The Magelands Origins

by Christopher Mitchell

  ‘But,’ Douanna continued, ‘among the educated, that sort of thing is mostly frowned upon. We are a nation of science and knowledge, and, occasionally, enlightenment.’

  ‘Are you not at war with some clans or tribes somewhere in the south?’ Daphne asked, remembering a snatch of her dreamlike conversation with the Creator. ‘Doesn’t seem very enlightened.’

  Douanna stared at her for several seconds, an unreadable look on her face.

  ‘My, Daphne,’ she said, ‘you are unexpectedly well informed. And just where did you learn that little snippet of information? No, wait, don’t tell me. Some drunken Rahain forgetting who they were speaking to, no doubt. Dear me.’

  They rode along in silence, drawing closer to the city.

  ‘And have you told anyone else about this?’ Douanna asked after some time.

  ‘No,’ Daphne replied. She was beginning to feel a deep sense of disorientation. It made her dizzy to think that a fragment of that strange, barely remembered exchange in the Sanang Forest had been confirmed as true.

  ‘Good,’ Douanna said. ‘Now, what I am about to tell you is strictly in confidence, upon your honour, agreed?’

  Daphne nodded. ‘Agreed.’

  ‘It’s true the Rahain are at war,’ Douanna said, ‘and a greedy little war it is too. The war coalition has gone too far, I think, acting out of pure avarice. They invaded another’s land to plunder its resources, and are dressing it up as a defensive action against a few poorly-behaved barbarians.’

  Daphne blushed. Had Douanna just described what her own nation was doing? She had never considered it in such harsh terms before.

  The Rahain woman seemed to catch the irony at the same time, for she also blushed. ‘Apologies.’

  ‘None necessary,’ the Holdings woman replied, as she looked ahead to the city. ‘It seems, Douanna, that our nations might have more in common than we’d thought.’

  The road ran alongside the river for the last few miles, before sweeping over a broad, stone bridge, carried above the water on seven enormous piers. Traffic was busy, and continuous. Carts, wagons, people walking, people on horseback, and herds of sheep and cattle filled the wide, paved road.

  Daphne was now Sally, a servant to Douanna, who was arriving to cultivate business contacts for the coming season. They earned a few passing glances from others on the road, but it was the Rahain that people were staring at, not Daphne. She wore a long robe, with a hood, and kept herself hidden in the back of the wagon.

  Across the bridge was a large crossroads, and they took the left turn, towards the great southern gates of the Lower City. Jaioun steered their cart into the long queue lining the road to the gates.

  ‘Daphne, dear,’ Douanna said. ‘We may have a little problem. Didn’t you say that these gates were always open to traffic? There are guards stopping everyone as they enter, asking them questions.’

  Daphne looked up. Holdings soldiers were gathered round the entrance to the gate in far greater numbers than she had previously seen. She noticed that while most people on foot were admitted into the city without difficulty, all carts and wagons were being searched.

  ‘Can we turn the wagon around?’ she asked.

  Douanna glanced at the queue, which continued on behind them. ‘Not without bringing rather a lot of attention upon us, I’m afraid.’

  ‘What should we do?’

  ‘Well,’ Douanna said, ‘let’s not panic. We don’t know that it’s you they’re looking for.’

  ‘If they’ve heard I’m coming, they might be looking for me in the company of Rahain.’

  ‘Yes my dear, good point,’ Douanna said. ‘Best you slip off the cart, mingle in with the pedestrians, and try to get in on your own. Follow us once we’re through, we’ll catch up after a couple of streets.’

  Daphne nodded, and shuffled her way to the back of the wagon. She unfastened the rope knots and opened the rear canvas.

  ‘Halt!’ a soldier shouted. He was standing three feet from her, holding his spear up, as were several others alongside him.

  ‘Captain!’ he yelled. People on the road were starting to take an interest. Daphne dropped the rope and raised her right hand into the air.

  ‘Douanna,’ she called back.

  ‘Stop that cart!’ cried another voice. Within seconds, the wagon was surrounded by a bristling wall of spears.

  ‘You Rahain up there,’ someone with an officer’s accent shouted. ‘Down from the wagon!’

  ‘My dear Captain,’ she heard Douanna say. ‘Am I to assume by this that we are under arrest?’

  The officer didn’t reply, and Daphne heard steps come round to the rear of the wagon. A tall, thin man approached, a captain of the city guard, his breastplate gleaming in the sunlight.

  He stopped in front of her, eyed her up and down, a half sneer on his face.

  ‘Saved us the trouble of coming to find you,’ he smiled. ‘Most considerate.’

  He gestured, and a pair of guards ran forward. Each took a shoulder and pulled Daphne down from the wagon. Pain flared in her arm, but she remained steady on her feet. She looked the captain in the eye.

  A noisy crowd had formed around them, and curious citizens jostled in to get a better view.

  The captain glanced up, as if sensing the potential for a mob developing. He motioned to his troopers, and without another word they started to jog back to the gate, Daphne herded into their midst. Douanna and Jaioun were also being escorted by the soldiers. The Rahain woman looked furious.

  Daphne was bundled through the gate, and into a guardhouse to the side. The captain turned to her. He held a sheet of thick paper in his hand, and was scanning it and her alternately.

  ‘Miss Daphne Holdfast,’ he said in a low voice, ‘I am placing you under arrest for disobeying orders.’

  A few soldiers gasped.

  The captain turned on them. ‘Not one fucking word of this gets out, understood?’

  The guards nodded.

  ‘“Miss”?’ Daphne asked, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘Yes,’ the captain said. ‘The courts stripped you of your rank. You didn’t think you would be permitted to remain in the Queen’s Own, did you?’

  Daphne said nothing.

  ‘I have strict instructions, right from the top,’ the officer went on, raising his voice so the room could hear. ‘We’re to escort her to the palace, immediately, and preferably without a lynching or a full scale riot taking place. We’ll take two squads. Keep her in the middle with a hood up at all times, and get hoods for the two Rahain. They’re coming too.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ they replied.

  ‘And what about my wagon, Captain?’ Douanna interrupted. ‘My entire livelihood rests upon it.’

  The captain glared at her as if she was nothing more than a nuisance.

  ‘You two, go back out and retrieve their wagon,’ he said to the closest soldiers by him. ‘Lock it into the sheds behind the guardhouse, and set a watch on it.’

  They nodded and ran off.

  Douanna and Jaioun were pushed close to Daphne, and given long cloaks with hoods.

  They were moved into a long, low hall, where the squads were arming themselves. Most were avoiding all eye contact with Daphne, though a few stared, slack jawed.

  The captain nodded as he walked past. ‘We’re going to be moving fast, so keep up.’

  ‘Just remember that I’m a citizen of an allied nation,’ Douanna said, but he ignored her and continued to the front of the hall. Soldiers closed in on either side.

  The captain turned when he reached the doors.

  ‘We’re transferring these three prisoners directly to the palace, via the Royal Steps,’ he said. ‘Stop for nothing.’ He put on his helmet.

  The double doors at the end of the hall swung open, and the squads started jogging out into the road. The sergeant in front yelled at people to clear the way, and they followed her down the middle of the hastily emptied street. Eyes stared at them from the houses and shops lining the
way. Daphne kept her head down.

  They stuck to the main, wide thoroughfare that led from the gates to the Royal Steps, and reached it within a few minutes. The soldiers didn’t pause as they bounded over the long bridge to the foot of the stairs.

  The short day was ending, and shadows clung to the eastern side of the rocky outcrop. The Royal Steps were wide, and climbed up the cliffside in a regular zigzag. At each turn a turret had been built, and the stairs had a stone banister running up its entire length. Workers with long poles were starting to light the lanterns set into the cliffside above each stairway.

  ‘I need a drink before I’m climbing that,’ Douanna wheezed.

  The captain motioned to a soldier, who approached with a waterskin. The guards maintained their perimeter around them, despite the steps being quiet at that hour.

  ‘Quite frankly,’ Douanna said, ‘this treatment is unacceptable.’

  ‘Up we go,’ cried the captain, and they moved off again, jogging up each long flight. There were seven in all, Daphne remembered from climbing it in earlier years, each with one hundred steps.

  She was barely out of breath as she reached the top. She had been eating well and keeping herself fit, and her left arm apart, was probably the strongest she had ever been.

  Douanna nearly fell over as she got to the final step, and she gasped for breath.

  Daphne held her steady as she panted.

  ‘What,’ she breathed, ‘a stupid… place… for a palace.’

  They had emerged onto a broad plaza. On three sides great walls rose up from the perfectly set paving stones. In the centre of the middle wall, facing due east, was an enormous set of gilded gates, marking one of the formal entrances to the palace complex beyond.

  The squads advanced along the main processional way towards the gates, passing pedestals and plinths with towering statues of ancient kings and queens.

  Before the gates stood a company of the Queen’s Household Cavalry, and the Lower City squads halted twenty paces from them on the road.

  ‘What are you doing, bringing your squads up here?’ shouted a voice from the cavalry.

  ‘I’m under orders sir,’ the captain replied, ‘to bring the prisoner directly to the palace.’

  An officer emerged from the ranks of the cavalry, and strode towards the captain.

  ‘And who might that be?’ he asked, a major from his lapels.

  The captain approached the major.

  ‘Daphne Holdfast, sir,’ he half-whispered, ‘and two Rahain who were accompanying her.’

  ‘That rumour from the frontier was true then,’ the major said, a look of satisfaction appearing on his face. ‘Who’d have thought it?’

  They walked towards Daphne.

  ‘Hood off,’ the captain barked at her.

  She pulled it down.

  The major leaned forward and squinted at her.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It’s her all right.’ He shook his head as he paced around her, staring. ‘Before I take you in,’ he said, ‘let me just ask, why the blazes have you come back?’

  ‘To clear my name.’

  He snorted, amused.

  He turned to the younger officer. ‘Thank you, Captain, we’ll take it from here. I’ll make sure your name is mentioned in the report. Good work.’

  The captain nodded, a doubtful look in his eye. He about-turned his squads and they jogged back towards the steps. Soldiers from the ranks of the cavalry ran forward to take their places around the prisoners.

  The major smiled to himself.

  ‘Take them to the Tower.’

  The Old Tower was the most ancient, as well as the tallest, building in the entire city. Legend told that its stones had been raised by the first king, with the first prophet by his side, at the founding of the Realm. It lay to the north of the compact, blocky palace. Piled up in tiers of clashing architectural styles, the palace suffered from the lack of space on the summit of the promontory, and had expanded haphazardly upward and outward. In contrast, the tower next to it was simple and severe. It may once have been the seat of the monarch, but for hundreds of years it had housed cells. For a long time it had been the only prison in the capital, but nowadays there was a new brick jailhouse in the Lower City for common criminals, and the Old Tower was reserved for enemies of the Realm.

  When Daphne, Douanna and Jaioun were led inside, they were separated, and each taken to a different floor. Aside from the guards and the three prisoners, the rest of the building appeared empty and quiet.

  Daphne was escorted into a cell, and the guards closed and locked the door without a word spoken.

  She looked around.

  There was a deep opening on the thick wall opposite her, barred at the far end, and even though it was evening, the light coming from the Lower City below lent the cell some dim illumination. A wireframe pallet lay to her left, and she sat down on the stained mattress. It smelled fusty, and the blanket on top hadn’t been washed in a long time. There was a small stone bench built into the wall under the window, and a cracked old chamber pot. She shivered. It was the last day of autumn, and although the day’s sunlight still held some warmth, at night the temperature would dip dramatically.

  She pulled her robe around her, and eyed the blanket. The Creator only knew what insects and biting fleas dwelt within, just waiting for an opportunity to taste her flesh.

  The footsteps of the guards outside trailed away and she was left in silence and gloom.

  Why had she come back? What a fool. All she had gained by fleeing Midfort was a more comfortable journey to the capital than on the back of a prison wagon. Was that worth getting the two Rahain into such trouble? She was also disturbed by the lengths the soldiers had gone to keep her arrival a secret. Was it so they could quietly get rid of her? No witnesses, just a couple of unfounded rumours, and no body. Once again she was helpless in the hands of others.

  The evening dragged. After some hours, footsteps outside her cell woke her from her melancholy stupor. In the darkness, her breath was the only thing she could see.

  The door to her cell opened.

  Squinting her eyes from the harsh torchlight, she saw two guards enter, followed by three others. Two of them she recognised. The uniformed woman was from the army, Field Marshal Howie, and the old man in black robes was from the church, Archdeacon Bruit. The other man was dressed in the finery of a queen’s steward.

  She stood and faced them.

  ‘Stay where you are,’ a guard shouted, levelling his spear at her.

  ‘So it’s true,’ Bruit said, in his strangled voice. ‘The traitor has returned.’

  She made no reply.

  The royal steward pulled out some paper and charcoal sticks, and started writing.

  ‘Miss Daphne Holdfast, this is your formal arraignment,’ Howie said to her. ‘As you have already been found guilty in your absence, you are required to attend a hearing where you will be sentenced.’

  ‘I wish to appeal,’ Daphne said, her heart thundering.

  The field marshal raised an eyebrow. ‘I would advise against it. The court may show some leniency if you plead guilty, and throw yourself upon its mercy. If, on the other hand, you decide to fight the court’s judgement, and you fail, then you can expect the sentence to be as severe as the law allows.’

  ‘I plead not guilty,’ she said, ‘and I appeal.’

  Howie nodded, while Bruit looked scathing.

  ‘She just wants to spread her poison in front of an audience,’ the archdeacon said. ‘I will seek the judicial quashing of any appeal, and demand that sentencing be held in private, in the name of public safety.’

  ‘That is your right,’ Howie said. She gazed around the bare cell. ‘In the mean time, let’s not have our prisoner freeze to death. Guards, make sure she gets blankets, candles, food and water. Tonight, please. Also, if any of her close family turns up looking for her, let them talk to her.’

  ‘What?’ Bruit spat. ‘She’s a traitor, why should we show her kindnes
s?’

  Howie shook her head. ‘It’s not for her benefit. The entire Holdings will be watching us, as soon as we announce we’ve arrested her. I don’t want even the slightest hint of mistreatment to arouse any sympathy for her.’

  Bruit snorted, his arms crossed.

  ‘Be patient,’ Howie said. ‘After sentencing…’

  Bruit frowned. ‘Very well.’

  ‘Steward,’ Howie said to the man writing. ‘No need to record that last exchange. Stop at the part when I offered to allow her family to visit.’ She leaned over to see what the steward was doing. ‘Yes, perfect.’

  Howie nodded, and they left. A few minutes later the guards came back in. They lit a candle for her, and piled blankets and cloaks on the pallet. They also left a small sack of food, a large jug of water, and a ceramic mug.

  She threw the dirty old blanket to the far corner of the room, and pulled the new blankets around her, feeling warm for the first time in hours. She sat on the bed, and ate her way through the contents of the sack: bread, cheese, beef strips, tomatoes.

  ‘As severe as the law allows,’ Field Marshal Howie had said. Death, then.

  In the morning, not long after she had awoken, she heard footsteps again. A large metal hatch in the upper half of the cell door was opened, and Daphne could see someone through the wire mesh. She stood to get a better look.

  ‘Jorge!’ she cried.

  He came forward, his mouth hanging open, a look of nervous curiosity on his face.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.

  ‘The news of your arrest is all over town,’ he said, looking through the grille into the cell. ‘It was announced at dawn.’

  ‘But how did you get past the guards?’

  ‘I lied,’ he whispered. ‘I told them I was your brother. Showed them the old Holdfast ring you gave me, and they let me through the crowds. Still searched me, the buggers.’

  ‘Well, it’s good to see you,’ she said.

  He shook his head. ‘You should have stayed away.’

  ‘I’m innocent, Jorge,’ she replied. ‘I had to come back.’

  ‘Oh Daphne,’ he said, ‘it’s too late for guilty or innocent. In a city riven in two by pro- and anti-war factions, you have succeeded in uniting the populace into believing that you’re a filthy traitor. You are the only thing both sides agree on.’