The Tainted Crown: The First Book of Caledan (Books of Caledan 1)

by Meg Cowley

  Soren opened his eyes as Edmund gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. Edmund’s face was ashen with his own exhaustion. He sat with Soren, guarding him through the inevitable torture that returned every night.

  “This will not last forever,” said Edmund.

  Soren rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “I hope you’re right. I cannot last on nightmares.”

  Edmund did not reply, but Soren had a feeling he would be thinking the same. He had tried to send Edmund away for the man’s own health and sanity, but every night, when Soren awoke hyperventilating and in a blind panic, Edmund’s presence was the first thing he noticed.

  With a flick of Edmund’s hands, the servants dispersed, though it took an extra shoo for the physician to retreat.

  “You are safe here, Soren. Zaki is most likely dead, but if not, he would not be able to reach you.” Edmund shuffled to an armchair and sank into it with a sigh of relief. “It has been over two months since your uncle escaped. Rest easier in the knowledge that all of Caledan knows him for a traitor, a usurper… and a murderer,” Edmund added softly, his eyes flicking to Soren. “Zaki will find no shelter here.”

  “I tell myself that daily, yet now I know what he’s capable of. The worst thing is not knowing where he is. I almost expect him to jump from behind the curtain or under the bed. Ridiculous, I know. And yet I cannot dispel the fear. I was so close to returning true peace and security to Caledan. He escaped so easily – what if he returns?”

  “Zaki is long gone. The hundreds of armoured men crossing the border heading south, bearing no banner or crest, could only be him fleeing with his last supporters. The deserts will claim him before he reaches anywhere that he could survive.”

  Soren could not help but question otherwise. Every shadow held his uncle waiting to leap out and kill him. Even at night, Soren insisted on the room being lit to give an extra shred of peace to his mind, for what it was worth, but the nightmares came as virulently as ever.

  “What is it you fear the most?” Edmund’s hooded eyes regarded Soren thoughtfully.

  Soren stirred, pulling the cover closer around him, despite the insufferable warmth it created. His eyes drifted closed again. They ached with such a fierce throb that it hurt to open them. “I’m not sure.” He’s a monster, and his absence only makes him grow more terrible. Soren could not think of his uncle’s face, nor his name, without flinching.

  “I fear that he will never give up, that he will return, that he will hunt me down and that there is nothing I can do to stop it. I fear that he will kill me – I fear death.” Soren shivered as he thought of the blackened and contorted bodies left behind by his uncle. “I fear how he will kill me, what dark weapon he would use against me. Castle walls feel as thin as air when I know that he could escape from such a prison.”

  “The entire kingdom hunts for him, Soren. He could not pass our borders, let alone reach Pandora or you. You have nothing to fear.”

  “Yet Roher supplies him with military technology – so how sure can you be that he will seek to come alone?” Soren’s voice rose in pitch as his breathing quickened again.

  Edmund paused. “I do not understand it myself. Lord Behan’s intelligence suggests that the incendiary device used in your uncle’s escape was almost certainly developed and produced within Roher’s borders, yet we cannot be sure Harad supplied it. Harad has remained true to his word: he left peacefully and has not returned.”

  “Yet,” Soren said. The word hung ominously in the air.

  “Perhaps Harad will return. However, think of the journey Zaki would have to undertake to even reach Roher’s borders, let alone its capital city. Why would Harad assist him, after trading him with us? Surely, he is a lost cause.”

  Soren did not answer. His gaze drifted from the stone walls of his chamber to the flickering light of the candle on his side table. Once more, he wondered how fire could break stone. “I don’t know what to believe anymore, Edmund.”

  Zaki

  The golden-domed watchtowers of Arrans, capital of Roher, blazed on the horizon under the punishing sun. Zaki ached. A deep-seated, dull, pulsing ache that encompassed his entire being: his bones, his muscles, even his head. At last…

  Beside him, Reynard sank to the ground. “Thank you, Lord God, for blessing us with your divine intervention, by showing us the way to our salvation.” Reynard murmured fervent prayers to himself, his bobbing head bowed over shaking, clasped hands, and his eyes scrunched shut.

  Zaki looked at him through narrow eyes, disdaining the wreck of a man kneeling at his side, but Reynard was still in a better state than most of the others who had survived the torturous journey. There is no God, you fool. After all ‘God’ has done to me, he cannot be. If he exists, then he has wronged me and should be damned to hell himself.

  His eyes flicked back to drink in the vista before him. Where they had tramped for endless weeks through desert, now grass grew beneath their ruined feet. With every step they took, the land became lush, green and hopeful.

  Before them stood the red stone walls of Arrans. Topped with triangular crenulations, they stretched into the distance, encircling the vast city within their protection. They snaked over the five hills on which Arrans was built, even spanning the river that carved through the city’s belly.

  On each of the five hills stood a great watch-tower, a hundred and fifty feet high, an unlit yet blazing beacon reflecting the light from gilded brickwork and mosaic patterns. He could not see the detail he knew to be there – they were still miles away – but the flash of colour atop the closest towers was visible. Below the golden sun of Roher flew the banner of his father-in-law: the red rose and rampant lion of King Harad the Third.

  Zaki’s only other visit to the city – to meet his bride-to-be and formalise their wedding – had been a grander and more pleasant occasion. Instead of a harsh journey through the desert, they had sailed to Bera, the sea-port and travelled at leisure to Arrans from there. The men had ridden in upon horses, with the ladies riding in palanquins, fanned by servants. All had been cheered into the city by rich and poor alike who lined the streets up to the royal palace at the top of the tallest of Arrans’s hills.

  In contrast to the well-fed prince entering Arrans in triumph, Zaki was now a pauper and passed for a different person. His eyes had sunk into his burnt and weathered cheeks under unkempt, shaggy hair, and his soft skin had been hardened by the long duration of rough travel. His clothes hung off him – he and his men had long eaten all the horses, surviving on nought for days – and his body, which had been so well trained and fed, had melted away to a toughened, wiry frame.

  They had little left – no money between them, nor armour. In the blistering heat, it was an unnecessary burden. Even Zaki’s royal armour, worth more than the annual earnings of all his men put together, had been dumped. Instead they survived like bandits, thieving food, drink and luxuries like blankets from those they passed, either through force or by silent theft in the night.

  The sight before him made him forget the weeks – or it could have been months, he had lost track of the endless cycle of night and day – of hardship. Spurred on and reinvigorated by the sight he had so longed to see, he drove his men on, commanding them through cracked and dried lips.

  His men followed in silence like sheep behind a shepherd. They had little energy to talk and no desire to rejoice after everything they had lost. More than one had died along the way through illness, starvation, dehydration or because their mutinous words and discontent had reached a ruthless Zaki’s ears. But Zaki was no shepherd. He watched them all like a wolf over prey. I will not let them betray me.

  The hard, dry earth pained Zaki’s feet; they tingled and spasmed with every step, but he pushed on. It was still hours before they reached the gates. So huge were the towers and walls from afar that they seemed closer; a cruel illusion. But when he stepped under the cooling shadow of the gate at last, it was no vision.

  The gate was open, but men barred the way with a
makeshift barrier across the entrance to the city.

  “Quis est iste?” one of them asked him. “Vade, pauper!” The man shooed him away, but Zaki stood his ground.

  “Caledan,” Zaki said. “Do you speak Caledonian?”

  “Caledonian?” The guard sneered. “Nulla. Non Caledonian.”

  “I must see King Harad,” Zaki emphasised, wishing he could speak some broken words of their language, or they his. “King Harad – take me to him. I am King Zaki of Caledan. King Zaki.”

  “King? Regis? Quod homo petit esse rex!” The guards burst out laughing, taking great pleasure in their amusement.

  “Regis Zaki!” One bowed mockingly to him, sweeping his hand before him in a grand gesture, as the others continued their raucous laughter behind him. His balding head gleamed in the sun.

  Zaki stepped forwards in anger, drawing his sword, the one weapon remaining to him.

  At once the merriment ceased. The Roherii drew their own blades.

  “I am King Zaki of Caledan. I command you to take me to King Harad immediately, or I swear upon my crown I will kill you all where you stand.” His sword point wavered before him as his arm shook with the weight of the blade, but Zaki’s blood boiled with fury at being so treated. After all he had endured, he refused to be turned away at the gate like a commoner. He stood, glaring at them, with his legs planted upon the ground and his free hand clenched.

  Their leader looked him up and down, frowning, his eyes lingering over Zaki’s sword and the gold signet ring, which out of vanity Zaki could not bear to part with. Zaki tilted his ring so the gold flashed in the light, revealing the imprint of his crest upon it. The man turned to his companions, his expression one of doubt.

  “Non certus sum… sed ut homo vera praedicat… Vide annulum? Vide viri eius?”

  Zaki looked between them, but he did not understand their words. The man pointed to his hand and Zaki lifted it, showing his ring to the men, who were quieter and shifted upon their feet whilst sneaking uncomfortable glances at each other.

  “Yes,” said their captain in accented Caledonian. He beckoned Zaki and his men forward, firing a rapid babble of orders at the Roherii men who scattered, their eyes wide. One returned, leading two horses – one for the captain and one for Zaki. He was thankful they had a mounting block, but even then he struggled, trying to conceal his involuntary grimaces beneath his hair.

  His men remained on foot, limping along behind him, as they passed along one of the main avenues, bustling in the pre-evening rush. Men, women and children rushed about, some with baskets and packages, others with guards in carriages, but most on foot, weaving in-between each other.

  The guards cut a column through the maelstrom before them. Zaki worried they were causing a spectacle and he slouched, flopping his hair across his face. He did not want to be recognised, but he need not have been concerned. Few batted an eye-lid at their passage – fewer stopped to stare. Zaki glanced at his dirty skin and tatty clothes. I look just like one of them. His lip curled with distaste.

  The noise and smell of the city was overwhelming after weeks of near silence and nothingness. Zaki’s ears filled with an unbearable level of sound, worsening his pounding headache. The smells turned his stomach, especially the stench from the sewers and waste piles, and even the scent of food made him gag.

  At last Zaki entered the palace compound, stopping for a moment at the gate as their guide spoke in hushed tones with those guarding the way, throwing many glances back towards the Caledonians. Zaki was beckoned through the gates, which clanged shut once his men had entered.

  Peace returned. On the hill, away from the poorer districts of the city, the wealthy lived in quiet contentment, overlooked by the sprawling royal palace. Vast gardens opened up, and although the wealthier district’s streets on the slopes were more spacious than the crowded roads through the valley-bottom slums, the space in the palace grounds was most freeing.

  Fountains babbled amid birdsong. Thirst rushed to the forefront of Zaki’s mind. He licked his lips in frustration, longing to dive into one of the gurgling ponds to drink, cool himself and cleanse the disgusting amount of grime from his body and clothing. It felt so ingrained Zaki feared he would never be purged of it.

  They were led to Harad’s throne room, announced, and ushered through the golden doors. Zaki ignored the frescoed walls, the metal-plated and gem-studded marble carvings, and the rich tapestries. He did not even look up to the high ceiling, painted with scenes of the creation as told by Harad’s religion: it was a practice that worshipped many deities, which was strange to Zaki’s mind. Instead, his attention fixed on the figures at the far end of the room. Servants surrounded the king, who sat upon his grand throne.

  They had last met in what felt like another life. Unbidden, Zaki recalled the moment when, stood before the gates of Pandora shoulder to shoulder with Harad, his father-in-law had betrayed him. Subdued and shackled like a common prisoner, though he tried with all his might to break free, Zaki had been handed over to Soren in exchange for the freedom of Zaki’s wife, Demara, and her unborn child. Instead of ascending in victory to Caledan’s throne, he had fallen to the deepest dungeon. Despite Harad’s assistance in Zaki’s escape, Zaki had not forgiven him that.

  “Your Majesty.” Zaki was forced to greet Harad first, though he longed to stride up to the man and stab him in the gut for his betrayal.

  “Your Royal Highness.” Harad returned the greeting.

  Zaki felt a hot stab of anger. He dishonours me in public!

  “Welcome to Arrans – at last! Let us refresh you,” Harad continued before Zaki could react. He clapped his hands: a sharp, short sound that reverberated around the large space.

  At once his servants dispersed, returning moments later carrying trays piled high with sweet and savoury morsels and small glasses of pale yellow liquid.

  His men fell upon them, so desperate were they for sustenance. Zaki longed to do the same, but forced himself to stand, waiting, until he was offered something, trembling as he suppressed his desire to move. He waved away the food, not trusting himself to eat with reserve, but he could not refuse the drink. I need a feast, not these pathetic scraps.

  Zaki took – with meticulous steadiness – a glass between his forefinger and thumb, tipping its entire contents slowly down his throat, all the while with his eyes fixed on Harad. The liquid swirled around his mouth and swam down his throat, cool and refreshing. Zaki took another glass, and then a third, touching his lips with shaking fingers and savouring the wetness there. He waited for Harad to speak, to make the next move.

  “You do not look well,” the king remarked, regarding him with veiled eyes.

  Zaki could not control his temper any longer. “How dare you! How dare you betray me – abandon me to my death and pretend all is well!”

  “I welcome you, do I not? I offer you good food and drink, no? What is past is past.”

  “I nearly died! Look at me! I have travelled for who knows how many weeks or months through that God forsaken desert trying to stay alive – we ate every last damn horse and it wasn’t enough,” Zaki raged, storming around with frustration. The delicate glass shattered in his clenched fist and he paused, swearing. He dropped the shards to the floor and sucked his bleeding palm before he continued, his hand throbbing.

  “My men are dead. My hopes are dead. You have crushed everything. You have stolen my future when it was there for me to take. I have nothing – and it is all your fault! And now, when I arrive here, starving and a wreck, you have the nerve to offer me sweets?” Zaki slapped a tray from the hand of a nearby servant. It smashed upon the floor, food and glass cascading everywhere.

  Harad stood, snarling. Thunderous eyebrows sunk over narrowed eyes as his guards moved forward in synchronisation. The king waved them away with a slash of his hand and they melted into the shadows.

  Around Zaki, a flurry of servants crawled upon the floor, picking up every last morsel in blank-faced silence.

  “Ta
ke these men away to bathe, eat and rest,” Harad commanded, gesturing at Zaki’s ragged band. They were led away. Harad stepped down ever so slowly from his throne, though he kept a distance between himself and Zaki.

  “There was no successful outcome for us that day,” Harad said as the door shut behind the last of the Caledonians.

  Zaki didn’t need to ask which day. Us? Zaki noticed Harad’s choice of word.

  “I made the best decisions I could based on the moves we could have made. You are lucky that I helped you to escape.”

  “This is not a game, and your fire device almost killed me in the process!”

  “Then you are lucky; I admit it is not perfected. However, I disagree. It is very much a game – of strategy – and that day, whatever had happened, we would have lost had I not acted thusly. I would have lost – and Roher does not lose. Roher is strong and Roher is feared. And why do you think that is?

  “Because I always choose the battles we will win. We could not have won with the men we had that day. Yet, if I had retreated with you, my daughter and her babe – the heir to your claim – would still be in Pandora, and Roher’s reputation would be ruined.”

  Zaki looked up, his eyes wide and mouth open. “I have a son?”

  “No. You have a daughter.”

  Zaki growled, an inhuman sound. “I did not risk my life for a daughter!”

  Servants scurried away from him in fear.

  “You have much to learn if you dismiss the value of a daughter,” said Harad. “In any case, you still have a wife to give you many sons. Stay, and recover. There is nothing to say that Caledan’s throne will not someday be yours.”

  Zaki was thrown by the offer. He regarded Harad with suspicion. The older man seemed genuine and caring in his offer, which made Zaki more distrustful. Harad never gives something for nothing. But there was little to consider; no man in his right mind would choose to turn back into the desert, away from such a haven. “How do I know I can trust you?”