by Narro, B. T.
“I swear on never taking another drink, it is the truth.” Alex said. He brought a fist down to the table that pulled Cleve’s focus back to the discussion.
They sipped on Effie’s sakal while speculating further. Alex drank three times what Cleve and Reela did. A sheen of sweat came over his flushed face the harder they tried to figure out who’d taken the bow and why. Their conversation concluded with no leads, but at least Cleve felt as if there were two more people he could trust. With Terren, that meant three now, triple what he had last week. Reela had tried to convince him that Effie and Steffen had nothing to do with the missing bow, but even she couldn’t persuade him to trust them yet. Not that he believed they would’ve taken it, just that they might be hiding something. Steffen especially had been acting rather devious when Effie was around.
Cleve wondered how little he would have believed of what Alex told him if it weren’t for Reela. He was beginning to appreciate the perks of knowing a psychic, even if being in the same room with her still sent terror through his bones.
Reela—her name evoked so much emotion, even in his thoughts. He hated how years of training to focus were instantly undone the moment he thought of her. It was like building a wall brick by brick and watching it stand against all elements until she came along. Now, Reela’s path had taken her alongside his wall, her hand reaching out to run her fingers along it. Bricks came loose from her touch, so Cleve ran behind her, repairing the damage by picking up the fallen pieces and putting them back in their places. It was only a matter of time before she’d knock over bricks faster than he could return them and the wall would crumble completely.
By the time he entered Kyrro City, the rain was so loud Javy Rayvender needed to shout to be heard. “The King wishes to speak with you. Will we need to chain you now, or will you continue to cooperate?” The guards with Javy waited for Cleve’s answer with their hands on their hilts.
“Chains will not be necessary.” He might not have his bow, but at least he had some dignity.
He’d been to Kyrro City once before for his parents’ funeral. The King had required their bodies to be buried not in Cleve’s hometown of Trentyre, but in the graveyard of Kyrro City. The King even attended the ceremony and made a brief statement about Cleve’s father being a great warrior.
In retrospect, their bodies being buried in Kyrro City didn’t make sense. Usually, people would be buried in the town where they lived, and only a guard of the King would have a funeral service like that of his mother and father, yet they hadn’t worked for the King.
As he walked between Javy and the three guards, Cleve saw nothing familiar about the city. He might have recognized the graveyard, but luckily he never saw it. Even with the cold rain beating down, the path to the castle was filled with street merchants and a beggar farther down who waited for them to pass before reverting back to his pleas. They walked by bars, weapon shops, a brothel, and many homes standing only a foot taller than him. It was all similar to what he recalled of Trentyre, except the warriors walking about here in Kyrro City were all of the King’s Guard, usually wearing armor died the color of Kyrro—light blue, with a gold crown outlined in silver on their chests. At the sight of Javy, they skirted to the side of the road to let him pass, giving Cleve a hard look as he followed behind the King’s Council member. I would have harsh judgments for a prisoner as well, he realized.
The massive castle in the center of the city could be seen even from the Academy, so to say it dwarfed the houses around it was an understatement. A small army of guards stood at the entrance, which was a black, ironbark door that looked sturdy enough to deny admission without the men clad in steel in front of it.
How could such a fortress fall to an attack? Cleve wondered. But it had, he knew, many times even. One wouldn’t know by looking at it, as each new king had rebuilt it stronger, replacing stone with ironbark in the areas the castle had suffered damage.
A boy servant ran from behind the leg of a guard at the door to deliver an envelope to Javy. Cleve noticed the King’s stamp on it as Javy thanked the boy and then ripped it open. He gave the note inside no more than a quick glance before he sighed and met Cleve’s eyes with a slow, upward swing of his head.
“This is where I hand you off,” Javy said. “Approach the castle guards and answer any questions they put to you.” He took a step closer to Cleve so that he could speak softly without the guards overhearing. “It’s been too long for many of them since they’ve seen a battle. Don’t give them any chance to use their weapons or they’ll take it.” With that, he lowered his hat and turned to walk back the way they’d come.
Cleve approached, only to be met with the points of several swords.
“State your name,” the lead guard ordered.
“Cleve Polken.”
The guard inspected him from head to toe. “We’ve been expecting you,” he said bitterly.
And if you hadn’t been, would I have one less arm? Cleve kept his thoughts to himself and nodded.
“Wait here.” The guard sheathed his sword and walked to the door.
Ten minutes passed before the door was opened and the guard returned with a smiling gray-haired man. “Hello Cleve,” he said, extending a hand. The man’s face was in his memory, but Cleve wasn’t sure from when or where. “I’m Councilman Kerr.”
Councilman is a strange first name, Cleve might have mentioned if his mood was better. Instead, he replied with just a nod as he shook the man’s hand.
“A man of few words, like your father.”
That’s how I know you, he realized. A decade ago, Cleve had seen Kerr and his father meeting several times but had never known why.
“I see Dex didn’t speak of me, but he had much to share of you. Please follow me to the King’s quarters. I wish we were meeting under different circumstances so I could give you a tour of this magnificent castle.”
Guards closed the door behind them. There was a deep thud as it was locked into place by some hidden bolt. Getting out may be just as hard as getting in.
Chapter 30: Follow
CLEVE
The ground floor was paved with stone. Doors, hallways, and more doors were in every direction but gave no sense as to what was behind them. Councilman Kerr moved lively for an old man, pacing quickly up the first of many flights of stairs and giving Cleve no time to look around.
“We’re going to the top floor. Six flights of stairs, forty stairs each. I make this climb several times a day.” Kerr had a cadence of pride in his voice.
The floors of the second level and above were made from black and glossy ironbark wood. Decorative banners were placed along banisters and walls. Cleve glanced at one but had never seen it before. I bet Steffen has a book about them.
“Oof,” someone blurted as they collided with him. In the two steps Cleve had taken without looking ahead, he’d knocked over a short woman who must’ve been a server judging by her plain tunic and unwashed hair. He pulled her up from the ground with an apology. She kept her head down and apologized as well.
“Careful,” Councilman Kerr said. “We keep ourselves very busy here, so the castle is populated with all sorts of people always on the move. You’d be surprised how much work the upkeep of the castle takes. The ironbark will hold forever, but much of the structure is still stone, and stone doesn’t hold up as well against the years. We have fifty masons on staff, most of whom live within these castle walls. I’ll explain more as we walk. Use those young legs. The King doesn’t have time to wait. He has prepared himself to meet with you.”
Cleve kept himself closer to Kerr as they continued up another set of stairs.
“The men and women in long coats of white or gray are chemists,” the councilman explained. “We have many who work here, but not just on potions. They serve as medical staff as well.” A chemist passed by them holding a beaker that bubbled with some sort of steaming substance. Cleve leaned against the railing of the stairs to ensure it would avoid him.
As they r
eached the third floor, two warriors in chain mail moved aside to let them through. “I’m sure the warriors of the King’s Guard are obvious to you,” the councilman said, “but you may not have seen our mages yet.” Without slowing his quick pace, he pointed ahead to three mages huddled over a scroll. Each woman wore a blood-red robe. “You can tell their specialty by the color of their robe—red to represent hot Bastial Energy and green to represent heavy Sartious Energy. As you may guess, there are far fewer mages in green. But what many don’t know is why we use red to represent Bastial Energy. Do you?”
The answer seemed simple at first. Sartious Energy was green, so green represented it. Cleve figured Bastial Energy must be red to follow suit. But then Cleve realized it wasn’t that. When Effie created light from Bastial Energy it was always white, strangely white, white as snow.
“I don’t,” Cleve replied.
“What I love about this question is that the less people know about magic the higher the chances they’ll get it right,” Kerr said with a wry smile. “You must know something about magic to answer the way you did. Bastial Energy is red, thus we use red to represent it.”
Cleve knew he was being led on, but without any idea where he was headed, he had no choice but to follow. “But Bastial Energy is white.”
“Yes, in low doses, which is usually the only time we see Bastial Energy. But like steel being heated by fire, Bastial Energy can change color. Depending on how concentrated and hot it gets, it can become red. If you see a stream of red Bastial Energy, watch out. It’s going to be hot enough to take off a limb with just a touch.”
“Some mages can cast such a spell?” Cleve asked incredulously.
“Only a few ever have, and that’s after hours of meditation for a single blast.” Kerr curled his mouth into a sly grin. “Scary stuff, isn’t it?”
Then he realized that truthfully it really wasn’t. A sword could take off a limb just as easily. The thought of fear just brought his uncle’s Elven friend Rek to mind—nothing was scarier than the most powerful psychic in the world.
Next he thought of Reela and realized she was a close second.
The third floor was by far the most crowded, at least from what was visible to Cleve. There were now many more men and women dressed like the server he’d nearly trampled earlier, most of them carrying trays with empty plates and cups. Councilman Kerr stopped Cleve so they could move for one woman wobbling her way through with a pile of sheets stacked up to her nose.
“If you think this is bad, you wouldn’t believe the kitchens,” Kerr said after she went by.
They walked up two more flights of stairs. On the fifth floor, two prostitutes giggled as they followed a man into a room down one of the hallways. The councilman had no words to share for that. He kept his head straight and pushed off the railing for support every few paces. The old man was a bit winded by then.
The lack of chatter on the sixth floor made it clear how noisy the rest of the castle was. Except for two guards standing as still as statues near the stairs, no one roamed the halls and all the doors were closed. The eeriness of the sudden change produced a dark thought. Is this where they take people to be executed?
“No one goes up to the sixth floor without permission from the King or his trusted council. You should hear the ridiculous speculation about what others believe is up here.” Kerr laughed between heavy breaths. “Someone once told me they heard we kept a Slugari up here. Isn’t that funny?” His laughter grew louder. “It doesn’t even make sense. Why would we keep one, let alone in secret?”
What’s a Slugari? Cleve wondered but forced a smile instead.
The prune-skinned man had a friendliness to him that lifted Cleve’s spirits. If this guy is leading me to the ax, then he sure hides it well.
“Here we are,” Kerr said, unlocking the heavy door and pushing it open with both hands.
Cleve recognized King Welson immediately, which was easy because of the throne he sat on, but a stick of a man Cleve had never seen before was to the King’s right. He stood tall, about Cleve’s height. He had curly dark hair atop a high forehead, pointed cheeks, and a sharp chin. His eyes appeared as black as the darkness that had set in outside the castle, and his skin was sickly pale like it had never seen the sun. Between him and the King was Cleve’s priceless bow—resting against the throne.
Cleve avoided eye contact with both of them and hoped to hear something else from Kerr as they walked forward together. Instead, the councilman was silent, matching the room.
The King’s lips twisted into a smile. “You’re grown up, big like your father.”
The mention of Dex felt contrived, as if the King wanted Cleve to ask. So he did: “Did you know him?”
“I knew him well enough.” Welson spoke regretfully. The way his eyes shifted to the ground made it seem like there was far more to it than that. “You must have some idea why you’re here.” The King gave a commanding nod to the tall man to his right who reached beside the throne to lift Cleve’s bow. “The man who holds your bow is my top psychic. He can tell if you lie, so you’ll tell the truth, correct?”
Of course there’s a psychic, Cleve said to himself bitterly. “Yes.”
“Unannounced sweeps were done throughout each city to collect the bows, and the manufacture of them has stopped. So where did you get this one?”
Cleve glanced at the psychic. His head was stretched forward, his eyes peering deep into Cleve’s. “It was my father’s. It was hidden during each sweep.”
“Do you know that possessing a bow is a crime, that you could be put in jail for years?”
“I do,” Cleve answered.
The King sat back on his throne and let the unsettling silence waft through the room. “And how long have you been using the bow while it was illegal to do so?”
“Since the day after the outlaw was announced. If it wasn’t hidden, then it was in my hands.”
Cleve expected that to be the last question before he was dragged into a cell, but instead there was a friendly grin on Welson’s face. “Good,” he replied. The smile didn’t befit the King, Cleve thought. It didn’t seem to take shape naturally. It didn’t help either that his nose was thin, especially for his wide face, or that his cheekbones looked to push out too far. “So you are as skilled with this awful weapon as you are with a sword?”
Cleve squinted curiously, ignoring the comment about the bow. “You know of my skill with the sword?”
“I know you’ve won each annual weapons demonstration in the three years since you were old enough to compete at fourteen.” King Welson spoke proudly. “We’ve also been watching you since your admission to the Academy. I needed to make sure of your abilities before bringing you here.” A frown formed and his tone softened. “Unfortunately, there is still more I need to know about you before I can provide details of what you’re doing here on the sixth floor instead of locked in a cell under the castle. So I ask again—your skill with the bow, how is it?” There was a patience in Welson’s words that came as a surprise.
“Better than my skill with the sword.”
“As I’d hoped.” The King’s smile reformed. “Your father was the best sharpshooter Kyrro has ever seen. Not only could he shoot far and accurately, but consistently as well. Rain, wind, it didn’t matter. He would hit his mark as long as it was still.” He raised a finger to prepare Cleve for his next statement. “But even Dex Polken, with his unparalleled focus, couldn’t predict where his target would be after he released the arrow, not if the animal—or man—had mind enough to move.”
“Like my father,” Cleve interjected, “I would never shoot at a man.”
“Wouldn’t you, though?” King Welson retorted. “If you believed he was an enemy or a threat to the people of Kyrro?” He stopped to let Cleve ponder, then quietly finished with, “Your father did just that.”
Cleve could not respond with words, only a baffled look.
“You act as if you didn’t know,” Welson said with amused shock.
“Is this true? You’ve never heard of Dex Polken shooting at a man?”
“I have not,” Cleve answered, holding back his anger at the accusation. There’d been no wars in Ovira during his father’s lifetime. Why would he shoot a man? The King gave a glimpse to his right. The ghastly psychic replied with a nod.
“Thank you for your honesty so far.” Welson’s tone was proud once more. “I’ve been curious about that for quite some time.” He used his forearms to brace his weight so he could lean forward. “But we still need your answer to this, and I’ll make the question very easy. Would you shoot a man—shoot to kill—if your King commanded it?” He lifted a finger to stop Cleve from answering right away. “Keep in mind that all citizens of Kyrro must obey a direct order from the King, especially the Academy attendees like you, who’ve signed the contract to fight.”
Cleve looked to Councilman Kerr and discovered an anxious glance back at him. The answer to this will determine what happens next, Cleve thought. Inflicting pain or death was never something he wished. Sure, he’d imagine enemies in place of his targets, but they were faceless attackers who would stop at nothing to kill. Giving a name to them hadn’t been something he’d considered.
“I believe I could do that. I’ve never thought of it before.”
The King glanced at his psychic, who continued to stare at Cleve, eyes locked. Suddenly the psychic snapped out of his trance to nod at the King.
“The psychic would say if you lied.” Welson Kimard stood to pace in front of his throne. “I’ll need more certainty that you can complete the mission, but we can come back to that. First, there’s something I need to see.” He stopped his pacing. “Councilman Kerr, would you please retrieve the bow and hand it to Cleve?”
Kerr followed the order without a word, giving Cleve his weapon with a nervous grin.
The weight of the fine ironbark in Cleve’s hands put his mind at ease for a heartbeat, but then the King spoke again and disrupted his calm. “Come with me.” Welson disappeared behind his throne, and the psychic followed.
