Progeny of Cabriola

Progeny of Cabriola



Reuben descended lightly, scarcely touching his silken slippers to the filthy stone of the winding stair. It was dark, and foul, and Reuben was a creature of things bright and fair. He was not happy to be paying this visit to Hugo in his lair, but saw no other way. Just one among twelve possible heirs to the throne, and not with the strongest claim, at times he was forced to sacrifice comfort and clean air to his own ambitions.

Before long the stair ended in a thick oaken door, studded with iron bolts. Steeling himself against his own growing revulsion, Reuben lifted the heavy black ring and let it fall, twice. A sharp, unpleasant knell rang through the narrow stair and Reuben, a man of arts, music and letters, cringed. As he hummed one of his own sonnets to himself to drive out the ugly sound, the door opened inwards, seemingly of its own volition. Within, a dank stone corridor beckoned. Reuben gathered his blue and silver cloak closer about him and ventured forward.

Once he had taken few steps beyond the threshold, the door shut resoundingly behind him, and torches in iron brackets on the walls leapt to life. The flickering half-light illuminated various doorways and alcoves on either side of the corridor. Reuben had been to Hugo’s dungeon before, and knew better than to allow his gaze to wander right or left. He had made that mistake once, and had no desire to ever again lay eyes upon the cruel experiments or brutal abominations kept by the master of this dark place. Gaze level, back erect as ever, Reuben walked quickly down the passage until the main chamber opened before him. There were tables strewn with books and jars, some empty and some containing foul liquids or parts of creatures, some identifiable, others less so. Pots bubbled, and fires blazed, but the darkness still hung close. Seated at the largest stone table, facing his visitor, was a bent, crooked man hooded in crimson robes. Reuben stopped before the table, and inclined his head briefly, courteously, though it pained him.

“Brother Hugo.”

“Half-brother Reuben,” snarled Hugo, spittle dribbling from his lower lip as he hissed the first word. “Your mother was a queen, mine a whore. I remember it well, as do you. Let’s not pretend otherwise.” His voice was shrill and wheezing, as if each word were an effort. He laughed, hacking and grunting. “Though far be it for Reuben Silken-Tongue to bend the truth for his own purposes. To what, then, do I owe the…honor of this unusual visit? I cannot imagine you are curious about my progress?” Reuben lifted a single eyebrow, a practiced reaction that hid his disgust.

“No, thank you, Hugo. Your forays into the Crimson Sorceries, while certainly fascinating, would be opaque to me even if I were so inclined to hear of them. And since of all the Progeny you are perhaps the one most gifted with farsight, do not now play the fool with me. You are, I do not doubt, aware of the day’s events?”

For a long moment, there was silence between the two men. Then Hugo snorted, and nodded.

“I knew of it before you did, Reuben, before perhaps anyone but the man himself. Even without magicks, one who knows how to look could see. Our Father-King grows weary.” Reuben did not speak or move, and he stared intently at Hugo, trying the penetrate the darkness beneath the cowl with his blue eyes. He was a master of reading the faces of men, yet here was a face hidden from him.

“Surely,” continued Hugo, “you do not come down here seeking my endorsement for your Ascension? Such help, even were I willing to extend it, would hardly be seemly for your burnished image.”

“Now, Hugo,” purred Reuben, smiling with half of his mouth, “It is no secret that I am the best suited of the full-blood heirs, and even among all twelve Progeny my claim is strong, especially with Victor’s absence. But I do not come here seeking your support. Among other things, it is not yours to give. Yes, I know,” he waved a hand in the air as Hugo’s hood twitched. “You are sworn to another. Fine, fine. But what I do seek, and what you can give, is this…” now Reuben leaned closer. “Tell me where Victor is, and if he plans to return. He alone may be an obstacle to my Ascension. This information, by the way, dear Hugo, I am willing to pay for.”

“What coin does Reuben plan to barter with?” Hugo hissed. “Half-promises? Imagined rewards? What does a creature such as you have to offer one such as me?” Reuben smiled again, with all of his mouth this time, sensing his opening.

“Why, two coins for two pieces of information, of course. One, for Victor’s whereabouts, I offer Hugo recognition as a full-blooded Progeny of Cabriola upon my Ascension. Second, for his intentions, I offer you Althea.”

Hugo slapped his left hand down on the stone table, a twisted, three-fingered claw. With the other, he drew back his hood, revealing a scarred face, thick white lines crossing the two empty eye sockets, tufts of black beard covering what remained of mutilated cheeks and jaw.

“You offer what you cannot deliver, Reuben,” he spat. “I have no guarantee you will be chosen, and then no guarantee you will honor your bargain. You are known to be quicksilver in the palm. And you cannot give what is not yours. Althea is not your daughter, and your brother Gerome would never see her surrendered to a broken, evil creature like me.” There was a touch of sadness, but more rage and bitterness in Hugo’s voice as he spoke. Reuben had seen his half-brother’s face before, but was still struck as if by a physical blow to see it again. His love was for all things beautiful, and being in the presence of such ugliness repulsed him. Rising up to his full height, he threw back his head.

“When I am King of Cabriola, all things will be mine to give, mine to take. All Progeny and their children will be mine to dispose of as I wish. It has always been thus. And you know that the King’s word, given in solemn vow, cannot be broken, or Cabriola will fall. The ancient texts speak plainly of this magick woven into her very walls.” Hugo laughed.

“You are not King yet, and very likely never will be. Am I to pay now, in the hopes of return when an event that may never occur comes to pass?”

“Yes,” replied Reuben. “An event, remember, that becomes more certain if your information is not false. To secure my claim, I must know where our brother Victor is, and what he plots.”

“I will consider it.” Hugo replaced his hood, once again shrouding his repugnant features in darkness. “In any case, what you ask is not simple. But there is no hurry. Only today did Father-King Duncan announce his intention to name his Heir. Years may pass before he actually does so. But,” the broken man raised a hand, staying his half-brother’s protest unspoken. “I understand your desire for haste. Long has Reuben desired the Crown of Cabriola! Longer yet will he wait, I think, ere he wears it, with or without the help of Hugo. Now, get out. Get back to the light and sun of Cabriola, and leave me to my work. Return in a week’s time, and I will answer your request, one way or another. In the meantime, I suggest you look to your other siblings. Our Father-King has opened the door of the pigpen, and you are not the only swine crowding at the trough. Nor, indeed, are you my first visitor today.”

Reuben turned to go, and paused. He knew better than to ask who else had come to see Hugo. In fact, the wizard’s tendency for closeness worked on his behalf, as his confidence was unlikely to be betrayed to others.

“Hugo,” Reuben said over his shoulder. “You know what it is I can truly offer you as King. Something our Father has long withheld from you, and which you will never find through your exploration of those foul Crimson Sorceries. If you are a friend to me, I may be amenable to reversing our father’s policy.” Under the hood, Hugo smiled.

“Funny. Our sister said the same thing this morning.”