by Bruce Blake
Their father climbed the tall stairs, leaving his squire at the bottom, then the queen followed, one attendant leading her by the hand, the other picking up the back of her long skirt. The high steps provided more of a challenge for their much smaller mother, but twenty-one turns of the seasons’ worth of practice since she married the king gave her the ability to disguise the effort.
The two attendants left the queen standing beside the throne, hand resting in the accustomed place on her husband’s shoulder, and descended the steps in a hurried rustle of skirts. The queen’s gaze flickered back and forth between her children, her expression unreadable.
Silence fell in the hall as the echoing footsteps of the attendants dissipated. Danya inhaled shallowly through her nose, trying not to disturb the stillness; she heard Teryk swallow hard. Their father leaned forward, one elbow on his knee, and stroked his short-trimmed salt and pepper beard. Though not much younger than the old knight, Droinfeld, the king was more vital and most said truly didn’t show his age. He always gave credit to having a beautiful wife more than twenty turns his junior.
A shadow crossed his brow and he gestured to someone standing behind his children. A man Danya hadn’t realized had entered with her parents walked out from behind them, the click of his heeled boots fluttering into the hall’s ceiling like noisy birds on the wing. He halted and pivoted so both the king and queen above on the dais as well as she and the prince saw what he held cradled in his gauntleted hands.
The scroll.
No one spoke. Beside her, Teryk licked his lips; Danya resisted the urge to grasp his hand, to comfort her brother under their father’s penetrating gaze while drawing solace for herself.
The king gestured again and the squire rushed away from the base of the dais, Trenan following him. Their footsteps stopped, followed by the squeal of metal dragged across the polished stone floor. Danya pressed her lips together, struggling to keep curiosity from getting the better of her and, a moment later, the master swordsman and the young squire returned to view dragging a gleaming brass brazier between them. They set it halfway between where Danya and Teryk stood and the bottom of the steps, then the squire hurried off again, reappearing with a guttering torch in hand. He lit the brazier.
A wave of the king’s fingers brought the man holding the scroll ahead two paces to stand at the edge of the fire. He extended his arms.
“Father!”
Danya winced at the sound of her brother’s voice, and their father raised his hand, stopping him from speaking further. His brows tilted in.
“Magic,” he said, then paused to allow the word to echo through the great hall. “Magic is forbidden and you brought it into my castle.”
“No, father. It—”
“Silence.”
The barked violence of the word made Danya flinch. Teryk’s breath squeaked at the back of his throat.
“Trenan has told me all I need to know,” he said, his voice booming through the hall. “You have disappointed me, Teryk. Again. And you, young lady...”
He glowered at the princess, but said no more, choosing to simply shake his head as a display of his disgruntlement.
Teryk opened his mouth again, but thought better of speaking. Disillusionment and despair emanated from him, touching Danya as though he’d reached out with his hand. As far back as she remembered, she’d been sensitive to his emotions, empathic to the point of experiencing them herself at times.
His face set as though carved in stone, the king gestured and the knight dropped the parchment into the leaping flames.
The old, dry paper ignited at once, blackening and curling at the edges as the fire devoured it like a dog left too long without food. Danya felt her brother quiver beside her, the muscles in his arms and legs tensed as though he held himself back from rushing to the brazier and rescuing the scroll from the flames. She hoped he didn’t—they were in enough trouble already.
Ancient parchment crackled and popped for a time before the regent leaned back and spoke.
“You are both forbidden from entering the river,” he said, voice booming through the room with practiced ease. “And you will not leave the palace for any reason, except with my permission and an escort, until I decide otherwise.”
Teryk stepped forward; Danya reached out, touched his arm to make him step back, but he shrugged her off.
“Father,” he said, voice cracking. He cleared his throat. “Father. Don’t punish Danya. She didn’t want to swim in the river and told me not to take the scroll. I accept your punishment, but she doesn’t deserve it.”
The king frowned. “You accept my punishment, do you? Something in my words suggested you had another choice?”
Teryk shook his head but said nothing else. A wise choice, given their father’s apparent mood, Danya thought. He directed his gaze upon her and the princess wished to find a way to shrink back to the little girl who’d found climbing the stairs a near insurmountable task.
“And is what he speaks true, Danya? Are you merely a puppet controlled by your brother, without a will of your own?”
His words dug into her as if he’d jabbed her with the end of a staff. She set her feet and bit down hard, her lips compressing to a thin white line across her face. Why did her brother have to say such things? Did he not realize how it made her look?
“No, your majesty.”
The king leaned back and nodded once.
“Then we are done.”
“Father, I—”
Danya cringed at the sound of her brother speaking yet again, but the king silenced him by raising a hand. He glared down at his son from on high, his gaze daring the young man to say another word, but Teryk chose wisely and diverted his eyes.
Their father stood abruptly and descended the stairs. When he reached the bottom, the two attendants hurried up to aid the queen, and the king’s squire scurried after him, three steps behind and one to the right. He passed them on Teryk’s side this time, pausing at the prince’s shoulder and speaking in quiet tones meant only for him but that Danya heard, nonetheless.
“I don’t know how you expect to be king one day acting this way.”
He carried on, his squire following. Danya directed her eyes toward her brother, saw the twitch in the clenched muscles of his jaw and the reflection of the flames burning the scroll shining in his eyes. He sucked his bottom lip into his mouth and chewed. Their father knew what to say to hurt Teryk as surely as if he skewered him with a blade.
Before leaving the room, the queen stopped in front of them. She gazed at each of them in turn, touched the prince’s cheek, held the princess’ hand. Danya thought she should apologize, but when her brother didn’t, she didn’t, either. The queen didn’t speak until she stood before the master swordsman.
“Thank you, Trenan,” she said, her hand on his arm. Their gazes met and held for a moment, as though they exchanged something that needed no words, then she allowed her attendants to lead her out of the room in a swirl of skirts. The man who’d carried the scroll followed them out, leaving brother and sister alone with the master swordsman.
“It had to be done,” he said—the closest to an apology he’d come. “Do you understand how dangerous that thing might have been?”
Teryk glared at their weapons trainer, his cheek deepening to red, his eyes blazing. Danya laid her hand on his arm, attempting to calm him, but he pulled away and stepped toward Trenan, leaving only a pace between them.
“You didn’t have to tell him,” Teryk said, louder than he needed to, his voice strained as though he struggled to hold back tears. “We could have dealt with it ourselves.”
“No, my prince. It—”
Teryk spun away and stomped toward the door before Trenan finished his sentence, the remaining words left unsaid. The prince’s exaggerated footfalls bounced and echoed and the door creaked as he left, leaving it open behind him. Danya and the master swordsman stared after him until he disappeared from their view, but when she looked at Trenan, she saw regr
et in his expression.
“I did what I thought best, princess,” he said.
“I know.”
Smoke swirled and danced toward the ceiling from the parchment smoldering in the brazier. Danya stared at it for a moment, imagining she saw shapes and colors flickering amongst the flames, then she allowed Trenan to lead her to her chambers.
IX Livin'
Horace stood at the pasture’s edge, grindin’ the heels o’ his hands into his eyes to be sure he weren’t seein’ things. When he took them away, the lights remained right where he’d seen them.
He staggered outta the trees and into the field, fear’s chilly grip finally lettin’ up on him for the first time since...when? Since before he realized the Devil’d lost the shore, prob’ly. Been scared when he came 'round lyin’ on the beach, and he’d been scared with ev’ry step findin’ his way through the forest. So scared, he barely even pulled his dick out for takin’ a piss, fearin’ he’d lose his one and only precious possession the way he’d lost his lucky possum tail. The fact he hadn’t relieved himself in longer’n he could say became insistent with his third step across the pasture, his o’er-full bladder screamin’ to be emptied. He stopped and obliged against the tallest thorn bush he’d ever laid eyes upon, careful all the while not to piss on his rag-covered foot or to prick himself. Horace giggled a little at that.
With relief given, Horace set out again, limpin’ because a rag weren’t as good as a boot. It might’ve saved him from a few cuts and scratches along the way, and for that he were appreciative, but his foot hurt as though he’d walked through a forest short a piece o’ quality footwear, and rightly so.
The sticky-side-up o’ the whole situation were that he be still alive. If this kept up, some possum might come along and take him for a good luck charm. He giggled at that idea, too—somethin’ he mightn’t’ve found funny another time. But pissin’ weren’t the only thing he hadn’t done while hobblin’ through the forest—sleepin’ and eatin’ was others. A man couldn’t sleep thinkin’ he might be in the Green, and he’d tried eatin’, but who could tell one fuckin’ berry from another?
But the lantern glow ahead told him he weren’t in the Green. Wherever it were he drifted to, it weren’t home to the Small Gods, and it definitely weren’t the home to no God o’ the Deep so, all-in-all, Horace Seaman were beginin’ to feel pretty good 'bout his chances for survivin’ a few more days, at least. All he needed for success in his endeavor were a plate o’ food, a pint or two o’ ale, and a bed for layin’ on, and the bed weren’t that important—any flat, safe spot free of rocks and threats’d do.
As he crossed the pasture, long grass wavin’ 'round his knees, it occurred to Horace he might need a story to tell why he weren’t from 'round here and found himself wanderin’ at night shy a boot. He wracked his poor, tired brain but came up with nothin’, o’erpowered as his thoughts was by hunger and thirst. It weren’t until he got close enough to make out the buildin’s shape in the dark when he realized the reason he thought of naught but his growlin’ belly were from the aroma o’ cookin’ meat waftin’ outta the place.
Saliva rushed into Horace’s mouth, threatened to spill out the sides. He sucked it back and swallowed hard, licked his lips.
A tavern. I stumbled upon a tavern.
His stomach gurgled, the cramps he’d done his best to ignore forcin’ themselves to be noticed. What luck it were the first buildin’ he come across—the one what proved he weren’t lost in the Green and stumblin’ 'bout waitin’ to die—were a place what could provide him what he needed most.
Lamp light spilled out through the windows and squeezed under the crack beneath the door. Someone’d built the buildin’ fully outta logs, with a mossy roof on top and a porch out front what seemed as though it might be sat upon durin’ a summer day, but it were empty this night. Horace limped up to it and stopped outside, graspin’ onto the rail 'round the stoop like he didn’t have no more energy to go no farther.
Before takin’ another step, he patted his chest, then the front pockets and back pockets in his breeches. The rag for no other purpose than wipin’ sweat from his head, which now had another purpose keepin’ his foot from gettin’ cut, were the only possession he had left after idiot Dunal slapped him o’erboard into the sea.
“I ain’t got no coin,” he said aloud, then clamped his hand o’er his mouth, worried someone inside might hear.
For a second, he considered turnin’ 'round and either searchin’ out somewhere else to find food or headin’ back into the forest to forage and avoid embarrassin’ himself. But there wouldn’t be more’n one tavern in whatever town this were, and he’d tried scroungin’ food amongst the forest’s twigs and berries, roots and leaves. He’d ate the wrong thing and ended up leanin’ o’er a fallen log, heavin’ bile outta his nose, so he didn’t fancy the prospect o’ givin’ it another try. With a shakin’ head and a non-hero producin’ breath, Horace pushed the door open and slouched his hungry self into the tavern.
Oil lamps hung from posts 'round the room, illuminatin’ the interior with a ghostly light and throwin’ greasy smoke up toward the ceilin’. It collected there amongst the rafters, formin’ a hazy pool before snakin’ its way through a vent at the middle. A smatterin’ o’ folk sat spread 'round the tavern at wooden tables no one’d bothered to spread cloths upon, some of the patrons drinkin’ and laughin’, some starin’ at their drinks like they figured doin’ so might refill ‘em. A few people peeked up at Horace steppin’ across the threshold and closin’ the door behind him, but they went back to whatever they was at quick enough.
Horace ambled toward the bar at the rectangular room’s far end, his one boot’s dull thud on the floor boards followed by the muted sound of his rag-wrapped foot draggin’ in the thresh remindin’ him he hadn’t thought up a story. He glanced down at the dirt-black cloth, then at the folk 'round him, but none seemed to notice, so he continued on his way, hopin’ a tale weren’t needed.
The man loomin’ behind the bar stood a head taller’n Horace, close to as tall as the simpleton Dunal what near cost him his life. His hair’d crept way back from his forehead, farther’n Horace’s own, somethin’ the barkeep compensated for with a thick, distractin’ beard what gave him the appearance of a bear someone thought’d be funny to shave up top. He were the imposin’ sort, and Horace wondered if he’d find a way to wrangle a free meal and mug fulla ale from a man with that sort o’ appearance.
“Oy! A stranger,” the man called out upon noticin’ Horace’s bedraggled self. A smile broke out across the barkeep’s face what made him appear a damn bit less alarmin’. “Second one today. What be your desire, my good man?”
Horace approached the bar, peerin’ out from under saggin’ brows and hands clasped before his chest, hopin’ doin’ so gave him a resemblance to a man deservin’ a little charity.
“I ain’t eaten in longer than I know, sir,” he said, mindin’ his tone matched his expression. “And I ain’t got no coin, but I—”
The barkeep’s smile disappeared back beneath his beard, returnin’ to him the aspect of one who Horace considered he might wanna be rightfully afraid of. It were enough to stop the hungry man mid-beseech.
The big man shook his head. “Times’re tough fer everyone, friend. If you ain’t got no coin, I ain’t got no ale nor food.”
Horace’s heart shrank up on him, as though it were afraid his growlin’ belly might sneak up and take a bite outta its toes. He opened his mouth to carry on with his pitch, fully intendin’ to offer whatever services the barkeep might need tendin’, but not quite willin’ to take a beatin’ if it come to it. The big man only needed to tilt his head and raise a brow to convince ol’ Horace Seaman the conversation on this particular subject were o’er.
The sailor’s chin drooped toward his chest, an action his shoulders decided to mimic. Back to the forest it were then, to take his chances with mushrooms and berries what might be more intent on killin’ him’n they was on feedin’ him.
At least he found out he needn’t fear the Small Gods no more. It still might be possible he were near the Green, but given he stood inside a tavern with livin’ folk inside, he were sure he weren’t in the Green.
Horace raised his eyes once more, hopin’ to find the barkeep’s expression changed, but it weren’t. The big man busied himself wipin’ the bar with a demeanor not encouragin’ Horace to ask again and a cloth what woulda made a fine replacement for a boot. The ol’ sailor heaved a sigh and prepared himself for the slog back across the pasture to the forest when he felt a presence beside him. He gazed upon a feller he’d spied sittin’ alone at a table in the corner when he walked through the door.
The man leaned against the bar, smilin’ wide at Horace. His smooth face were free o’ whiskers, with a spot o’ dried blood on his chin where he’d nicked himself shavin’ and nobody’d bothered tellin’ him. His clothes didn’t make him appear rich, but they didn’t make him seem poor, neither. Somethin’ in the way he gazed upon Horace made the ol’ sailor feel as though he needed to have himself a bath.
“You’re a hard man, Krin,” the man said, speakin’ to the barkeep but holdin’ his gaze on Horace. “Can’t you see this poor fellow is desperately hungry? Probably he needs a pint of ale, too, don’t you?”
Horace nodded exuberantly, barely containin’ the spittle the promise o’ food and ale brewed up behind his dry lips.
“Well, he ain’t gettin’ none without no coin.”
“Is that any way to treat a stranger? How often do we see strangers in these parts?”
“Not often, Birk,” Krin mumbled. “Except this turn of the moon.”
Horace wondered for a second at the barkeep’s comment, but put it right from his head in hopin’ this man named Birk meant to help him acquire that what his body ached for. Just then, his stomach growled loud enough to leave no doubt in any man’s mind what that were.
Birk laughed. “See, Krin? This man is in need of the kind of help only a barkeep can give.”
