern on your shawl….” Tuette instinctively ducked her head away, not wanting her hood to move under the touch of Fy’tay by any chance; there would be no fortune in revealing her Cursed status at this early stage. “Um, sorry, I’m just self-conscious about my possessions.” This was a true enough statement but she recalled a more open time in her life, back before she had been put under the Curse of the Hood. She silently damned Corunny Voidet once more before saying “But thank you. It’s a classic design. I picked it up in Gimble Valley, which is a distance east of here, if I’m not mistaken.” Fy’tay nodded, still smiling. “Yes, Gimble Valley. A predominately non-Magikal area inside northern Javal’ta. Such a shame considering the quality plants there that harness ingredients ripe for Magikal use.” Tuette could only nod though she knew as much was correct. A particular plant had been the reason she had been in the valley in the first place, regarding one Pote or another. She could not recall the specifics but was thankful that Fy’tay did not think her deceptive. Such a thought was crucial when regarding her hidden condition. Fy’tay motioned that they begin walking. “I want you to meet some of the local tas. They are eager to meet the woman who crafted such a powerful Freezing Pote, to say the least.” The flattery made Tuette feel warm inside. “And of course, we’ll do our best to help you concoct a new one. Such Magik would be most beneficial for your own Freezers, I’d have to surmise.” This made Tuette break in thought but not in stride. Is this to be a mutual arrangement of some type? She had saved these people already from a belcarotia and they insisted that she share her secret of the Freezing Pote? It seemed a little strange considering that if she hadn’t even been present she would still possess the Freezing Pote and not even have to worry about the Zharinnans. But such a thought made her feel guilty. If she learned after the fact that a Magikal community had been destroyed by rogue and Magik means, she would feel considerably disheartened. The Mages and Sorcerers throughout the nation were all of value to the expansion of Magik knowledge. In losing just one district of such Magikals, something key would most likely be lost to the future. Still, the thought of having to share such a secret as her personally crafted Freezing Pote with a group of already-successful Freezers made her slightly uneasy. They made their way through narrow avenues that, for the most part, resembled a common township. Tuette didn’t find this unusual as she knew that most communities, even if the majority was comprised of wielders of Magik, liked to insure that no invasive outsiders used the knowledge against them. There were far too many people in Decennia who were anti-Magik compared to those who promoted it. And the mainstream always seemed to be more dangerous. In a short time, they were in the center of Zharinna, as small as the town turned out to be, and it was there where the local tas held shop. Spying the center, Tuette paused for she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Zharinna housed a Talking Tree. The wooden spire was limbless with bark of a purplish hue. Tuette knew the history behind such famed Trees. In the days before even the Dissociative Wars, the Trees were discovered to have sprouted up in various locales around the continent. Upon touching the odd Trees, a voice was heard inside the head of the person in contact, informing whomever that it was more or less a kind of Wishing Tree. In truth, it was a direct link to Valtos, who listened to people’s constant wishes and hopes and would grant whatever he saw fit. As time wore on, Valtos had apparently grown tired or disgusted – or both – at the petty and grotesque things humans asked for, so he crafted three Lesser Gods, the Wishing Gods, to follow through on the task of curbing where his Magik essence was directed in the effort to effectively keep the Mortals happy. But the Wishing Gods, being of a depreciated caliber, soon had their granted wishes lead things awry in all of Valent. The very final act granted by the three was the creation of the night dragons. The three were exiled with permanence, supposedly to live forever on Valent, and the Talking Trees were discovered to be inert; the Magik essence of Valtos they funneled was gone. It was a couple centuries before Magik returned to the land again, only apart from the Talking Trees that so many communities had clustered around, relying on their protective and vindicating natures. It was widely believed that Valtos had been conserving spirits of dead Mages to eventually place on the cusp of Mortal and Immortal Realms. It was thought that those spirits might currently fluctuate Magik through the world, recognizing recitations and rituals as they were performed, fulfilling the desired effects. The Trees had mostly been lost though, resulting from a purge organized by residents of Bistariaclimata, a mountain-based town in northwestern Decennia, strange as it was since the Trees were deemed useless. It was often conjectured that the purge coincided with the creation of the night dragons though the two had to be largely separate; the dark-scaled dragons were more commonly found in the northeast. Tuette must have been openly staring at the Tree as Fy’tay grabbed her shoulder, puling her out of her historically-inspire daze. “Are you okay, Tuette?” Startled, the Cursed woman visibly flinched but recalled almost instantly where she was. “Um… Oh, yes. Yes. The, uh,” she put her hand to her chest, feeling her accelerated heartbeat beneath it, continuing, “the Tree is beautiful. And they’re so, uh, so rare.” Fy’tay nodded in agreement. “Do you know or would you know how it escaped the, uh, the Bis-Bistariaclimation Purge?” Fy’tay only shrugged before answering. “I don’t know. Zharinna has been here a long time though. Maybe the founders fought off the Purge with proper vehemence. Or it was undiscovered.” Tuette doubted that as at that time, almost all widely-known towns were recognized to be built up around Talking Trees. “I place my mark on the defensive stance as it’s unlikely that a Talking Tree so close to the throne went undiscovered. Tuette ambled forward, reaching out her hand to touch the cool wood of the towering Tree. With the reach, her sleeve slid back and her arm was exposed to rays of sunlight. She felt a gentle tickling as the hairs curled themselves into miniscule, almost imperceptible, swan-like shapes. Being ever reminded of her Curse, Tuette was just slightly thankful that it somehow differentiated between the various hairs of her body. Arm hairs were affected only on the exposed arm, other more private hairs likewise. It was her head that was more commonly seen as the mass of hair atop was severely noticeable when it took the distinctive shape of a swan. The Talking Tree had no immediate effects on her and she withdrew her arm, feeling the swan-hairs fall back into place, tiny as they were. She couldn’t explain it but with physically contacting the Tree, she had expected something almost drastic to occur. When nothing had happened, she felt minutely disappointed, even though she knew such a sentiment wasn’t deserving of the Tree. “Let’s keep moving, Tuette. Ta Speebie is anxious to discuss something with you.” Tuette again felt an apprehensive grasp on her heart as such an obscure phrasing could lead to any line of discussion. Is this Ta Speebie going to discern that I’m Cursed? Is he trying to find out all of what I knew regarding Magik? The perryta led the way into a small shop constructed of thin walls and a weak roof. Inside, with dim candlelight the only aide for viewing, Tuette saw various glittering stones. Tables lining the walls were covered with scripts and scrolls and preserved hiop leaves with scribbles upon all. Shelves lined the shop and held many trinkets of various sizes. Tuette recognized a map weave roll, dated two hundred years ago, a trio of crudely carved statues, and one more that was so intricately carved that Tuette could only wonder what type of Magik had been culled to instill the perfection. “That model, dearie, is a Burtle original.” Tuette frowned as she didn’t understand the reference. “Burtle,” continued the elderly shopkeeper who had appeared as if out of nowhere, “carves out th’ most perfectly detailed models and statues in all of Decennia. I’m not surprised you don’t know him though; you’re but a ‘prentice.” Tuette would have been a bit more surprised to find Ta Speebie was a woman if she was not so insulted. Idly, she thought to admonish herself for thinking that a ta of such degree be a man. She did not fear men, did she? She knew a subtle fear of Voidet was present but Tuette also knew that his insecurities would ultimately be his downfall. But Tuette could not help be offended as she knew that she possessed knowledge that most apprentices never grasped or had even heard of. “Fy’tay, my perryta, this is th’ young woman you spoke of?” Fy’tay nodded, still smiling. “She is. She concocted that Freezing Pote…” “It’s obvious she stole it. From a more worthy Mage.” This made Tuette feel angry instead of offended. Do I convey an image of Magik ignorance so much so that someone would disrespect me so sourly? And openly? “I-I did fashion…” “Silence unto you, apprentice. Fy’tay, there was rules in my day.” The perryta nodded as if agreeing with the old crone. “Ta Speebie is our oldest ta, coming from a more, let’s say, regimented form of Magik teaching.” “Pah!” spat the ta. “Regimented my crumpled right cheek! Rules is rules, Fy’tay! Isn’t doin’ any good if ya don’t put some rules in their minds ‘long with ‘pells and rit’als!” She then rubbed her nose and Fy’tay guided Tuette towards the makeshift counter the ta obviously used to conduct sales of purchase or exchange. Tuette couldn’t recall if she had ever encountered a ta that sold items of Magik interest. She also deftly realized that she had been purposefully avoiding tas for the last four years so she kept her observation to herself. “Speebie, Tuette here is only an apprentice by force. Her teacher died years ago and she has had no other to replace him.” Ta Speebie sent a peering eye Tuette’s way, as if attempting to find the hole in the story. Tuette feared the old crone just might; Magik made many things possible, she knew. Even the perception of truth. Apparently satisfied, Speebie refocused more on the trinkets of her countertop. Tuette looked them over, not recognizing any of their uses, and looked towards Fy’tay again for help in progressing whatever was to happen here. The perryta took the hint. “You said you wanted to see Tuette, Speebie,” she said with a fluttered clip in her voice. Ta Speebie licked her lips, causing the wrinkles around her mouth to ripple accordingly. “Yes. The apprentice claims she is a mere apprentice who possesses much knowledge over Magik. And the like.” Speebie then looked to Fy’tay and then into Tuette’s eyes, causing Tuette to catch her breath. “But what does she know of… Curses?” Her first instinct was to flee. Her second was to purge her stomach of the weak breakfast she had consumed. She followed through on her third impulse though, which was the truth whenever possible. Even if it was an altered version. “I know only what my former master taught me. Which was very little. About Curses.” She hoped the lie would not be betrayed by her voice. “He told me that Curses can only be cast by the Cursed, that they usually involve a Reverse of some kind, and shouldn’t be dealt with lightly.” She hoped that was enough to satisfy the elderly woman. “Pah!” the ta coughed out. “Everyone knows that much ‘bout Curses, dearie! But you know more! You cast it all!” Tuette’s heart began to beat a little faster then, rushing crimson life through her temples. Fy’tay set her hand on Tuette’s shoulder again, this time with no flinch: with no threat of sunlight, there was no threat behind her shawl being moved. “Ta Speebelia Ridentrog, you stop. There’s no way she could’ve cast such a large-scale Curse as the one you’ve detected. Especially since last night, I spied on most of her accounts and, other than sleeping and doing some late night housework, there was no unusual activity.” This revelation made Tuette feel a further sense of unease. She was being watched? By a perryta, nonetheless! But the doornail, Charmed as it was.... Tuette knew the most likely answer was that Fy’tay has used a deviously placed Re-Seeing Stone. The perryta was very resourceful, as her title required. I’ll have to maintain caution, even when I’m alone, while near these Zharinnans. She tightened her grip on her sack’s strap, strung over her shoulder as it was. What Curse was Fy’tay talking about? She asked. “Ta Speebie here is talking about someone initiating a Curse against the kingdom as a whole.” “But I didn’t cast it,” she said and her brain swayed at the idea. A nationwide Curse? “What’s the characteristic of the Curse?” Ta Speebie shook her head, chewing on her lower lip in the process. “No tellin’. Doesn’t look familiar. Which mean it’s a new Curse. Crafted by someone.” Dread filled Tuette’s heart then. Before recently, Curses couldn’t be easily created. They were the same Curses that had been created in the times of the Wishing Gods. All in all, there were a couple dozen of them carrying different degrees of Potency. Her personal favorite, the one she coaxed from Voidet, was the Curse of Truth. She relished the idea of making people, for once in their lives, tell the truth. And obviously, because of her status, she could cast it whenever she pleased. Unless a Block was in place, but not many people knew of Curse Blocks. The self-imposed irony over such knowledge and preference regarding the Curse of Truth was not lost on the sorceress who always had to lie about being Cursed herself. But new Curses were definitely something to take note of. And Tuette knew the only person in the entire kingdom who could fathom such a malicious attack. For yet another time, she silently swore against her former teacher. “His name’s Roost. Count Roost. Down in th’ Seagulf Islands,” Speebie said, and Tuette blinked the bewilderment away. “Count Roost?” Speebie nodded. “Who’s that?” The ta looked balefully at Tuette. “Didn’t I jus’ state I didn’t know who he was? Some guy in th’ south lookin’ to cause problems is all I could guess, miss ‘prentice.” “Well, shouldn’t we do something?” Speebie rolled her eyes and let out a theatric sigh laced with tension. “Listen, ‘prentice, a Curse that’s meant t’ ‘compass an entire kingdom will take several days ‘fore it finally comes t’ fruition. Wif our methods of travel, we’ll be able t’ send someone down t’ th’ Islands in time to stop this rogue. An’ if we don’ get there in time, we can always Reverse it, one way,” the ta pulled her thumb across her throat maliciously, sticking out her tongue and saying “or the other.” She then spit and cackled a little. Tuette feared that the vibrations would knock one of her eyeballs loose as they didn’t look entirely stable inside her withered head. What unsettled the sorceress more though was the idea that there was someone in addition to Corunny Voidet who could literally build new Curses. It should have been near impossible, but Voidet had his hands on some bound scripts: a collection of parchments that contained sequences of Magik that ought to have been otherwise forgotten. As if he had found the Lost Tomes of Ancient Magik. Voidet’s collection couldn’t be the Lost Tomes though because his parchments were relatively new in age, from what Tuette had been able to deduce. In the years she had been Voidet’s apprentice, she had glimpsed the large tome a couple of times. It only caught her eye because it was rare for people to collect their scripts in one pile: some tended to be physically Potent due to the words upon them and could cause harm to the collection as a whole; oppel ink was known to be somewhat dangerous when contained. So has Voidet lost his own tome to this Roost fellow? Or, somehow, another collection of scripts was discovered? In the four years that Tuette had been traveling, collecting knowledge of Magik as best she could while maintaining seclusion, had Voidet met an untimely demise, making her present stories somewhat true? No, that could not be it: her Curse was still in place. If and when Voidet died, and if Tuette didn’t perform the Reverse, the Curse of the Hood would be lifted as that was always the ultimate Curse Reverse. Unless it was a preconception Curse. But that wasn’t the case with Tuette. Perhaps someone had incapacitated Voidet and stole his collection? That seemed possible though how someone had managed to enact such a deed, she could not guess: he was a very protective person, enabling preventative measures of Magik to insure his life was ever extended. Ta Speebie’s attitude about the situation seemed a little callous for Tuette’s taste. Did she not think the Curse authentic? How had she known about it in the first place? What would represent an entire kingdom when casting a Curse on a whole kingdom anyway? For humans, a small piece from their person was all that was required: usually a few strands of hair. That piece infused by a Spell with a similar piece from the caster is what makes the caster able to share the status of being Cursed. For non-Cursed individuals of Magik, different measures are taken to set up a Block as the only thing that could stop a person from being truly Cursed was to already be Cursed. As the Block creates a masque of the Curse status, Magik does not allow such an invasive practice. Some Blocks were engineered to inform the protected when someone has just attempted to cast a Curse on them and some of those could trace the ritual back to who attempted it. This had to be the case with the elder ta. The perryta should have also been Blocked but then again, even the masque could scare some Magikals. This was becoming a sensitively seeded ground to tread upon regarding the issues of known Magik. “How do we know that this Roost guy cast this unknown Curse?” Tuette asked with apprehension tied into her voice. “Well, first off,” began Ta Speebie, “my Curse Block – you know what that is, dearie? – well, it told me that someone had jus’ ‘tempted to Curse me, sometime las’ night. So I aimed to find out who. My Block don’t tell me that-t. I took that there map weave,” she pointed to the two hundred year-old roll on the shelf, “and covered it with some of my precious fig fur that I keep in storage.” Her eyes glassed over then as she stared into empty space as if in remembrance. “I sure miss my little Setteena. The rough-muzzled bastard.” Tuette wasn’t sure how to accept the digression but it was somewhat obvious that Setteena had been the ta’s fig from weeks, months, or even years ago. Fig fur kept for a long time and was a common enough ingredient in Seeker Spells, mainly because figs were one of the more useful canines when it came to finding things. Tuette herself had not performed any such Spell before or even seen one cast but had read about them years ago. Ta Speebie continued. “It was sprinkled so fine. So, with my weave sprinkled up, I said th’ right words, o’ course, and th’ furs that began to glow were th’ ones covering Boost in th’ Seagulf Islands, down south.” Fy’tay reached for the weave roll as she was standing very close to it and she set it on a clear patch of the counter, undoing it a little. The weave was of Decennia from two hundred years ago, yes, but the land masses were relatively the same or similar. The Fortright Isles seemed to be missing a few – or had gained a few in the last couple centuries – and Uv-Hren and Jint were not even represented. But the Seagulf Islands were clearly on the bottom portion of the map. When looked at from this height, the Islands, nine in total, formed a general seagull shape with one arm of islands arcing away, resembling an extended wing that formed the gulf which comprised the name. Tuette was not familiar with the Islands but there was one labeled Boost that had a faintly singed quality about it. She guessed that the fig fur had begun to burn through the fabric. When Tuette rubbed her index finger against the burn, she looked up and Ta Speebie seemed abashed. “I had asked th’ furs to show th’ caster in relation to th’ spell. Since it’s so ‘compassing, th’ furs burned hot there. Now ma map is marred up.” “But the Curse originated from there, in the Seagulf Islands? How do you know it’s this count? It could be anyone, really.” The ta shook her head and Fy’tay spoke up then. “No, it couldn’t have been anyone, just someone Cursed. And the only person in power down in Boost is this Count Roost. He’s said to be a handsome tyrant, well muscled, eyes baby blue, and a wicked personality; Cursing servants who do not please him; Cursing citizens who rebel against him. It’s caused a ruckus, to say th’ least. Even the king’s makin’ a journey down there to stop the crackin’ count.” “How do you know that much?” “Because the king is headed for Zharinna first, right now, by splintback and will arrive in the evening.” Tuette felt her eyes roll at the mention of the monarch. These people had known the whole time that the king was coming, whoever he was, and that he was personally moving to stop the Curse against his kingdom. It seemed like a foolish publicity stunt, especially if the king would just end up Cursed for his troubles. She then wondered if the king could call under a Curse. He – his bloodline anyway – had been selected by Magik centuries ago, in a time when the nation needed a strong leader. Did that Magik protect the line from Magikal woe? Or if not, did the maturation time between the casting and when the Curse finally took effect disallow him from being Cursed, along with everyone else in the kingdom? Tuette’s heart leaped a little at the notion as a kingdom filled with Cursed people would make her feel that much more secure about her own stance. She’d never heard of a Curse taking so long to mature though so the issue was largely unexplored. The encompassing physical area of the Curse is what obviously called for the considerable length of time that was to pass. Her thoughts paused then when she realized that they had both already known the origins of the nationwide Curse. So why had they subtly presumed to think she had done it? She looked into the ta’s eyes, knowing the realization of the situation was resting inside her own. The smile from Ta Speebie confirmed the likelihood of the knowledge they had just garnered. Tuette was determined to hold onto her story though and act if necessary. Reflexively, she moved her tightened grip down the strap, towards the haven of her satchel. “Don’t, dearie.” She started to reach into her bag, hoping that maybe she would grab the Firedom Expansion Pote or one of the Flash Potes and enable a quick escape. The time it would take to get back to the swan would be short since she had been taken straight through the town… But Fy’tay was quicker. She grabbed Tuette’s wrists with deft ease and put them against the counter. Tuette struggled, fear coursing through her veins. Were they to offer her up to the king? Was he seeking a concubine or a producer of heirs? Or did they want to make a public example of what end Cursed people could meet? What was the design? Ta Speebie said audibly “Yes, we know you’re Cursed. You confirmed it for us.” Tuette felt anguish then and unease over being confined. It had been four years and she had fallen in with fewer and fewer Magikals for just this reason: they were too crafty and quicker still to work against their own in the name of a Curse. “Tuette, calm yourself! We don’t want to hurt you. We need you!” The perryta’s comment made Tuette suspend with wonder. What would they ever need her for? She did as instructed, slackening her arms. The idea formulated to jerk down with the slack, possibly breaking free, grabbing whatever Pote she could and smashing it upon the counter. The old ta wouldn’t be able to move quickly enough. “Tuette, please.” Fy’tay looked strained in the face as if she felt anguish over what she was doing. “Your wordlessness betrays your thoughts. You have no chance to escape these.” The perryta then held up her right hand, keeping Tuette’s own down with only the left. What she wore on the raised hand’s palm was some type of skeletal working. “It’s a modified Mighty Grip, stripped down to the core so I could hide it from you.” Tuette had heard of Mighty Grips before. They were usually gauntlet-like in size and manner and enabled the wearer considerable strength inside their hands while exerting almost no force through the gauntlets. Minimal force was also felt but heavy resistance produced a heavier holding force. Tuette knew these modified ones, fashioned only to trace the palms, had to be powerful still because she had thought it was a moderate strength that Fy’tay possessed. That or Tuette was weaker than she knew. She wasn’t sure of which but she was sure that as long as the perryta wore the Grips, she was her prisoner. The only thought of relief she ensnared was the fact that these Magikals were not Koso. The Grips brought the notion to mind though, except those people didn’t need direct contact to exert their physical will… “Tuette, remain focused. You still have to meet with Ta Bep’toj for the sake of the Freezing Pote. We need to have it prepared for when the king is ready to depart. There are only nine days until the Curse transpires. And we still only have a general notion of where to begin in conducting the proper Reverse.” She could barely maintain her concentration though. What’s my Freezing Pote have to do with the Curse and the king? He’s really coming to start a journey for stopping this rogue count? What does any of this matter to me? Since she was Cursed, she knew she didn’t need to worry about the rest of the kingdom. I’m naturally – or unnaturally – immune! Perryta Fy’tay grabbed Tuette’s wrists and subtly dragged her along. Tuette kind of felt like crying a little bit; she still didn’t totally understand the reasoning for this path of deception on which she was forced to travel. To let these captors see her expression of fear and disdain would’ve been no good. So she kept her tears to herself. They stopped before exiting. “Tuette, I’m going to have to let go of you but you will walk where I tell you to. I don’t want to make a scene for my citizens.” She released her grip and looked Tuette straight in the eye. “But I will make one if necessary. Do not attempt anything, Tuette. It’s very important.” She gestured toward the door then. Ta Speebie called after them both as they exited. “Hope she’s all she’s cracked up to be. Ha!” * ~ * ~ * In contrast to the other tas that located their residences around the Talking Tree, Ta Bep’toj lived closer to the northern edge of the forest, where the lake – or more appropriately, the lek – met with the plains. Tuette had not noticed it the previous day because his shed and equipment had been erected just at the lip of the forest. It made sense though as the northern side seemed to own a wide and managed path that went from the town to the Freezing Clan station to Mount Reign straightaway. It would most likely be this road that the king would be arriving on later in the day. It also made sense to have the Freezing Clansman setup close to the body of water that was dealt with on a daily basis. The roadway was well kempt, which told Tuette it had to have been apart from the Nementor Paths; those were beyond manageable hope. The forest that she had tramped through on the previous day was mostly on the right side of the wide path. It angled away at points, usually around boulders that seemed out of place. Tuette thought to knock Fy’tay down and reach into her sack for the Shock… The perryta gripped Tuette’s forearm before it could dip into the rucksack. “I told you no tricks, sorceress. I’m well versed in our ways. And I’m not a perryta because of my looks. I’ve been studying and working with Magik for decades.” She flexed the grip before releasing it, adding, “Just cooperate.” Tuette was a little miffed about the situation. Usually, when she was in danger, she would get into her swan-home and leave. But that was on the other side of the forest. She swore at herself silently for being so gullible about these Zharinnans. As they traveled through the town, no one gave them stray glances despite Fy’tay’s title. They obviously knew not to sway her from whatever her goal was concerning Ta Bep’toj. On the north side outskirts of Zharinna, the town seemed deserted. Tuette inquired where everybody was. “Most of the Freezers live on the north side of town, where it’s easier to access the lek. Bep’toj is the only one who lives right on the lek. He takes his work seriously and the location helps him keep an eye on his apprentices. He doesn’t want them to learn so much about the trade so that they could just break off and start their own.” Tuette didn’t understand as she had never delved into the profession of Freezing before. When Tuette was younger, she remembered ice blocks being delivered, installed, and the Clansmen left. No one asked questions because it was a common enough practice. And since the Curse, she was naturally wary of Magikals. This thought process made her wonder why she had not been as cautious with these Magikals. They had turned out to be the worst she had encountered so far. Normal people could be easily avoided with Magik help. But Magikals were known to be ruthless and she stayed on guard usually. But these had gotten through her defenses with relative ease. How? She realized the how as the pair continued their on-foot hike on the road, swinging away from the forest as a great stone jutted from the ground, or perhaps had fallen from a great height into the ground. But what she grasped concerning her caution was that these Magikals had seemed overly genuine. She had saved them from a belcarotia and they expressed gratitude and were open and honest about everything. That should’ve been my first clue. They told me exactly what I wanted to hear. Needed to hear. She recalled Fy’tay’s compliments of Magik knowledge; how they had made her feel as if she were a friend who had found her way home. Even Ta Speebie with her cantankerous attitude played the part of a disapproving matriarch. Tuette felt like a damn fool. “Was that belcarotia really a threat?” she asked, knowing the answer. “It most certainly was. And those three Mages were truly rebellious against Zharinna as a whole. They wanted to destroy us and had waited for the perfect time to do so: when our Freezers were away.” Tuette let thoughts pass through her mind then that revolved mostly around Fy’tay personally manipulating a situation where the three Mages had become as distraught and angry as they were with just the right knowledge to use against Zharinna. It was a dangerous game, for sure. What if I hadn’t been there at all? Was there really much of a risk? Did Fy’tay have a Seer in her retinue of tas? She decided to hold that question for later as they angled around an even larger boulder and were facing east after they came around the bend. The shed was seen on this side of the tree line, still a distance away but Tuette could also see her home on the edge of the lek. The sight of her usual salvation sent a spike of hope through her heart. But people seemed to be patrolling it and that discovery made her uneasy. The home had served her faithfully for years and now these people were holding it hostage. Fy’tay spoke, her voice as flighty as ever, her smile seemingly strained. “They’ve not entered your home, of that I can assure you.” Tuette still felt ruffled but a slight relief was gained knowing that her possessions were untouched. Supposedly. “I hate to do this to another sorceress, Tuette. Especially one as knowledgeable as you. But this Roost fellow has caused a problem and we need your help. It’s essential that the king survive his quest.” Tuette decided that a conversation might depreciate the perryta’s awareness and allow the Cursed apprentice a chance to escape. She still owned the Firedom Pote and she could easily Charm one of her prepped stones to become a Melt and Stay Stone, a Go Stone, or possibly an Explode Stone. But she would have to harvest a recitation from her memories, a task of great difficulty as there were several to mentally weed through. “Why is he even embarking on it at all? Why not send a lackey?” “Because we believe that Roost is after more than just dominance over the kingdom. He wants something from the king personally.” “How can you know this, Fy’tay?” The phrase for Charming an Explode Stone was forming in her brain. Separate with speed so quick, enforce your will in my grip? No, that’s not it. “We have sources all over the kingdom, Tuette.” She glanced at Tuette then and then looked forward again. “And don’t bother with any of your prepped Stones either. They passed a Disarming Field back at Speebie’s. They’re just rocks now.” Tuette blew out an angry sigh then. Had she been moving her lips while attempting to remember the phrase? She thought she was being careful. It was useless though, as the perryta had said: her preps were rocks now. Probably her Shock Stone too. The two Potes she carried though, having left the rest hidden in her home, would not have been disarmed; the glass vials would have protected the liquids from the Field. She felt her shoulders slump slightly in defeat though. It seemed wholly hopeless. “And even if you did escape, those Mages around your home have Life Spell eggs Charmed and ready. By the time you might reach it, it’d be in the air and gone. Though we feel wrong about entering your private sanctuary, we have no problem with sending it away. Now don’t tarry. Bep’toj has assembled his fellow Freezers and they’re all ready to contribute in fashioning a new Freezing Pote.” Something ticked inside Tuette’s mind. “How do I know this is genuine, om Yett? How do I know that there is such a threat and you and your Clan aren’t trying to pressure me into sharing my own Pote with you? I imagine such a powerful Pote would put your Freezers ahead of the game.” Fy’tay stopped and turned about. Was she angry, that Tuette had used her family’s name and Tuette had none that could be fashioned into leverage? Her cheeks were flushed and she looked angry which contrasted with the curly hairs that framed her soft face. She looked as if she was about to spit on Tuette. Instead, her arms went limp, dangling at her sides, and the perryta lifted her hands to her face, whispering into her wrists. The Grips unlatched from her palms and fell into the woman’s sleeves. She dropped her arms in defeat and the Grips fell to the ground, soundless. “Well I wouldn’t want you to feel pressured into it, madam. And there’s no way I can convince you. But I guess your participation requires more trust than I assume you might possess. All I can say is that this situation is real. The Curse is real. Count Roost wants to do something terrible and our king, foolish as it might seem, wants to personally stand up to the situation. He wants to handle it with whatever help he can. He has everyone’s interest at heart.” “It sounds like he has his public perception at heart.” Fy’tay laughed; it was terse. She then turned and continued towards the small shed at the edge of the forest. “Fine. Fantastic. If that’s the only way you want to see it, Tuette, then that’s it. The king will Freeze a flock of chickens some other way. I hope Ta Bep’toj has culled an alternative.” Her mind felt loosened at the comment; she felt her breath catch. A flock of chickens? “What?” she all but shouted after Fy’tay. The perryta turned, her face looking rougher, her eyes red around the edges. If Tuette had been reintroduced after months of absence, she imagined she wouldn’t recognize the woman from how she had appeared only a day before. But the flock of chickens that she said were to be Frozen…. It couldn’t have been Voidet because the physical description was wrong. But what Fy’tay could only be talking about was the Curse Reverse that had been enacted to stop Count Roost’s Potentially-lethal Curse, whatever it was. And they needed her Freezing Pote because it was a definite solution to the problem. It’s also the same Reverse that I need to perform. But it could not be Voidet. Which meant that her former teacher had been robbed of his precious collection of scripts and now some megalomaniac with a mission was looking to use the man’s Curses and Spells to take the kingdom hostage. Tuette had been unable to perform the required Reverse because chickens were extremely rare creatures. In the past, their species had been harvested for dietary purposes – people used to believe that eating enough chicken meat enabled flight – and as a result, they had almost become extinct. It also didn’t help that so many Spells and Charms, like the Life Spell that Tuette so often employed, called for the use of eggs. Chicken eggs were supposed to be the most Potent eggs for Charming but snake eggs were what Tuette had to use most often. As a result, her Spell usually only worked near or during night, dissipating by dawn. Other eggs of the avian variety allowed for more convenient times but she knew that if she used chicken eggs, she would be able to travel more consistently; they were the best in that the Magik invoked through them lasted the longest. But if the king had information as to where a flock of chickens could be found and she was going to get her Freezing Pote reformulated by a group of well-practiced Freezers, then she was that much closer to bringing about the end of her own Curse! While these thoughts processed, Fy’tay had picked up her modified Mighty Grips and pocketed them. She was looking at Tuette now, still appearing upset over Tuette’s words or actions or both. “What, Tuette? Did you have a question about our predicament? I mean, I know that since you’re already Cursed, you don’t have to care about whatever this Roost tyrant is going to do but the rest of us aren’t lucky enough to have Blocks or already be Cursed. So we do what we can because I can only imagine what is in store.” She sniffed once, heavily. “So do whatever you like. We’ll do what we can with what we…” “I’ll do it,” she said, surprising even herself. But this was a step towards solving her problem; towards ending her Curse and finally getting on with her life. She tightened her hood before continuing. “I’ll help as best I can. But the Freezing Pote is going to take a lot more people than a Freezing Clan to concoct in time.” Perryta Fy’tay smiled then, sniffling once. “Oh, don’t worry. We have many that are willing to work for the cause.” Tuette eventually came to discover that the perryta wasn’t lying about that much. They approached the shed, which was small. They knocked and a gruff looking man exited bodily as if he was unsure of how much weight or muscle he might possess. “Ta Bep’toj, this is Apprentice Tuette.” Characteristically, she expected a cold person in the previously-unknown ta, denoting the profession, stereotypical as the presumption was. Realistically, that was what she got. Ta Bep’toj didn’t possess a warm personality. “This the woman?” he said with a brusqueness that alarmed Tuette. She almost stepped back because he possessed what she came to know as “crazy eyes”: they seemed to be trying to look everywhere at once. “Yes, this is her.” Fy’tay looked around. “Where are your Freezers?” He stepped past the females and stood at the edge of the lek. There was no sand at this perimeter but a smooth bank of grass and dirt that terminated with a very short drop into the water. Tuette wondered if it was safe to stand upon. It must have been since Bep’toj now stood there, looking across the lek. The burly ta scanned the surface of the water, his black, curled locks brushing subtly against his shoulders. He whistled once then, loudly, and it echoed across the water. Rather, it had appeared to echo stereophonically but once he stopped, Tuette heard that several more were being sent back to him from many points. Then figures appeared to stand up on the surface of the lek in small groups. There were at least twenty or twenty-five people at initial glance. Tuette had never seen anything like it before. They then began to glide towards the sandy bank that had been shadowed by the forest. Once they found shore, Tuette saw the explanation for the display. The boats they had been inside were charmed somehow with Chameleon Silk. “It’s not Silk, but the diluted Blood of chameleons splashed on the surface of the skiffs. The Freezers need to see beneath the boat and this is the most practical way. They’ve tried fastening Reseeing Stones beneath the boats but then no light came through and the Glow Globes we have don’t work underwater.” Tuette frowned. “Are there any chameleons left in this area?” Fy’tay released an apprehensive smile. “They have become scarce but these skiffs have lasted for a long time. They are maintained very well.” She had really been expressing concern about the upkeep of the boats but she let the thought flitter away. Looking at the boats on the shore, she saw them slowly change their translucence. She knew that the Silk was quick to adapt to an environment but this Blood was diluted so must have taken longer to change what reflected light was being sent through it. The practice seemed a little harsh for Tuette as well. With the Silk, the creatures didn’t have to die. When Blood was shed, that meant that one or more of the chameleons had probably been slain for the cause. And chameleons only used their Silk to capture wary insects anyway. It took a lot to fashion a cloak of the type that Fy’tay om Yett most likely owned. The people that stood around the skiffs all looked towards Ta Bep’toj as if for instruction. They wore articles of clothing that might have been part of a set of uniforms at one time but their individual tastes shone through starkly. Bep’toj turned and addressed Tuette. “What do we need to make up this Pote before the king arrives?” Tuette mentally ran over the ritual and required ingredients before responding. The main ingredient was ice and the Freezers could easily provide that. “We’ll need a stem of bordacke root and one of sin ty root. For the expanding effect. And some center fruit juice for the longevity of the effect. Some grip juice or Whismerl vine juice as well. I’ll collect the wood for the fire and the herbs required there. It won’t work without them.” She knew she had to withhold some knowledge because a part of her could not help but reserve the idea that harm might come to her once she was no longer useful. Bep’toj’s “crazy eyes” were really all that backed the supposition but it felt like enough for her. No one seemed to object to her clinging to her secret herbal concoction. With each ingredient, nods were doled out and Tuette felt that this could finally work. She would manufacture the Pote, travel with the king if it was absolutely necessary, and finally Reverse her wretched, awful Curse. She would finally be free of her Curse. Finally free. A weight seemed to lift from her heart then and she felt her eyes begin to water gently from the effect, as if the force was shoving the tears out. The possibilities seemed to open up in her mind. She could follow the path of a ta or become a teacher or even a freelance sorceress, traveling the land – and maybe even the world – to gather more Magik knowledge. But Tuette knew she had to take this new path one step at a time and tread the road carefully. She knew uncertainty was lying in the future but also that she would tackle it with the determination that could only sprout from being held back by a Curse for so long. She felt she was more than ready. Now, for the first step, she had to trust these Zharinnans with fashioning her Freezing Pote with her. Tuette felt she had no other choice when it came to Reversing her Curse. So trust she would, for better or for worse, direly hoping the latter didn’t apply. |
| He had placed great trust into Puze. It was true that the servant was bound by situation to the count but he didn’t have to obey. He could be released from each cage with Roost’s permission and return with nothing to show for it. The little creature had even returned with the unique but wholly inconvenient plant one floor below, smashing his glass-mesh cage in the process. Roost had been forced to slightly modify the Curse that Puze was under to insure that anything brought back with him was outside of the unique cages. Puze, of course, had to also revert outside of them in those circumstances and it was extremely difficult to capture a being so small but it was worth it to be able to instantly transport items and even humans to Castle Tigra Lei. Fortunately and unfortunately, he couldn’t instantly send the objects or persons back if he wanted to. In his current state, the latter was the case as Puze had just brought with him a lei cat, which the castle was partially named after. The irony was not lost on the count. Sporadically striped in places, the lei cat had a strip of white, tall-standing hair that ran down its spine, ending in a semi-prehensile tail. The paws were massive and he knew they sheathed thin but deadly claws, five on each paw. The mouth was abnormally wide and the cat was as long as Roost was tall, minus the tail, but he still felt like he was handling the situation just fine. I always enjoy standing on top of my workbenches whenever I get the chance! He had VoiRen bikes on each forearm, extended for maximum effect and with the first few slashes, the count had made the large cat learn a small dose of respect for the weapons. Now the lei cat was on the opposite side of the room, pacing back and forth, sniffing about. Puze hovered indifferently close by, laughing at the situation he had produced for the count. The night wind whipped in through the window behind Roost, making him remember how lightly dressed he was. “Puze, you buzzed bastard, help me or I’ll…” “You-u-u weel whay-at? You-u-u die-why, I live-ee. I-I ween. All-l ween!” He then laughed some more and Roost felt like smacking the nuisance out of the air. He swung one of the pikes towards Puze, striking the creature with pure luck. But the only thing the action achieved was Puze dying and reappearing inside the cage at Roost’s own feet. The only reason the VoiRen didn’t travel with the problematic pest was most likely because he had no firm purchase on it; being slammed in the head tended to break a person’s focus. The creature continued to laugh though, much to Count Roost’s distaste. Where was Botch? Count Roost didn’t know. Did the boy not hear the large cat’s screeching meows? Was he even in the castle? Roost found himself both hoping the boy would appear at the door in order to distract the cat but declined against such wishing as the boy was working out wonderfully as a servant. Hate to lose him so soon. The cat finally stopped pacing, as if coming to a decision. It backed itself in between a thick desk and tall bookcase and positioned itself as if about to pounce. “It’s about time,” muttered the count. With a blood freezing shriek, the cat leaped. Roost collapsed with sheer will, heaping himself against the table and then he rolled forward, onto the floor. Surprisingly, the gambit worked. The lei cat, a creature that was widely known to throw full weight at its prey, had glided over Roost and landed on the workbench. While it was attempting to turn itself for a second strike, Roost moved himself under the bench and pushed up with his shoulder blades against the underside of the worktable, his arms extended backwards like a bird. With the physical effort, he felt his face contort with more than just strain; he felt like he was losing his bodily composure. Like the effort might be undoing him. Despite the sensation, Count Roost presumed to lift mightily anyway. The bench finally began to tip to one side as Roost had been lifting beneath the side furthest away from the window. He felt the weight above suddenly shift as the cat, confused about where its prey had disappeared to, suddenly braced itself upon this moving piece of furniture. With a moaning grunt of energy, Roost finally heaved the workbench, cat and all, against the window. The cat was fighting though and it finally found purchase with the edge of the table and made a leap towards the center of the room. The table was furthered towards tipping with the cat’s pushing movement and it finally collapsed against the wall with a crash of Puze’s cage heard very clearly. Roost heard the glass shards clatter lightly and delicately, like icicles dropping onto a frozen pond. Then the beastly cat roared with fierceness, sending drool all about while its head thrashed in pain and anger. Roost rolled himself to the side, looked back, and saw what the lei cat was angry about: its tail had been pinned between the short end of the upturned workbench and the stone wall. This was the chance the count knew he would never obtain again. With panicked clumsiness, he repositioned his VoiRens and, while the cat realized its prey had moved, he punched forward, coinciding with the cat leaping towards him in spite of the injured tail. They met wholly with Roost’s VoiRens entering the cats maw of a mouth. One pike went straight through the throat and was encased by the warm body. The other penetrated the brain and stopped the deadly feline cold, protruding through to hug against the cat’s furry back. Green and variously gray tufts of lost fur seemed to be snowing down on the combatants as if afraid to descend while the fighting commenced. His breathing was coming in shallow gasps now and he felt like his heart was going to pound its way out of his chest. He withdrew the VoiRens, deftly setting them against the wooden bookcase to properly condense them. Roost stood and heard Puze still laughing. Looking around, Roost saw the little fiend in another cage atop the bookcase. He had assumed Puze might survive the overturning of the workbench. It didn’t matter either way as it was a necessary action to save himself. The audacity of the little Cursed creature amazed the count. What a fighting spirit! “I’m guessing that with this stunt,” the count began, “you mean to slay me and not attempt to follow my own orders?” Puze didn’t answer but had finally ceased his laughter. Roost looked down at the ferocious cat. He knew the beast was native to the Seagulf Island chain, which meant the bothersome Puze had not even attempted to cross over the shallow depths that gave way to the inviting mainland of the kingdom. The creature had probably landed on the lei cat and merely waited until death was set to overcome. Again, Roost couldn’t help but subtly appreciate the nerve of the Cursed animal. He had never attempted such a feat before except with the curious plant below but Roost assumed that was merely to break his first cage. Thought of the plant made the count’s mind drift over the unusualness of the organism. It had been present for a handful of weeks already but, despite Roost’s orders to keep it sparsely watered, the thing had sprouted additional roots and stems and aimed to extend its current ones towards the windows. The count assumed the plant was trying to soak up as much sunlight as it could. And it wasn’t like it was away from its native soil as some of that had transferred with Puze as well. Perhaps Botch had taken a sympathetic feeling for it and was watering it more than Roost had desired. He would address the issue later. Presently, he had a dead lei cat to get rid of. Mentally, he went over the various useful properties of the cat’s anatomy. The fur, striped as it was, could be used in a decent Concealment Pote. The blood was known to be Potent in various ales. The tail was considered a trophy to some. The gently hollow teeth would make fine transference ports for Artificials. Yes, Roost would try his best to make the best use out of the situation. As for Puze, the count had to come up with a different tactic. He knew he couldn’t modify the Curse with further constituents as that might tease the health of the Curse and eventually shatter it, freeing the ill-deserving servant. But Charms are another matter. He needed Puze to plant a specialized Artificial or, if that failed, to at least create a Re-Seeing Stone near one of the locations that the king would be sleeping for a night. He knew the crown had to be experiencing a certain dread terror over taking on such a task as to stop Roost himself and the count knew that people who were scared tended to be people who made mistakes. His mind ticked then to think back on his childhood, when he was upon the stage in front of the crowd, choking and crying and still trying to sing. He’d been very afraid then. With a will, he put the memory away with hopes that it would stay localized in his personal hollow of nightmare realms where such unpleasant recollections were supposed to reside. Hollow. Localized. Roost had an idea and he peered knowingly at Puze as he had a significant solution to Puze’s dissention. Grabbing a paperweight shaped like a snail, Roost bent down and looked into the face of the dead lei cat. He was mentally preparing himself for defense as the feline could easily be sleeping or pretending to be dead. Such an irrational fear for penetration of the brain is always a surefire means of execution. Except in the rare case of Demons. “But you’re no Demon,” he said subtly and with a hint of smirk as he wasn’t exactly sure who he was talking about at this point. Roost opened the mouthy maw and smashed at the base of the largest tooth with the stone snail. He couldn’t hope for a clean break but little blood from the damaged gums was released and the count had his tooth. “Whay-at eeees you-o dune?” asked Puze as Roost left the room, unwilling to answer and silently wishing that Puze knew how to better enunciate his language. He went to his bedchamber and retrieved the tome from his bureau. The room was tidier than usual which suggested to Roost that Botch had been present earlier and was now more than likely at home with his impoverished father. This meant he knew he couldn’t be angry with the lad as the count had never said that Botch had to live on grounds; the village-to-castle hike was minimal at best. With delicate hands, Roost thumbed through the scripts, feeling a certain power wash through him as the full Potency of the volume always seemed to surprise him further. He was looking into Artificials but he needed a way for one to be planted whether Puze wanted to do it or not. He also needed the pest to follow orders rather than flying off and attempting to bring lethal animals back with him. If only he was precon Cursed. Then he wouldn’t believe that my death would save him… The count paused. Yes! He couldn’t alter the Curse to act as if it was cast before Puze was conceived but could make Puze think that he was precon Cursed! He, like many, had to know that the death of the caster did not save a precon Cursed individual. It’ll be easy enough. Pre-conception Cursing is cast before one’s birth. And Puze was born… well, before long before his current lifetime. However I have to spin this, he’ll end up believing it. And the lei cat tooth he owned would make the perfect vessel for an Artificial. Roost knew he would just have to craft it here and then charm Puze so that when he was within proximity of the king, the Artificial would be planted. The quest had to be convincing, otherwise the king wouldn’t seek to personally encounter Roost. The count knew the king was only looking to generate the silly forest of chickens but with his life being put into direct danger by Roost, that almost guaranteed a showdown of some sort. After locating the proper scripts, Roost studied them briefly before leaving the bedchamber and going to talk to Puze. He knew he would have to keep the nature of the Artificial a secret because Puze wouldn’t go along with it. But if he could convince the beast that he was precon Cursed and that he alone was the only person who could deliver such an important message to the king, then that would all but insure that Roost would be free and clear of any dangers purported by the beast. Roost couldn’t simply die, could not let himself expire. I’m not impervious to harm or Immortal or whatever the ilk but I have to insure that Voidet dies first. And with a restful spirit. Only the Godblade would do that by providing little more than sentimental comfort. Fashioned by the ancestors of Voidet centuries ago, around the time when the Talking Trees had stopped working and Magik had been suspended, the Godblade represented the finest craftsmanship that could ever exist in a weapon. It symbolized power and harnessed so much more. Count Roost had never set eyes upon it, partially believing it to be a myth or possibly even destroyed long ago. But it was rumored to be resistant to damage while doling out harm and it was the only thing that Voidet had requested before death, meaning the count had decided to procure it promptly. In exchange for what I truly desire. It had been a journey that threatened to take him around the world, even to the fatalistic lands of Gor Pyron. The blade was supposed to reside there in the hands of a ruler that Roost had never met in person. He knew that in return for the awesome blade, the leader demanded only one thing: the kingstone. Therefore, Roost was willing to do whatever it took to get it. Even if it meant slaying the crown. |
| During his early years at Majramdic Academy, Sylvester had taken several types of lessons. All had been absorbed by previous kings but their importance was thus that repetition was necessary. Under normal circumstances, the king excelled in his courses because he had, in working theory, come across the knowledge already. This was never the case with Sylvester, who felt he had struggled through each and every lesson like a stork after a long flight. As such, his splintback lessons always seem to fall on the wayside of his academic youth; Sylvester used most of his riding lessons to study for other courses. Presently, the king wished he had not ducked out on so many splintback sessions because the splint he was upon didn’t follow any of his hastily-instructed commands. The stable boy, standing by Sylvester’s leg, had informed the king that his splint was named Eafa and she was said to be the best splint on the mountain. Which made Sylvester that much more leery about the situation; it meant the lack of response was most likely his own fault and not hers. “Jus’ ‘member, sir. Pull the hanks on her neck to be gettin’ her to turn which way ya want.” He reached up and put his tiny hand on Eafa’s left hank which looked to Sylvester like just another curved handle that, though attached at the midpoint between the mouth bit and the saddle, did not stick out too precariously. When the boy pulled on the handle – the hank – Eafa turned her head towards the lad while letting out a snorting whine. Sylvester imagined the animal didn’t enjoy the boy’s movement. The stable hand then patted Sylvester left ankle where it nearly intersected with the stirrup. “An’ ‘member to tap yer heel into her when you wanna get her goin’.” The pat had not evidently been forcible enough as Eafa didn’t move. Sylvester asked how hard he would have to push his heel into the splint. “Ah, not so hard, sir, King. Jus’ ‘as to be both heels at th’ same time. Then she’s off at a trot, yessa.” He nodded, smiling a little and Sylvester felt he was smiling not at the king’s poor observation but at the king’s inability to ride a splint competently before this day. The boy then pushed Sylvester’s knee into the splint’s side and Eefa released another noise of potential complaint. “If yer shootin’ to stop ‘er cold, just bring the knees into her. She’ll stop ‘mediately.” Sylvester nodded again and experimented by bringing both of his knees into Eafa’s side, just as the boy had instructed. Eafa let out a protest again and Sylvester could only assume it was because she had been given the command to halt and hadn’t even been moving. He felt silly for trying it and then marveled at how even a riding beast could make him feel as such. He gave the boy another glance and was reminded of his own instructor from when he was probably the boy’s own age. The instructor had obviously been a competent rider but this boy was equally as knowledgeable if not more so because Sylvester almost guaranteed himself that he would never forget how to ride a splint again. How does it work when the teaching manner and intelligence of a grown adult compares to that of a child? Sylvester was not sure he wanted to know what, if any, kind of revelation would make itself known while following that line of thought so she let it flit away and focused more on the moment at hand: he was now to wait until the Gousherall Guards arrived. It had been stated in a meeting with the Malforcrent that someone should accompany the king on his quest in saving the land. But who? The Gousheralls had been the designated protectors of the crown for several centuries but when requisitions like those made by Trisden Fellows and Brinttal Por Tyrenna called the Guards away from Mount Reign in times of peace – When isn’t there peace in Decennia? – who was called with immediacy? The answer had been boiled down to a paltry pair of greatly qualified Guardsmen. Sylvester didn’t know the names of the men who were coming to meet with him but he imagined he would learn in time. After acquiring the Guards, they were to pick up Dermy in the orchard. Sylvester grimaced at the thought, recalling the ease with which he had caused Dermy to fold over the king’s fist the day before. But it had been necessary due to the supposed presence of spies working against Sylvester personally. With that, Sylvester paused his notions. If spies had infiltrated the seemingly benign sector of the mountain devoted to the orchards and such, how many other areas housed men possessed of nefarious design? Already, he assumed that members of the Malforcrent had been harboring negative expressions against the crown. What exactly is Dothel op Prissen’s agenda? Sylvester looked down at the boy again and began having speculations towards what the boy was truly after. With Magik involved, anyone is suspect. This was a sobering realization for the king. But Dermy had confirmed that all directly involved with the beginnings of this quest could be rightfully trusted. It had been the night before while Sylvester and Penson had been studying the ring which the specialist had given Penson for safekeeping and emergency situations: the ring had gotten warmer when Sylvester was wearing it and in trying to pry the tight accessory off his finger, he had unknowingly activated it. After that and with haste, Dermy explained the properties of the ring, which was actually called a Comgem. The ring itself was only the casing but it was the gem set inside the band that held the Charm of the Magik device. With a Comgem, people from short or vast distances could communicate as if side by side. Sylvester was heartily impressed and saw the beneficial manners such an item would have in any situation. Without Sylvester atop the mountain, someone had to keep an eye on things and Penson was a dutifully prime choice. It seemed trouble was brewing from many areas at once and communication was essential to keep everyone in order. Through the Comgem, Dermy had laid out the plans for this current day. Sylvester was happy to have a set schedule. Though when he learned he would be riding splintback, he nearly protested the entire account. “I’ve never mastered the splint. Trips to New Opal have always been by carriage. And the foul beasts always tend to make the trip seem that much longer.” Which was true enough. If Eafa had been one of those beasts, Sylvester never would have known as she smelled like she was freshly preened. But he also couldn’t tell one splint from another anyway. The sound of another splint snorting came from outside of the stable. The boy turned his head towards the slimmer but tall side entrance. Sylvester followed the line of sight and saw the head of a similar splint beginning to pass by. Then he saw the rider’s knees knock gently into the sides of the animal and the pair came to a halt. Atop the beast was a Gousherall Guard. Though they possessed battle armor, this Guard wore what was probably termed as travel armor. Plates of metal covered the man’s upper and lower legs separately, his upper arms, and his torso, both front and back. Because of the spacing of the plates, the rider made almost no sound when atop the splint. His face was framed by a beard just a degree thicker than Sylvester’s own but brushed through with tinges of blue and grey. Sylvester wondered if a helmet was missing or just not being worn and figured he would wait for another time to ask. With the natural highlights of the beard, Sylvester would assume this Guard was at least twice his own age if not older. Experienced, indeed! And such an aged specimen would have no trouble in maintaining a loyal hand to the crown. Sylvester was suitably pleased with the choice of Guardsman. But where’s the other one? Sylvester could only assume he was behind the first Guard or standing sentry at another point in hopes of deterring any other would-be spies, saboteurs, and possibly even assassins. The last notion chilled Sylvester a degree because with someone harmlessly watching your moves from afar, they tended to not make a negative impact against your present stance. But if that someone decided or had been ordered to take actions against a target, resulting in termination… Sylvester didn’t like thinking about it. But he knew it was a very real prospect. With a Curse set against not just the throne but the entire kingdom of Decennia, and with Sylvester himself taking on the task of Reversing that Curse, his own mortality was destined to come under examination. He had to prove that he had the power to perform such an act of salvation. Even if I’m only proving it to myself. The stable boy slapped Eafa on her flank, making the splint move forward, toward the other splint outside. The boy began emitting a clicking sound and Sylvester looked at the lad’s mouth to see how such a sound was made. He’d never heard anyone do this before. Mimicking what the boy was doing on the outside, he could only guess what was going on inside his mouth. Sylvester flicked his tongue around and began to drool profusely. He stopped and turned his head to face forward and saw the Gousherall watching him with a broad smile. Sylvester then realized how silly he must have looked, especially if he was mimicking the boy’s facial expression but not the sound. Exiting the stable with a twinge of regret over what the Guardsman had witnessed, Sylvester saw the second Guard atop another splint at the end of the building, looking the other way. It was slowly brightening outside by this time, like the sun was testing the attitude of the sky before stepping up to be embraced by it. Sylvester had been made to wake up before dawn’s break as time was essential seeing as how it was working against the kingdom generally and Sylvester specifically. The Guard just beyond the side entrance said nothing and made motions for Sylvester to follow him. They ambled past the supposed sentry – a younger man garbed similarly but with shorter, lighter hair upon his scalp and none on his face – and continued away from the stable towards the orchards. The sentry took up rearguard duty and Sylvester began to feel a little uncomfortable. For years, before even his time at the academy, he had been subjected to the presence of a Gousherall during several moments in his life. They had always been stoically silent or absurdly friendly. The present pair of Guards could easily be of the stoic batch but they generally spoke even a minimal greeting. Of course, it dawned on Sylvester the notion that of the few people who knew of the properties surrounding the kingstone, the Gousheralls would and most likely did. That would mean that, if they have been serving the crown long enough, they need not introduce themselves: the elder one had to have known his father. Something else clicked inside Sylvester’s head then. Though the seemingly younger Gousherall could not have been there, the older one would most likely have been present when Sylvester’s father, King Gould, had taken his ill-fated plunge over the cliff while birding on the Fanway shoreline. It had been publicly ruled as a tragic accident – tragic, indeed, for the outcome was a king succeeding at such a young age, an Advisory Council had to be instated! - but there were rumors circulating within circles, as rumors tend to do that, that King Gould had been… he didn’t want to think of the word assassinated but there truly was no other word that might supplant. Had the Gousheralls who had been designed to protect the king during that seemingly benign afternoon conspired to literally overthrow their crown? Were these two maybe forced into submission while someone else carried out the deed? Had either even been present? Sylvester cursed himself and his wretched kingstone for not providing the answers. It was said that all memories and experiences would be his to learn from and relate with in regards to leading Decennia. But Penson’s revelation from the day prior also came back to rush upon the king’s mind: King Gould’s kingstone had been as severely dissociated from his own mind as Sylvester’s currently was. In that state, would the memories ever be harvested or did they move on with his spirit into whatever realm would accost it? If that’s the case, I might never know what truly happened to my father. He did gently ache to learn the truth though. And if this elder Guardsman or even both of them—as a youthful face did not always possess a youthful mind—had had anything to do with the circumstances surrounding King Gould, Sylvester felt he should rightfully know. He couldn’t though, not presently. And if these Guards held ill intentions, despite the reassurance of Specialist Dermy, Sylvester would probably never know. Not until the dastardly deed was perpetrated at least. If anything, they already had a piece of humiliation against Sylvester; he internally chided himself for attempting to replicate a simple clicking sound while in the sight of others. It was a decidedly short trip from the northern area of Fyse Castle through the landscaping that gave way to the orchards to the west. Shorter still with Sylvester’s mind jumping from one thought to another. Wishing he could focus, the king was faintly reminded of the grip juice and wondered if there was an aspect of Magik that could make a person’s thought process stay in one place. He made a mental note to ask Dermy at some point. The large barn was in sight but before they completed their approach, the point Guard halted his splint. Sylvester, directly behind the man, attempted to resurrect riding lessons long dead and even those that had been recently replanted but couldn’t. He tried subtly but with a might to stop his splint but she only moved forward. Without even a noise from Eafa’s short snout, she collided with the leading splint. The Gousherall turned, moving his hand to the short sword sheathed at the hip, and then let a small smile escape his face, looking like a pearly stone strip amidst a graying sea of bristles. “Remember, sir: pressure your splint with your knees to stop her. Your heels only make her ride on.” His voice was of a slightly lower timbre than Sylvester’s and carried the same accent, registering that he had, in fact, been raised and trained in the Fortright Isles. A subtle nod rolled off the Guard, as if to emphasize the general lesson. Had he been squeezing with his heels rather than his knees? He must have as Eafa had only propelled herself forward. He felt his face redden with hot embarrassment. Another splint was heard in the continuously expanding light. Sylvester looked around, his stomach churning a little. Was this an ambush? Were these two even Gousheralls…? The question died as Dermy, atop a drably colored splint, rounded the nearest bank of trees. Sylvester released his breath, never thinking he would be so pleased to see someone like Dermy. Though fears were not dashed, they definitely subsided. “How’a, Kingasir?” said Dermy in something just above a harsh whisper. He came up alongside Eafa, guiding his own splint to be parallel to the king’s in such a deft manner that Sylvester envied the specialist. For but a moment. His physical exterior was almost exactly the same as it had been the day before and Sylvester almost let the guilt override him again. He thought to ask Dermy if he truly was okay but thought better of it as these Gousheralls Guards might not be wholly trusted in the end. After all, he was still in his Magiked disguise for some reason. “Uh, hello, Dermy.” The Gousheralls nodded in succession to the specialist, all the while focusing on their immediate surroundings. Is this the life of a Gousherall? Intercepting potentially dangerous futures while delineating your senses from the more tangible present? If this duo were genuine articles, Sylvester almost felt sorry for them. Sylvester watched their actions as they became more apparent in the dawning light. “I thought we were to meet at the—“ Dermy made a subtle motion with his hand that stopped Sylvester’s words. It had not felt like he had been suited to do so but it seemed necessary. “Th’re’s might-o bein’ list’ers present, oh. We canna take chances, oh.” He snorted then, clearing his nasal passages. It was through the orchards towards the western passage after that, all riding done in relative silence. Sylvester was now more leery than ever. He watched the grip trees that, only a day before, had not seemed so menacing. Looking down the neatly arranged rows, no person was spied so at least no one was listening now. Then Sylvester looked up in a tree and saw a bird – Dermy had called it a flapper, which could have been part of his Magiked disguise – and saw one of its feathers drift against the tree and remain their, stuck. There was obviously some grip juice up there, keeping the feather in place. This caused another thought to wonder, thinking back to the Comgem: could one such device, so firmly encrusted with Magik properties, be used to listen to people from a distance? From what Dermy said, a Comgem had to be activated by both party members but supposed there was one that only had to listen? If it was only a one-way conveyance of sound, why would both ends require simultaneous activation? Or knowledge of that activation, anyway? It seemed entirely possible, especially with grip juice letting you stick something up as high as a treetop, like the feather. “Dermy,” he started and the specialist still looked to be of a substandard mentality, except for his eyes; they carried an untold warning of Tread softly, sir but Sylvester charged forward. “Your… ring, Dermy. Or rather…” He paused. He was not sure how to proceed without giving away anything that might be overheard. Dermy seemed to grow subtly nervous. “Um, if I want to yell at you from across the orchard here,” he started, hoping he could get his question across clearly enough. “And you want to yell back, at such a great distance, we’d both have to cup our hands over our mouths to make our voices larger, yes?” Dermy nodded. “Yessa’sir. Tha’ or some folk’t migh’ use a’ Aura’ Boos’. Por’jects ya voice.” “Okay,” Sylvester accepted, hoping he wasn’t detracting. The mentioning of the Aura Boost or whatever he was talking beyond suggested otherwise. “But now I’ll suggest that only you listen and I talk. Only one of us would need to enlarge our voice, that being me. Meaning you’d do nothing except listen.” Dermy nodded in agreement. “But if you want to say something to me or anyone else, I could also enlarge my hearing, yes? Without you knowing? Then you’d have to be cautious, unless you didn’t know you were being overheard.” Dermy smiled then, dipping his head in further agreement. “Yes, Kingasir. Ya und’stand nice-like. There be ‘tective means an’ ways t’ stop such ‘vasiveness, oh. Bu’ nonna whilin’ we ride. Nah.” And he fell silent. He finally felt like he might be understanding something about Magik because the properties of something like a Comgem could be used to help and also hurt someone, even without them knowing it. This made Sylvester ponder also on the notion of the kingdom’s impending Curse because Magik was being applied against all of the participant’s wishes. Sylvester surely didn’t understand how something rooted in Magik could be so beneficial and just as easily be used against the very people that purported it. Maybe because whatever drives the power of Magik doesn’t care about the people that channel it. After that, everyone was silent and nothing but the birds chirped, as if counting the steps of the splints. * ~ * ~ * Travel down the western pass was inexplicably difficult and took almost half the day. It was a path carved from the bottom of the mountain to the top, and it was wide to allow several up-trippers. As it was, an early-morning delivery was seen being drawn by a seemingly-wild pack of splints who were all connected by tethers to a loosely bundled cart. It looked like the vegetables on the cart – were they doup stalks? – were getting dirty from the dust being thrown up by the quick-riding splints and it made Sylvester swing his tongue around in his mouth as he had eaten many helpings of doup soup, doup salad, and several courd’tee sandwiches, of which a main ingredient was doup. He then thought that the obvious answer was that it was washed thoroughly when it arrived at the top. But what of fruits and vegetables that were too delicate to handle a rough wash? He couldn’t think of any at the moment and only realized a bit later that it was most likely because none had made it up the mountain trek; he only ate what was available to him. My, how this trip was already opening so many avenues! Their witnessing of the upward-traveling splints was not shared by those same splints coming across the downward-moving quartet. Rather, it was spied from the well-winding path on the side of the wider pass. Sylvester knew why: splints were none to adept at traveling downhill as they were at traveling up. Their bodies were configured poorly for it; many young splints have been known to learn the lesson the hard way, traveling end-over-end to their destination thanks to their ample rears overtaking their poignantly placed heads. As such, the group had to travel down-slope in a back and forth manner, zigzagging their way to the easily-seen fields far below. Dermy and the Guards handled it was the deftest of ease. Sylvester did not like how much attention to guidance he had to pay in order to get Eafa to do his bidding. He was thankful and simultaneously resentful of the herding formation the three had used to ensure safer travel for the king. If only I was more skilled! Now that they were at the base of the mountain path after being forced to pay close attention to every grueling step along the wended pathway, Sylvester already longed to be home. He glanced longingly up and behind, noting for the first time that from this side of the mountain and with the light just above the stony crest, the contour of Mount Reign resembled a giant drop of water. His bedroom’s tower was a finite point for the drop and the remainder flowed down and outward. Sylvester wondered briefly if the mountain was actually named after not the term reign but rain, like a raindrop falling from the sky, forever emblazoned against the horizon. Perhaps it means that some giant or creature from above the sky shed this stony tear so that the people of Decennia would have a physical mass from which to lead. This was worth investigating, he concluded. At a later date. Sylvester resumed forward-focus and noticed exactly how large the fields were. He couldn’t recall if they had a proper name as Dermy had only called them the fields. If they didn’t have an encompassing title, they surely needed one; they wrapped around the base of the mountain for a considerable distance, both ways, easily encompassing three or four kilometers, if his distances were being recalled correctly. And they were easily a kilometer deep. And there were hundreds of people, everywhere in the fields. They looked to be dressed in similar fashions but retained different color schemes. “Dermy, what calls for their colorings?” “Tha’s bein’ what tells ‘em where’n they be workin’ fer th’ day or week or how’ver lon’ they be workin’. Their lead han’s set out their un’forms when needed, oh.” He snorted again. Taking in the whole scene once again, Sylvester noticed a row of structures at the edge of the field, directly in their path. Upon asking Dermy, he learned they were tolos; eight were designed as living quarters and the ninth and largest on the far left was the dining and cleaning hall. Much to Sylvester’s lack of enthusiasm, that was also the only structure that was equipped with an ice block holster that was the crux for modern structures to have running water. If the others are living quarters, how do they live without clean water? The row of tolos also reminded Sylvester of the Malforcrent and wondered how physically imposing they might seem up close. And how that might compare to how personally imposing the real Malforcrent was. His thoughts drifted to the advisors then, mainly hovering on Misren, Trisden, and Dothel. They were a differing trio with Trisden clearly being the better. Misren tended to focus more on what his next meal was going to be made up of and Dothel… He decided that Dothel simply had to be up to something devious. It only made the journey seem more dangerous knowing that someone quiet and mysterious like Dothel op Prissen had helped machinate the sequence of events. Looking at the tolos again, Sylvester mentally assigned the different buildings to represent the different councilpersons. The far right looked nicest from this distance so that would work as Trisden’s representative amongst the field hands. The one next to the dining tolo looked to be composed of jutting shadows, clearly derived of the protruding eaves and irregular pitch of the roof; Dothel couldn’t have been more perfectly structured. Letting the Malforcrent leave his present state of mine, Sylvester stared at the people identified as field hands. They looked similar in stature to those he saw working around the castle. Amongst the closest at hand, Sylvester couldn’t help but notice that each time a hand touched the crop of that plant, the person would wince in what might have been pain. Sylvester lifted his gaze and directed his voice towards Dermy while continuing to look around. “Why do these hands flinch when they touch that plant? Does it hurt? Don’t they have protective coverings for themselves?” In asking the question, it occurred to Sylvester that they might not be able to afford such almost-necessary means of protection. And that would be because he had no idea what these people did and how it affected the kingdom. They were in his employ and were experiencing doses of pain on not only Sylvester’s behalf but everyone who reaped the benefit of the plant. The least I can find some finances for are some gloves, surely! Dermy gave the hands little more than a glance. “That’sa bein’ shren’ work, Kingasir.” “Shren work?” “Nah, shren’ work. Shren’. Wha’ yere clothers an’ mixups be made up of, sir, oh.” Sylvester looked down at his own garments and robes as they aptlykept his body heat contained. Such layers might be considered suffocating! “Shrent, I suppose? My clothes are made of that stuff?” As he asked, the hand closest to Eafa winced at the pain of touching another bud of shrent. Or the shrent? Sylvester really was not too certain of how best to use the new term. He also felt a little odd and foolish for not knowing about what his own everyday-clothing was made of. “If it hurts their hands to touch it, why not protect them?” Dermy looked at Sylvester like he had asked a very peculiar question, but let that glimpse fade behind his perfect, subserviently styled mask. “Shren’ be tough buds o’ cloth. It need’t be man-hand’ed fer a time ‘fore it be harv’sted, oh. If’n th’ han’s don’ nip th’ pain an’ itch while-a be buddin’, then that bein’ pain that you’n yourse’f be feelin’ later-un. ‘bout now, sir, oh. Yes, ‘deed!” If what Dermy said was accurate – and he was a specialist in this area for just such a reason – then the shrents gave off some kind of jolting pain. The king felt a sudden urge to reach down and touch a bud to see what kind of pain was present and thought better of it. He knew he would have time later to explore the more obscure portents of his kingdom. If I manage to save it. But a question lingered as they were exiting the field of shrent. “So, Dermy, shrent causes pain to us and we make it into fabric for clothing? Why doesn’t it continue to harm us?” He wondered silently if it was because the bud had been severed but realized that might not have been an answer as there would be no reason for the shrent to be constantly handled. Just plant, grow, water, and cut. Unless it puts up such a defense against being cut…? He wished he could understand, more readily, Dermy’s speech while he was disguised as it was likely that the answer had already been dispensed. “Seein’, sir,” begain Dermy. “Ev’n now, shren’ can be hurtin’ ya goodlike. It be pow’ful mat-ear-all. Sin’ th’ han’s be touchin’ it an’ takin’ th’ pain an’ fire out th’ shren’, it be read’ fer pros’sing. Read’ fer looms an’ knits an’ things, oh. Withou’ th’ han’s, ya canna pros’s it right-ee into cloths.” Dermy spit and snorted again, letting Sylvester contemplate the situation the shrent hands allowed themselves to be put in: they had to feel the pain or else it couldn’t be harvested and processed into manageable clothing materials. If it was not handled, the manufactured cloth would make people feel the pain, or at least very itchy. Sylvester suddenly became aware of a slight itch in the fabric that had been periodically bothering him and he thought back to other articles of clothing he had worn before, wondering if they had all been truly itchy or if they just had not been handled enough beforehand. Another thought occurred to Sylvester centering on the notion of thanking the shrent hands. Obviously, they were doing a great service to the kingdom and a pleasantry from the king might make them feel more appreciative. “Dermy, how do I turn about? The stable boy didn’t tell me.” He realized then that he most likely forgot and felt a pang of guilt for lying to the specialist. Dermy looked alarmed. “Whysa, Kingasir? Where th’ prob’em?” “No, Dermy. I wish to turn around and thank those field hands for their duties. With the shrents.” “Shren’,” stated Dermy. “An’ they’n needs nun thankin’. Comp’sated, they’n be.” “What?” Sylvester didn’t understand. How could they be compensated? They looked as raggled as the rest of the hands that worked the fields. “Comp’sated. They’n pait nicely. An’ live in th’ nic’st ‘olo.” He pointed to the row of structures at the edge of the field. Being closer, Sylvester did notice that one, the tolo on the farthest right, seemed to be more firmly rooted and a scant bit decorated in comparison to the others. He imagined bowls filled with solutions designed to sooth worn hands occupying every bare table in such a building. “So, they have the most difficult crop to harvest and are rewarded for such an effort?” Dermy nodded. The Guards seemed to only be interested in watching everything around them, not to what the king and the specialist were saying though Sylvester did not doubt that they were listening. “When’s they are th’ shren’ han’s, they lifing in th’ goot ‘olo.” “When they are the shrent hands? They take turns or something?” Dermy nodded again, adding no further comment. That made sense to Sylvester: instead of one group being solely applied to the distasteful act of shrent handling, the hands had some type of rotation implemented to make sure everyone shared the duty. It was a very fair system and Sylvester wondered how many more aspects of the kingdom adopted such forms of team management. He hoped it was many as that reflected highly on the stance of the crown; he was a fair king at the top of a fair system. Realizing he didn’t need to thank the shrent hands – they might be different people tomorrow anyway and there would be no point in thanking the current ones and shrugging off the future ones – he stopped wondering how to turn Eafa around. She did not seem too thrilled to turn anyway. It was difficult enough to ride side-by-side with Dermy. Had she turned, she would be in the shrent field. Sylvester then wondered if the pains of the shrent affected animals too but decided to save that question for later as they were coming to a stop outside the row of the buildings identified as tolos. Up close, their dwarfing ability reminded Sylvester even more of the Malforcrent and the possible maladies they were attempting to manifest against the crown in the king’s absence. His mind then drifted to Penson’s safety but Sylvester knew the groomer could handle himself; he was nothing if not a competent individual. The leading Guard directed the group to the far left, towards the dining tolo. The king thought it was odd for the most decorated structure to be opposite the dominate one but realized that he would only have to accept it; he knew little about reason, even within his own country. At the entrance – or what Sylvester assumed was the entrance – stood a man that appeared to be waiting for the traveling quartet. Dermy yelled from his mottled splint. “Ho, Wynn, oh!” The man waved at Dermy and stepped forward to grab the lead splint’s hank. The man identified as Wynn was slightly older but looked to be very fit. Judging by the different activities the field hands were supposed to partake in, Wynn looked like he had been doing his fair share for many years, resulting in a evenly toned body, topped with thin, silvery hair. The point Guard dismounted with Dermy following suit. Sylvester wasn’t sure how to redistribute his weight against the splint and nearly fell to the ground for his effort. Luckily, Dermy was below, keeping the king steady. He really was a handy man to have around. “Derm, welcome.” Wynn then looked at the Gousheralls and then the king, averting his gaze when his eyes met Sylvester’s. His voice was firm when he spoke and he was as tall as Sylvester. “Ah, king, sir. Welcome to the fields. Sir.” He made some motion with his body, lowering it slightly to the ground. It seemed very noticeable and very out of place in such an environment. Sylvester felt a small flush of embarrassment and wondered if his beard was thick enough to mask the redness he felt spreading beneath it. Dermy stopped Wynn’s actions with a gesture and it was the older man’s turn to look embarrassed; his face resembled the setting sun, red as it was. This thought made Sylvester look up to the sky: it was just after noon. This was usually when he ate a meal up at Fyse Castle. He turned gently to look in the distance. Mount Reign was brightly colored but looked nothing like it did just a short time ago. Overall, it looked asymmetrical as the orchard extended to the north. It no longer looked like a giant raindrop but the lengthy pennants still flapped with the higher winds. He realized belatedly that he wouldn’t be falling asleep to the rustles of the flapping fabrics that sometimes wrapped about his towered bedroom in the middle of the night; he wondered if, without that constant rustling, he would be able to sleep easily. Surely the sound might be replicated! An odd thought occurred then: Sylvester imagined the large pennant contouring the wind and then snapping unconsciously at a bird. But instead of plummeting, the bird only flew away with a slight irritation against its feather; in his mind’s eye, he saw the pennant as being made up of poorly handled shrent. He shook the daydream away when Dermy spoke. “Kingasir? Sir? It be time an’ ring fer mealin’.” Sylvester nodded and let the specialist lead the way into the largest tolo. Inside was considerably different than out. It was surprisingly cooler, an outdoors aspect Sylvester had not noticed until the difference had been placed upon him. There were also rows of tables and benches and chairs. The seating was wholly mismatched, with few similar types grouped together and the tables didn’t all seem to be of the same build but all were generally long and narrow. The better to seat many at one time. Currently seated were several people dressed in fashions similar to the hands outside. They were spooning gobbets of gray or yellow semi-liquids. Some bowls steamed, some did not. A few had the stuff on plates. Most had goblets of varying sizes, all filled with murky liquids. Sylvester caught a whiff of one of the nearest plates and the thought of food was suddenly dashed against a mental wall, like a bird blinded by the sun reflecting from the very surface it was gliding towards. “Dermy, I’m not sure I’m all too hungry at the moment,” he said while massaging his neck, mentally wondering how the liquid was intended to go down the throat when it might just as easily come back up. Dermy looked up at the king, still smiling but now carrying an air of alarm in his eyes. Sylvester wondered if such appearances were translated through the Magiked disguise or if they broke through because of the realism behind the inflection. “Kingasir, we nee’ ta be eatin’ soon and right. Travel ta Crepp Lek is set ta be lon’. An ‘sides,” he leaned in, lowering his voice. “If yer donna meal, yer ‘ffendin’ Wynn an’ the han’s. Which ain’t good, oh.” The malice had failed to be conveyed but Sylvester didn’t want to disappoint the field hands that consistently worked so hard for him and the kingdom. He sat where indicated and assumed food was being brought to him. “What is the stuff we’re to be served?” Dermy looked at the hand next to him and then at his bowl, which Sylvester saw had a sealed crack on one side. “’his stuff be grum, Kingasir.” Sylvester had never heard of grum before and almost felt like he would be better without knowing. While waiting, he looked about and noticed that the hands were conversing with each other, some in jovial fashions, but as a whole, they did not glance at Sylvester. His garb alone should have attracted their attention, but there was nothing. The Guards – he still did not know there names – were seated on both sides of him with Dermy across from the king. Everyone seemed alert and Sylvester imagined that he himself was looking alert simply because he was studying the workers and their mannerisms. It didn’t last too long though as he could only stand watching them shovel the uniquely offensive food into their mouths. Ducking into himself, he wondered how he was expected to down such slop. The time passed slowly and Sylvester wondered if, in fact, a meal was coming. It certainly could not take too long to muscle a bowlful away from the larger mass! A new scent entered the air though, a strong, alluring scent, and Sylvester’s mouth began to water, reminding him that he had not eaten since before dawn. He noticed some hands lifting their eyes to watch someone walking up the aisle of tables, towards Sylvester. He leaned back to see past the younger Guard and saw Wynn himself holding a fashionable plate. It was what was on the plate that was drawing everyone’s attention: some kind of perfectly cooked meat and a steaming vegetable. As Wynn came closer, the scent grew stronger and Sylvester felt he could already taste it. Wynn stopped behind the Guard and extended the plate to be set upon the table in front of Sylvester. He felt his face spread wide with an uncontrollable grin as he looked over at Dermy. And his large bowl of the grum. Sylvester felt his smile falter and it disappeared altogether when the Gosheralls received similar dishes of grum. He looked down at his own plate and thought it resembled a hefty portion of grilled coonal, a type of tall bovine from somewhere in the southwest. His mind drifted to Brinttal Por Tyrenna specifically and the Malforcrent generally as the coonal had most likely come from that councilman’s region of Serres Mor. Rather than silently worry about what the Malforcrent had in store during his absence, the king wondered if the council always ate this good up on the mountain. He felt guilty though because he had such a nice meal prepared for him – no wonder it had taken so long to make it! – and his companions had nothing but grum. Dermy didn’t look dismayed at the outcome. In fact, he looked rather pleased to receive the grum. Sylvester decided this was his way of acting like the difference did not bother him. That he might actually think he was better for receiving the lesser meal. The Gousheralls conveyed no sense of positive or negative thoughts in regards to the meal: they simply ate it. Sylvester, accepting the situation for what it was, began to carve at the coonal, watching as the purplish meat released juices with the first slice of the knife. It was not long before the entire plate was clean. Dermy was taking his time with his grum; it was most likely because the stuff was so unappealing that it took time to work up courage to take your next bite. With the smell of the coonal dissipating quickly, the grum was beginning to overpower Sylvester’s nose and he felt he might have to get up soon. It was only a minute more as Dermy looked up, saw the king was finished, and nearly gulped down the rest of the bowl’s contents. Just before they were to stand, a series of dull knockings was sounded. At the door, Sylvester saw Wynn standing with some large item that looked like a gourd. Each shake produced the noise and the field hands began cleaning up their dishes, filing towards a point in the tolo where the ice block-holster dropped water into a basin, and left the building in a very orderly fashion. They weren’t quiet or dismayed in appearance, which Sylvester would have expected as they were more than likely going back to their fields. Rather, they still seemed just as boisterous as was readily acceptable without causing a large fuss. Equally, a new group of hands were ushered in and began retrieving bowls or plates of a new batch of grum and finding seats. One or two cast a glance at Sylvester and his Guards because it was obvious that seeing people still sitting after the rest had left was a mild surprise. Dermy motioned that they get up while the line of hands was still through the door. “Car’ful, Kingasir. Spyders be ‘bout th’ room. ‘mong the han’s.” This made Sylvester pause: he was fearful of spiders. They often reminded him of the point in his recurring nightmare where his father’s crown grew by the points and tore into the scalp. He also didn’t like feeling them crawl against his skin. Or seeing one skitter along the wall, only to stop as if it might leap on me. He truly hated the tiny beasts and shuttered with the thought. The Guards maneuvered the king towards the wide doors they had entered through and Sylvester released an inevitable belch, signifying his delicious meal and making him wish he had received a second helping of the coonal. Sylvester spied the man that he had seen handling the shrent from before and moved to intercept him when, for no apparent reason, the leading Guard halted, making Sylvester bump into him. The clatter drew attention from some of the closer hands. Sylvester inquired the older Guard on the issue. “Sir, there were some field hands, one of which had been watching you closely while we ate, idling near our splints. One pocketed an object when I saw him and now they are moving back towards the fields.” Sylvester looked around the shoulder of the Gousherall and was pulled to stand directly behind the leader by the younger Guard. “It’s best to stay under protection, king, sir,” said the younger Guard. He had a lighter voice than the older Guard which caused Sylvester to realize that was the first word he had spoken since meeting the man. “Go and check the splints,” said the leading Guard, which baffled Sylvester as he had just told him to stay under… and then the younger Guard moved out from behind the pair and jogged quickly toward the splints. Dermy came up behind the king and Sylvester turned only to see that the field hand he had been wanting to put appreciation upon had moved along with the rest of the line. Dermy asked, “Wha’ be happ’n, Kingasir?” “The Guard said one of the hands were watching us eat and he was with a couple other people, doing something to our splints. Or maybe about to do something. I wasn’t sure. The one watching us put something in his pocket upon being seen.” Dermy nodded. “Well’n, they dinna haf th’ time an’ such to be doin’ an’thin’ dras’ic. If’n they pock’ted wha’ fer, mos’ likely mean they dinna do a spell o’ such thing.” Sylvester silently wished that the time would be soon when Dermy dropped his Magikal disguise because it wasn’t becoming any easier to understand what the specialist was saying. The line of hands was gone; the men in the tolo were eating when the younger Guard returned. “The splints are okay. The hands probably didn’t have any time to do whatever they intended.” He then looked behind him, looking across the fields. It wasn’t possible for him to identify the culprits as he had been out of sight until after they had entered the fields but Sylvester still assumed that the Guard might catch someone attempting to follow-up on the foiled plot. But even Sylvester saw no suspicious activity. Then again, he hadn’t even known he was being watched while eating; he had been so enveloped with the coonal. Had that been intentional? Had Wynn purposefully tried to distract Sylvester with a pleasing dish while he was being visually analyzed by a potential threat? Maybe the coonal itself had been poisoned. Sylvester felt his heartbeat jump then at the prospect. Have I been poisoned by someone that Dermy trusted? Dermy the Magiked man, and the Guards with no names and Wynn, if that was his real name! He suddenly felt queasy, like he might stumble. “W-we should be going, yes?” Dermy looked into the king’s face. “You a’right, Kingasir? You seem pale, oh.” Of all the people nearby, Sylvester simply knew that he could trust Dermy. The little man was putting so much on the line for the sake of not only Sylvester but the kingdom as a whole. That had to mean something, at least. “Have I been poisoned, Dermy?” “Why’n say tha’, sir?” “The coonal. Could that have been poisoned? I was the only one who ate some. What if Wynn was trying to poison me?” The younger Guard, overhearing, said, “If they had poisoned you, then we wouldn’t have witnessed them trying to tamper with our splints. No sense in the matter.” “An’ ‘sides, Kingasir: Wynn be a dearin’ friend o’ mine, oh. I canna think he bein’ a pois’ner.” Sylvester must not have looked alleviated from the words, which is probably what caused Dermy to continue with “We can check fer pois’ns, if that’n make ya com’table.” Sylvester nodded agreement and allowed himself to be shuffled towards the splints. The two Guards were evermore alert than they were just minutes ago; the spook with the splints had heightened their awareness. Eafa seemed fine and even a little happier; she had been fed and was ready to ride out “When will you test me for potential poisoning?” The older Guard said, “It’ll be best to wait for nightfall. Magik’s stronger then, when most people are asleep. Leaves less for the Members to have to keep their eyes on.” “The Members?” Sylvester had never heard this term before but could only think it applied to either the same set of spies or a whole new type. He was still being fearful of the spiders though, as Dermy had warned that they were near. “Aud’ence Mem’ers, sir. They’n make th’ Mag’k work fer ever’one.” Sylvester still didn’t understand but mounted his splint regardless. He imagined it would be explained in due time. It was only another aspect of Magik and it was most likely that he wouldn’t understand it anyway. * ~ * ~ * Travel was easier now that they were on their way in a steadier fashion. It had taken quite a while to come down the relatively short mountain pass and the stop-off at the field tolos had been necessary but had taken too long. Now they were on open country and, in only a few hours time, they saw the mirroring lake that Sylvester saw most easily from his bedroom. It tended to draw his eye as it resembled a piece of the sky itself, as if encased in the land. It also heightened the setting sun in a horrendously blinding fashion. Upon the ground, it was a longer journey than as seen from atop Mount Reign; Sylvester then accepted that distance tended to be a factor in making something more or less alluring. Sylvester remembered something said earlier. “Dermy, you told that Wynn fellow that we were traveling to Crepp Lek. But I was under the impression that this was the correct path towards Zharrina. Why deceive a man you said you trusted?” Dermy sounded like he might have sighed but it could have easily been a normal release of air. “Sir, yessa. We be trav’lin’ to Crepp Lek. Tha’ be th’ name o’ tha’ bod’ o’ water, oh.” Sylvester looked to where Dermy was pointing, which was the lake. Confusedly, Sylvester said, “But that’s a lake.” He paused before continuing. “Isn’t it?” Dermy nodded. “Yes’n, Kingasir. It be a lake, fer sure, but it’d also be’n a lek.” The younger Guard interjected. “A lek, dear king, is a body of water that’s extremely and almost unnaturally deep. There is a small shelf around parts of the edge but for the most part, they average at just over two hundred or so meters in depths.” Dermy agreed with another nod. “Lots o’ caverns, oh, are us’ally ‘long th’ sheer walls an’ th’ like. Some dry pockets bein’ up inside. It a lek, oh.” The king understood and was glad to be rid of the confusion. He hadn’t really appreciated the way the younger Guard had chosen to define the word for him; as if Sylvester was a child. It had been barely tolerable when the older Guard had done so before the trek had even begun but with the younger one – one possibly younger than even Sylvester himself – doing it too, it made Sylvester feel inadequate. The small anger made his mind turn again. Why don’t I know what a lek is? Surely that was something that more common folk learned in early-life lessons. Of course, the professors at the academy most likely knew that his kingstone granted knowledge from the past and they might have decided to forego some basic lessons. This mindset only made Sylvester wonder what other basic pieces of knowledge had been opted out of his learning process. All the more reason to not ask so many questions, he decided. In asking, it seems that I’m more likely to tell what I don’t know. Dusk was speedily approaching and the quartet was closer to the lek but still a distance away from Zharinna, however far that truly was. A stray cloud blocked the blinding light of the setting sun and Sylvester noticed, for the first time, that there was something on the other shore of the lek. He was trying to recall if it had been there earlier that day or even the day before; it had not been easily seen from any distance and Sylvester saw that it was most likely because the reflection of the lek made the object difficult to perceive except when up close. Going solely from Debbenmor’s sketches he’d seen in the volumes back in the castle, Sylvester could only assume the large object was a swan. Perfectly still, it was poised with its neck raised up as if watching to see if anything might fly over and be decidedly snatched for a meal. It really isn’t an ideal way to hunt. You might wait there and starve to death before anything flies overhead! Then a fear settled inside him as he thought the large bird might turn and spy the traveling men as a possible meal. How could such a bird even eat a man? Sylvester, forgoing the idea that not asking questions was for the better, decided to ask about the large swan that, in a roundabout manner, they were approaching. “Erm…” Dermy began after Sylvester asked the question. And then was silent for several seconds before continuing. “That be more’n like a tolo, Kingasir.” “What? That’s a structure? Someone lives in that?” Dermy looked more dismayed to have to continue answering the question. “Uh, yessa. It bein’ a diff’ren’ shaped tolo, oh. Donna know why’t be here’n, oh.” Sylvester was mentally floored. Who would build such a dwelling? And of all creatures, why a swan? The group was nearing a smaller structure on the farthest edge of the line of trees that were backing the lek’s scenery. Sylvester tried thinking of follow-up questions when the splints became agitated. The first started to bark and then they began to buck themselves around. The Guards were caught unawares and were too easily thrown from their mounts, their splints still behaving crazily. Dermy started to shout and Sylvester heard him clicking towards his dirty-brown steed, turned, and saw him patting the neck as if trying to soothe the animal. He was unsuccessful though and was thrown to the ground, just like the Guards. Now Sylvester and Eafa were the only pair and his splint actually increased her spasmodic bucking and swaying as if only to try harder in throwing her rider off. Is she trying to prove herself to the other splints? What’s going on? Finally, with a lurch in his gut, Sylvester went over Eafa’s head and landed hard on his rear, in the center of the four wild-acting splints. He immediately feared that he would be crushed by the beasts. Though he was just a little taller than Eafa when she stood at full-height, she was a wide and long creature, massing greatly enough to crush a normal human. And that, multiplied by four, is what terrified the man. And it was a danger he faced alone; the other three had fallen to the outside of this space defined by the trouncing splints. What was to occur? What could he do? The answer came in a most unusual form, beginning with Eafa. As she was nearing the king, on an upward movement to come crash back down against Sylvester with her forelegs, she froze. It was a literal chill as Sylvester felt an icy breeze blow from the body of the beast. Then, in almost the same moment, the other splints were similarly frozen. Sylvester stared up at them, aghast at the turn of events. Frozen splints? How’d this… A new fear stabbed at his heart as Eafa began to lean forward. She’s going to crush me regardless! But a small group of men moved forward and stopped the frozen splint’s fall, grabbing her in places that she would probably have objected to had she been able. Where’d they come from? It was most unusual. They were in similar fashions but of a different caliber than compared to the hands of the mountain base fields. More came forward to grab the other splints; to lower them more safely to the ground. He could only have imagined the precariousness had the splints been aloud to crash down. Frozen pieces of meat scattered everywhere! It made Sylvester a little sick to his stomach to think such a thing but he remained mostly relieved to not have been crushed by the spooked creatures. But what spooked them? The king stood finally, dusting particles from his disheveled robes, looking around. In the midst of his near-death experience, several people had massed; including the splint-catchers, at least twenty or twenty-five total. One stood out from the rest, looking slightly unsettled if his eyes were any indication. He looked like he could be grinning or even on the verge of frowning for conducting such an affair against the king. Does he know I’m the king? Absently, Sylvester put his hand to his hair and felt no crown there. He then remembered that he hadn’t brought it. Would this have happened if he had worn it? “We apologize for our actions, your highness, sir,” said the supposed leader. “But we had to spook yer splints to make sure they weren’t poisoned or Magiked or anything.” “How was putting our lives in danger testing that?” he asked with a little more anger than he had actually intended. Even though they had perpetuated the state, they had saved his life in the end. “If they had been poisoned, the Accel-Stone chips they walked on would have made the poison increase its potency, killing them. Or exposing their true forms, if they’d been false.” Sylvester immediately looked to Dermy and saw that he was beyond the now-noticed chips of stone: he had been thrown there by his splint… or had that been with purpose? “Since they weren’t tainted, their natural states of heightened-alert was enhanced and they became too sensitive to even move without causing harm.” The explanation made sense to the king and he nodded that he understood. The man then patted Eafa, bringing a twinge of jealousy out of the king. It made him feel foolish and he blushed. “This one seems near dehydration. We’ll get her some water.” “I do hope we did not bring harm to you, sir,” came a female’s voice. The sun had finally set and she appeared from behind the mass of people, breathtaking in her beauty. She paused and bowed deeply, revealing his extensively curly hair and… other noticeable features. She was a terribly beautiful woman, the likes of which Sylvester had not readily seen. On the mountain, woman that worked for him tended to be a fair deal older or unattractive in conventional regards. But this woman, with curled hair and shapely body, was greatly attuned for what Sylvester thought was attractive. Her bow had made Sylvester feel even nicer inside his heart. She recognizes me for what I am. Ordinarily, such expressions of subservience bothered Sylvester but in her, it made her seem somewhat endearing. “And you are the Freezer that will be accompanying us? I hope.. er, wonder?” The woman chuckled, heaving her chest with the effort and causing Sylvester to catch his own breath. What a woman, indeed! “King Sylvester, sir, I am Perryta Fy’tay om Yett. I am the governess of Zharinna. I cannot attend you and your quest.” This dispirited the king and he felt greatly hurt. Why could she not accompany him, or them, or mainly him? If she was some kind of governess, could she not put in place a temporary place holder while she chose to be absent? That was, after all, what he had done! “We have chosen a Freezer of high caliber though.” The others started to exchange glances as if conferring amongst themselves whether she was, in fact, saying that any one was better than the other; Sylvester had already deduced that these others could only be Freezers. How else could the splints be frozen like they were? Sylvester looked at Eafa and wondered what was to become of her now. And how she had gotten so dehydrated so quickly. The crowd parted then and a woman of dirty blonde tresses stepped forward. Her hair was not so much curly as it was matted against her head in an unladylike manner; Sylvester decided that he truly didn’t know what was ladylike and what wasn’t but this present display did not seem to fit the proper definition. She wore drably colored robes whereas Perryta wore bright ones. She was shorter too and did not smile in a way that would take Sylvester’s breath on a whim. It was not a smile at all but rather a strongly pursed pair of lips. She was pale compared to the rest of the group and he wondered how much time she could spend outside and still be considered a Freezer of “high caliber”. What Sylvester noticed most of all was this: the woman did not bow or lower herself slightly or even acknowledge Sylvester for what he was. Internally, he was experiencing mixed emotions: the… nicer woman had shown a genial degree of subservience, of which Sylvester normally didn’t feel comfortable with. But this other woman did nothing of the sort and he, as odd as it felt even to him, felt a great amount of disrespect. The nerve of this woman! “Hello,” she said as if it had to be wrenched from her androgynously shaped frame. She offered no hand for shaking or even a curt nod. She was stony in all respects and Sylvester could not help but wonder if this was a quality desired amongst expert Freezers. But Perryta had been quick to show her own level of service towards the king. And this woman was to accompany Sylvester in an attempt to save the kingdom? How was it to work if she did not even acknowledge his stature in the government?! In return to her cold greeting, he only nodded and then turned his attention back to Perryta. “Um, Perryta Fyta?” “Perryta Fy’tay. And her name, though she is begrudging in revealing it, is Tuette.” She bit her lip then, looking at the woman identified as Tuette with something that might have been contempt. Shared contempt. “Uh, yes, sir?” “Why is it not you who is attending to this quest of dire importance? I mean, surely one of your loyal servants or vice governors could easily fulfill duties in your absence.” She looked perplexed but said with a smile, “Sir, I understand that your presence is necessary for the completion and success of your journey, but I cannot detract from my important duties as Zharinna’s leader.” Sylvester then felt an embarrassing hue embrace his face; he was not so readily required for this quest but had more readily jumped at the chance to embark on it, if only to prove his standing with the throne. But this woman didn’t need to do that and instead recognized that she was needed at the head of her branch of government. It was no wonder the other woman hadn’t paid any general respect for the crown. In her position, how can she think highly of someone like me? Someone who so easily abandons his own position to practically gallivant across the countryside in hopes of finding a herd of birds? And this woman that made him feel slightly terrible about his part in the overall journey to save the kingdom would be accompanying him as the official Freezer. He knew from that point on that the trek for a rare flock of chickens was going to just be that much more difficult. Looking back at the mountain, now gently lit by the remnants of the newly set sun, Sylvester ached to be home. And he knew it wouldn’t be for the last time. |
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