“I did too much.” Mykal repeated it over and over. His chest felt heavy. It was difficult to breathe. He wanted just to lie down and close his eyes. Sleep was the only thing he could think of. It didn’t matter if they got caught. He needed rest. His body was demanding it.
They stopped when they reached the edge of the moat.
“What was that?” Eadric said.
Mykal forced his eyes open. Everything was blurry. He did see something in the water. A tail, or dorsal fin splashed as the creature swam toward the shadows they cast. They were long, thick, and strong monsters. Poisonous, too. The serpent resembled a giant snake, with several dorsal fins along its spine. Rows of sharp teeth lined a mouth that could easily open wide enough to swallow a man. The one he just saw in the moat did not look as big as the ones he’d encountered in the river. Who was to say there was only one was in the moat?
“They capture serpents from the sea, carry them back on carriages and dump them in the moat,” Blodwyn said. “As Mykal can attest, their dorsal fins are sharp and filled with a paralyzing poison. We can’t risk swimming across. It would prove deadly.”
They didn’t have long. Once King Nabal woke up he’d sound the horns. The knights and Watch would ride together seeking them out. Nowhere would be safe, any longer. Mykal wasn’t worried about living his remaining days as a renegade on the run. It was his grandfather he worried about. He’d actually hoped he’d have had time to stop in and see how he was doing. There was no chance of that now. He hadn’t seen his grandfather in months. The man must be worried to death about him. There had to be a way he could get in touch with his grandfather, if only long enough to ease any worry.
“How are we getting across then?” Eadric kept looking behind them. “There’s no other way. There’s no bridge, except back by the entrance. We don’t want to go back that way. We’d be captured for sure!”
Mykal stared at the water. The sun was out. There were no clouds. The heat on his exposed skin felt good. “I can get us across. Let me stand.”
“You’re not strong enough,” Blodwyn said. “If you continue using this much magic, it could kill you. It will kill you. I can’t have that. I am not going to lose you!”
Mykal shrugged free of their hold. A searing cold built inside his chest and all at once raced forward. “I can do this.”
His thoughts became visible; strands of his own magic spewed out of his body. They swirled out in front of him like octopus tentacles. Before he’d only seen when others used magic. Never his own. He almost doubted his ability, wondering if someone else was casting spells. The cords of color unleashed in front of him were his. He wasn’t sure how he knew it, but he did. The magic came solely from him. The tendrils whipped this way, and that, and then slapped the top of the moat, as if testing the temperature before slipping under the surface.
The water crystallized, and sounded like glass cracking as it spread in a thick sheet of ice from one bank toward the other. The creature in the water smashed upward, banging a hard head against new ice. The ice held. It did not so much as even crack from the attack. At that, Mykal did not hesitate. He ran across the patch, his boots slid, and he nearly lost his balance. His arms pin-wheeled. He stayed upright and managed to make it from end to end without falling. Once on the other side, he waved his arm, encouraging Blodwyn and Eadric across.
“Come on,” Mykal said. “If I can make it across, then so can the both of you.”
Everything around him shifted. He went from staring across the moat at Blodwyn and Eadric, to seeing nothing but blue skies. The back of his head throbbed. As his eyes fluttered, and closed, he realized he’d fallen and was flat on his back. He wondered if his head rested on a rock for a pillow, but didn’t care. The sleep he longed for overtook his entire body; the calm started in his toes and feet, worked its way up his legs and groin, and flooded his belly and back. When it reached his shoulders and arms, he was out cold, and dreams filled his mind.
Chapter 9
King Hermon ladled soup into a bowl. The macaroni and vegetables were too soft, too mushy. The broth had no aroma at all. It was almost as if he we were filling a bowl with water. He dropped pellets of pest poison onto a spoon. He set another spoon on top and ground the pellets into a fine powder. He sprinkled the poison over the soup. Even though the seasoning was deadly, at least it would add flavor. There was always something to be thankful for, if you just took the time to look.
He whistled as he walked the bowl of soup out of the kitchen. His footfalls were off. His foot would hit the rock floor, and then, a moment or two later, the sound echoed off the walls. It didn’t make sense, because sound didn’t work that way. There was no stopping, though. He continued toward the dining hall.
He rounded the corner and saw impossibly large double doors. This was not the dining hall. He held the bowl in one hand, and with the other shoved open one of the doors. Inside the long room at the large rectangular table sat his fat wife, Queen Chorazin, and her fat spawn seated beside her. No father should feel that way about his own children. It was something they that couldn’t be helped. His Princesses Raaheel and Sarah were the spitting image of their mother. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear the queen was asexual and despite them having sex together, her pregnancies were not a result of his royal seed. Sometimes he wished she’d admit she was unfaithful. God, what a relief that would be!
It still didn’t explain why they were feasting in the Long Room. He never used this room. It was the place he could almost always find his father. The windows were shaped like tombstones, and epitaphs he could not read were etched onto the glass. Armored knights stood in front of each pillar. The faceplates were up. The armor was empty. The knights moved, shifting weight as they stood at attention while he walked past them.
He saw that his wife and children already had bowls of soup placed in front of them. Sitting where he always sat, at the fat end of the table, King Hermon set the soup down.
“Will you not?” Queen Chorazin said.
“Will I not, what, dear?” King Hermon said. Something was off. It was more than the echo of his footfalls in the hallway. They all had soup. Who had given them soup? Had he served all of them? He had no memory of serving his wife and kids.
“Whistle that tuneless song of yours,” she said.
King Hermon dipped his spoon into the soup. The broth spilled onto the utensil. He raised it to his lips, and blew on it before slurping it down.
No. Wait, he thought. I don’t want to eat this. Do I?
He heard the whistling, and pressed his lips together. The tune continued. The song did not come from him.
“The soup tastes wonderful, brother.”
Jeremiah sat on his left, an empty spoon by his mouth. He was the young boy Cordillera remembered. He was young, and innocent looking. Jeremiah’s hair was a little long, and hung in front of his eyes, and over his ears. The boy’s skin was like milk, pale, almost white. There was no light behind his eyes. They were grey, and lifeless.
“You should try some,” Jeremiah said.
“Eat up,” Queen Chorazin said. His children laughed. Their vicious giggles filled the room. Only they weren’t laughing. They were slurping up the soup, bowls raised to fat faces.
The whistling continued, as did the giggling.
Jeremiah slurped more soup from his spoon, but never looked away from his kid brother. The soup dripped from the bottom of the spoon back into the bowl, and then Jeremiah wiped more off his lips with the back of his forearm.
King Hermon tried the soup.
I shouldn’t be eating this, he thought. “Don’t eat the soup, Jeremy!”
His brother added salt and ate more soup.
King Hermon could not stop eating. He scooped spoonful after spoonful into his mouth.
He wanted the whistling to stop. Instead, the melody grew louder.
“Why did you poison me?” Jeremiah said.
King Hermon shook his head. “I never poisoned you!”
King Elroy sat on his right. His face was bloated, and purple. His tongue protruded out of the corner of his mouth. “The soup is poison, Hermon. Why did you poison me?”
“Don’t eat the soup,” King Hermon said, but Jeremiah’s head was down, his face inside the bowl. Hermon lifted his head by the hair. Macaroni and vegetables stuck to his skin. His eyes were closed. “Jeremy! Jeremy!”
“You killed all of us?” King Elroy said.
“I never killed my brother, father! I only wanted to save him!”
“You are a witch!”
At the opposite end of the table his wife and children were dead. The poison had taken them fast. The children were on top of the table, their bodies sprawled out. His wife had fallen off her chair; she lay on the floor, one arm out, one under her head. Blood seeped from her mouth, and eyes, and ears.
“You do not deserve the crown,” King Elroy said. “You are a murderer!”
“You killed me?” Jeremiah still had food on his face. His eyes had had turned a milky white, like those he’d seen on a cat dead for days. “Why me? Why would you kill me?”
Hermon reached for his brother. His hands grasped onto sleeves. “I would never hurt you. I never even got the chance to help you! Father wouldn’t let me! It wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t. It was his!”
Hermon spun around, pointing an accusatory finger. He father wasn’t seated beside him any longer. The queen looked at him, blood poured from her eyes as if water over a waterfall. The blood fell into her mouth while she spoke, “Why do you want us dead? We’re your family. I’m your wife, the queen! Why don’t we kiss, and make things better between us?”
She leaned in closer.
He wanted to pull away. He felt a hand on the back of his head. It pushed him toward Chorazin. He reached behind his head, clawing at the hand, struggling to free himself. “Stop it! Stop this! This is madness! Madness!”
“Give me a kiss, and we can make things better between us, my love,” Chorazin said, smiling. Blood covered her crooked, otherwise yellowed teeth.
Their lips were so close.
He saw his own reflection in her eyes, and that his dead father stood behind him pushing his head forward.
He screamed…
***
King Hermon Cordillera sprang up in bed. His eyes were open wide. His body was covered in a cold sweat. He pressed his hands against his face, touching his eyes, nose, and mouth. He touched the hair on the back of his head, and turned around just to make sure his father wasn’t standing behind him. Throwing off the blankets, he got out of bed. His bare feet arched, and toes curled when he touched the cold floor. He put on his robe, and boots, and looked back at his sleeping wife. She grunted and rolled away from him, wrapping up the remainder of blankets in the movement.
He pulled open the chamber door, and swiftly walked toward the towers.
The dream rattled him. It wasn’t the first time he’d suffered through it, but never had it lasted so long, been so detailed, and never had he eaten a bowl of the poisoned soup he once prepared for his father. That was a new twist.
He saw Jeremiah all of the time. Sometimes, even when he was awake. That was always the toughest time. The temptation for addressing the ghost was overwhelming, but somehow he managed biting his tongue and preventing complete embarrassment. His brother never should have died. Jeremiah would have been the next king, not him. Fate was full of mysteries. He didn’t pretend to understand any of it. He accepted that things happened for a reason.
The door at the top of the tower stairs stood open. Inside Ida sat at the table, the three talismans spread out in front of her. It was as if she had not moved from the table in days. She was not in her cloak. Hermon had never seen her in a sleeping gown before. He should not have been surprised. She was human, after all. At least, he supposed she was.
“Nightmares again,” Ida said. She looked up at him. He couldn’t get used to her eyes. Everything about this witch unnerved him. She must realize it, sense it. She, perhaps, took comfort or joy in the fact he was uneasy around her.
“Yes,” he said. He confided many things in Ida. She knew more about him than any other person. He wasn’t sure why he shared so much with her. It rarely seemed like she listened to anything he said. She never offered any advice. Maybe that was partly why talking to her came effortlessly, because it was almost like talking to himself. “My father and brother were there. We all ate the soup I’d poisoned. I was eating it, as well. We were in the Long Room. The poison killed my wife and children. The others, they were already dead.”
Ida said nothing. She passed her hand over the mirror. The glass shimmered, and shook, rippling as if alive.
“I’ve given the idea some thought. I want a son,” the king said.
“You want the wizard to father your bastard child,” she said. It wasn’t a question. How could the wizard father his child, he would be the father, and here isn’t he wanting his wife dead?)
“I do not want the bloodline questioned.” His thought his implications were clear.
Ida did not say a word. It was as if she waited for him to continue, to lay out the plan he had in mind.
“I want it to look like an accident. Something fast, painless. I suppose she deserves that much.” He threw a hand in the air. “Whether she deserves it or not, it is something I’d prefer. Fast and painless. I know the children will be heartbroken for a time. They’re young, and will get over it. I’ve found that children are more resilient than we give them credit. I know I was. The things I’ve endured. Look at me. I’m a king. The Osiris Realm is under my command, and soon my power will stretch beyond the Rames Mountains. My control will encompass the entire Old Empire. I will rule the kingdoms better than Henry Rye, and for longer, and when I am gone my son shall inherit the world.”
Ida let out a sigh, lowering her hand. She stood up and walked toward the opened window. With her back to the king she said, “Having a dream is a dangerous thing. Everything seems possible in the ethereal. There is little that can’t be conquered in one’s mind. Your dreams are monumental, that is for sure.”
King Hermon felt slighted. He sneered. “Have you no faith in my ability? I do not set off on accomplishing goals half-cocked. I have carefully laid plans, witch. Even without the extracted magic from the other wizards I could bring to reality these things I dream. With that magic, I will become invincible!”
“Invincible is a word that carries more weight in its definition than its enforceability. There are always variables; unforeseen forces that work against odds and alignments. Invincible is a word better suited for dreams,” she said. “Once actions have been taken, few can be returned to the way they once were.”
“Why would I want to return things to the way they once were?”
“The choices are yours, Your Highness.” She added an extra slur to his title.
“Am I to question your loyalty? Is that what you wish?”
“I serve you,” Ida said. “You have given me freedom, and for that have locked in my loyalty, because I know now that you value me as more than your witch.”
King Hermon felt the sting in the way she said witch, his own insult hurled back at him. Always armed with such rich sarcasm, she never flinched when using it. He saw no need in arguing their position. She was free. Her tower door was never locked, as it had been before. She didn’t take off during the night, didn’t return to her hobble of a home in the Flaming Crystal Valley where he first found her, so that said something. It told the king that, like him or not, she also was on board with his plan, and relished the idea of ruling the Old Empire under one unified emperor. Greed was more than a sin; it was a sickness. He was not interested in a cure. “Will you attend to the matter? An uncomplicated yes, or no, will suffice,” was his response.
And she denied him any sign of respect when she simply nodded.
Frustrated, he snapped his fingers. “See to it soon. The sooner, the better. In the morning we will both visit the wizard. We’ve been patient lo
ng enough. She will succumb to my wishes and summon the other wizards, or she will wish she were never born.”
“If I’m not mistaken, I suspect that wish she’s already made.”
Chapter 10
Mykal never felt freer than when in the saddle. Babe ran like the wind. He loved the sensation of his hair blowing back, and his eyes watering from the head-on speed of the gallop. His ears felt cold, almost numb, but it didn’t bother him. He relished the entire experience, especially the steady sound of her hoofs on the ground. That was a calming, tranquil-kind of music to his ears. In the now, he allowed himself time to get lost. He let his body mend itself from the overuse of magic, and his mind drift as tried not concentrating on the events that transpired. Killing people took a toll on his heart. He was a farmer, all he wanted to do was to grow food and care for livestock.
There was not a single cloud in the sky to shroud the moon, surrounded by a galaxy full of stars, from lighting up the night. It would not be long before the world turned grey. The darkness of winter nights would start early in the day, and maintain a hold long into the morning, as if the sun was tired from spring, summer, and autumn and needed a few months for resting. Winter reminded Mykal of death. When strong winds whipped through bare trees they resembled the grotesque skeletons of monsters. Sickness struck the old and young, and many people passed from this world into the next. Food was rationed, and it seemed more often than not Mykal and his grandfather went to bed with rumbling bellies, despite storing up harvested crops, and turning beef to jerky.
Delta Cove lay just ahead. The small village was outlined by a small row of smoke plumes from tall chimney stacks. Even though it was the dead of night, Mykal spotted the tall pole with the red scarf billowing in the crisp breeze, and knew that Quill and his three Archers had achieved their goal.
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