by Mark Bowsher
Gulwin’s turned his head to one side to look at Krish from another angle. He then straightened his head and hopped closer. He considered for a moment and then sang once more.
Balthrir translated. ‘’E says that although yer don’t want anybody to die, yer feel cheated that you can’t see Obsendei snuff it.’
‘No!’ said Krish, uncomfortable with the truth. ‘I don’t—’
‘Mate,’ said Balthrir. ‘Trust me: ’e can see the truth in yer eyes.’
Krish was quiet for a moment. He shrugged. ‘I don’t want anybody to die but with him… if it’s going to happen, I just… Is it bad that I wanted to see it?’
‘Maybe not. ’E was a nasty piece o’ work anyway. But I said before, it’s not about ’im. There’s bigger things to worry about. One king pops ’is clogs, so what? ’Nother one comes along ’oo could be just as bad. Worse, maybe. When yer saw all those bodies at the Sands o’ Tyraah? Wasn’t getting rid of Obsendei that was causing the number o’ bodies to go up or down. It’s ’oo’s next.’
Gulwin chimed in with a few notes.
‘Ha!’ laughed Balthrir. ‘Says I’m surprisingly astute for my age. Whatever that means.’
Overhead the argument between the King and Vira was still raging.
‘You are not worthy-a-hhuh!-a-hhuh!-to wear this-ahh!-crown, Vira!’
‘You are not worthy to kiss my foot, Your Most Foul and Pathetic Majesty! But perhaps I shall allow it at the end, O Unfortunate King! When you beg for my blade to slice the life out of you at long last, old man!’
There was a harsh scraping noise. A sound like twigs tightening, creaking, moments from splintering. From the way the King’s voice was amplified Krish guessed he had staggered to his feet, the throne hurled backwards as he stood, looming over Vira. His voice wheezing, rasping, as if he was inhaling the whole time as his hoarse cries escaped his withered throat.
‘The weight of the crown will break your body and your blood will flow! None shall call you queen, Vira, Lady of the North! Not even the worms, for their mouths shall be full as they feast…’
Silence.
Life ticked on in the eerie quiet of the chamber above for all but one man.
A moment later there was an almighty crash of what sounded like a ton of wood hitting the ground, followed an instant later by the sound of what must be little more than a pile of robes landing in the dirt.
‘The King is dead,’ came the solemn voice of Eshter. ‘Long live the first to raise the crown and be burdened with it upon their brow.’
Krish recalled what Balthrir had said a few nights ago in the palmery. The crown weighs nothing to the King. At the moment of death the crown on the King’s head ceased to belong to him and must have regained its full weight, pulling his body down, toppling off his head and reaching the ground the instant before the late King’s corpse. Now the crown belonged to the first person brave enough to make a grab for it.
If he was honest with himself, he had fantasised for weeks about seeing Obsendei die. As wrong as it was, he couldn’t deny that seeing that arrogant, spiteful monarch crumple and die would have been immensely satisfying. But now he felt anything but disappointment at being robbed of this sight. In fact he was experiencing many different feelings all at once. He felt power for bringing a king to his knees. Pity to see Obsendei diminished. Anger at the late King for casting them into the well. Fear for what fate would befall Balthrir’s parents and indeed all of Ilir. Temptation to touch a grain of Myrthali and leave all these problems behind for ever. And last of all shame for even considering such a course of action. A course of action he knew, as he stared over at his friend who’d done so much for him, that he’d never take. And she was right. His desire for something dreadful to befall Obsendei had festered in his mind for so long that he’d not considered what would happen if relieving the King of his Myrthali led to his death. Would the kingdom be any better under another monarch? Elwynt or R’ghir or Hesh or, worst of all, Vira?
‘Yer not about to witness the best o’ moments in our ’istory, mate,’ Balthrir continued her train of thought. ‘A lot o’ people in that chamber up there may decide that that hunk o’ wood looks good on their ’ead. And from what I’ve ’eard, on a day like this there could be a lot o’ very short reigns before everyone decides they don’t wanna join the big ol’ pile o’ bodies by the throne.’
The discussion overhead had become surprisingly civilised, as if now the moment had actually arrived nobody had the guts to reach for the crown.
‘’Ow long’s it gonna take?’ said Balthrir to Gulwin, who chirped a reply. ‘’E says minutes, probably. Minutes… Oh God!’
Balthrir rested her head in her hands, her eyes screwed up as if she was doing everything she possibly could to stop tears escaping. Krish knew she was thinking about her parents and how long they might have left. At this moment he understood exactly how Balthrir felt. When he’d first come to the palace and been thrown out by the King he’d felt he’d lost not only his Mum but his Dad as well. And Uncle Ravi, Aunt Nisha, Aunt Meera, Jess, Dawson and everyone. They were all still alive but he’d never see them again. With no way of getting the Myrthali he’d had no chance of getting home. Balthrir didn’t really have anybody in the first place. Two imprisoned parents she could never see were all she seemed to have in the world, and in a few minutes’ time they could well be dead.
‘It’s all over, mate,’ said Balthrir, not looking up. ‘Why don’t yer just clear off while yer still can?’
Krish had become quite calm. His mind was scanning through a number of events of the last few months.
‘Balthrir, does the next king or queen have to be one of the nobles? One of the lords or ladies?’
‘Ha!’ Balthrir’s laugh was bitter. ‘Fat chance o’ anyone else takin’ the crown!’
‘Why?’
‘Just wouldn’t ’appen, would it?’
Gulwin’s tuneful chirping sang in the darkness. Balthrir listened closely, becoming somewhat stoic for a moment. She translated.
‘’E says nobody would accept a monarch ’oo weren’t o’ noble birth as long as the Black Palace stands.’
More chirps from Gulwin.
‘’E says the palace itself is a symbol of oppression. That no common person would be allowed onto the throne without rebellion from the nobles unless somebody committed a monumental symbolic gesture to show that times were changin’.’
‘A monumental symbolic gesture?’ said Krish with a cunningness that unsettled Balthrir. ‘Like tearing down the Black Palace?’
‘H-ha!’ Balthrir laughed through tears, driven momentarily insane by Krish’s line of conversation. ‘Yeah? You really think you can do that?’
‘No.’
‘Well, there you—’
‘I don’t think I can. I think we can.’
‘Just us two?’
‘Us three.’ Krish indicated Gulwin, who blinked and watched with interest. Gulwin chirped agreeably. ‘Us three and whoever else will join us.’
‘Krish, mate, we are at the bottom of a well with nothing on us—’
‘Balthrir, what have you got on you?’
‘I in’t got m’staff and that’s all that matters! No staff, no real magic, no escape, no takin’ down some big smelly palace. Next question.’
‘But what have you got on you?’
‘Nothin’! You?’
‘Just the distress stone, which isn’t much help right now. But what have you got on you? What about that itching powder? You were dishing it out to all those slaves.’
‘Oh yeah! Brilliant idea! Bein’ super-itchy really ’elps when y’er tryin’ to escape from a well!’
‘How much have you got on you?’
‘Krish, mate, what the ’ell—?’
‘Enough for a few people or enough for hundreds?’
Balthrir looked over at him curiously.
‘’Undreds. Thousands probably. Little goes a long way. Why?’
‘And how does it work?’
> ‘Tiniest amount of powder, yer start itchin’, few minutes later y’er rollin’ about on the ground scratchin’ like…’
They looked up. The debate overhead had intensified.
‘The King requested that fifty prisoners be executed,’ said Vira. ‘I will see that his wish is fulfilled. I will have these blessed fifty sacrificed in his name to honour his blood.’
‘I will sacrifice a hundred in his name to honour his blood!’ said Hesh.
‘I will sacrifice two hundred in his name to honour his blood!’ said Elwynt.
‘I will sacrifice four hundred in his name to honour his blood!’ said R’ghir.
‘I will sacrifice a thousand in his name to honour his blood!’ countered Vira.
‘Mate,’ said Balthrir. ‘Whatever mad plan yer’ve got I’d spit it out sharpish or a lot of people’ll become proper dead pretty bloody soon!’
‘What if we spread itching powder to every prisoner in the palace?’
‘Then we’d definitely all die! Great plan, mate!’
‘But I’ve seen some of them climb down. They know a safe route and they’re surely all just praying that they won’t be sacrificed anyway right now.’
‘Oh yeah, they take breaks and all that, obviously, or the ’ole place’d come tumblin’ down!’
‘What if we could spread the powder and spread the word at the same time that they have to get out of here? If we could do it in the right order…’
‘And yer know what order that’d be, eh?’
‘No. But what about…?’
Balthrir followed Krish’s gaze to Gulwin, who was perched under shadow on his podium. He considered. After a few moments he sang his reply and Balthrir translated.
‘Well, ’e said it’s possible. If yer were to start at the top of the tower and work yer way down. That lot’ll all be pretty damn tense. Waitin’ for somethin’ to ’appen. They’re probably all ready for action o’ some kind. Should work.’ Gulwin chipped in. ‘Long as nobody panicked, which, erm… Mate, so much could go wrong and why—?’
‘What if we could bring down the whole palace and seize the crown? Put someone better than that bloodthirsty lot on the throne. The powder will force most of the prisoners to abandon their posts and how much do you bet the rest’ll follow once the walls start coming down?’
‘Dunno ’ow much I’d bet, mate, but it in’t certain! So much could go wrong! And ’ow are yer goin’ to go about snatchin’ the crown anyway?’
‘We save some powder for anyone who’s fighting over the crown, drop it on them and while they’re scratching like mad we rush in and—’
‘Krish, mate! That is not a plan! That’s a bloody gamble!’
‘I know! But what the hell else do you suggest?!’
Balthrir was speechless for a moment. Then she thought of something. ‘And ’ow exactly yer gonna spread this itchin’ powder when we’re stuck down ’ere?’
‘The King was reaching for something. I saw him. At the arena. He was going to cut the twine. You said Old Margary made stuff for the King. What if he had some of the twine and a Salvean blade? You said there were only two. What if he had the other one?’
‘Krish, mate, I’ve got no idea how yer gonna spread the powder and let everyone know and—’
‘Do you have the Salvean blade?’
Balthrir checked her pocket. ‘Yeah. But ’ow does that ’elp? The only thing it cuts is…’
Then everything slotted into place in her mind. She looked down at Gulwin. Gulwin’s beady little eyes shone in the gloom. She ran her hand over the podium and her fingers found the small length of twine tied to the bird’s foot at one end and the podium at the other. It felt as light as sunlight.
‘Yer’d do this?’ Balthrir asked of Gulwin, as if he were an old friend. Gulwin gave a long reply after very little consideration. ‘Could cause a load o’ deaths, ’e says. But loads’ll die if we do nothing. And the destruction of the palace, which ’as been a symbol of enslavement for so long, would indeed allow people to accept radical change, ’e says. A new kinda monarch. Someone fairer. ’Ang on! Only someone who could be king or queen can do that! And yer in’t stickin’ around!’
‘I guess it’ll have to be you then.’
Krish’s comment hit Balthrir with a force equivalent to the entire world having smacked her in the face.
‘Me?! Be king?!’
‘You couldn’t be king.’
‘Exactly!’
‘You’d be queen.’
Balthrir was rarely speechless but at that moment she couldn’t even muster a witty retort to diffuse the tension hanging in the air. Chiefly because this occurred in the instant in which she realised Krish was right.
‘There’s no one else,’ she said. ‘If we do this who else… but I can’t be queen! I mean, surely… I can’t!’ She turned to Gulwin. ‘Can I?’ Gulwin chirped a brief reply. ‘’E believes the crown will find its rightful wearer.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘Well… bloody ’ell!’
CHAPTER 33
THE CROWN
A storm of voices from the chamber above echoed down to the bottom of the well. They waited in the darkness. The damp air chilling them to the bone. Balthrir had cut the twine. At first Gulwin had struggled with Balthrir’s pouch of itching powder, which must have been ten times as big as him, but eventually he managed to lift off. For such a small bird his strength seemed incredible. He was hoping to pour at least half of it from the top of the tallest tower and allow it to trickle down among the prisoners. The fluttering of tiny wings had echoed down the shaft. As the bird disappeared from sight they were left with no option but to wait.
First I will use it as a threat, Gulwin had said. I will tell them that they are all to start making their way down, as they would if they were being sent for a rest-hour, slowly, then no one will get hurt. If they do not start to move I will use the powder.
Balthrir had given Gulwin two priorities. ‘Once it’s kickin’ off, find my parents: Ahava and Faltura Wessra.’ Balthrir Wessra. It seemed so odd to know her surname now, after all their time on the road together. ‘Then grab m’staff and get it to me sharpish!’
Krish had a firm grip on the satchel of Myrthali over his shoulder, which was tightly fastened so none would escape. The waiting was painful. To be poised ready for action, with no idea of what they would be faced with. They were two insignificant little kids trapped in the shadows at the bottom of a well, waiting for their work to tear the palace above them apart.
‘I don’t want anyone to die, Balthrir,’ Krish had said in the minutes after Gulwin had flown up into the light.
‘People are gonna die. Whatever you do,’ said Balthrir. ‘But less of ’em will die. In the future. If we do this. Just to ’ave anyone. Anyone other than one o’ that lot on the throne. Got to be better than doin’ nothin’!’
Krish didn’t like the way she was speaking. All those pauses. She wasn’t certain. But Krish knew it was their only option.
‘This is why I hate stories, you know?’ he said. ‘Books and that? Always have a happy ending o-or they save everyone. Not just a few people. Everyone. And they all lived happily ever after and all that.’
‘Well life’s not that simple, is it? That’s just stories. Things can never be perfect. Guess yer just try and make it as good as it can be for as many people as yer can.’
These words stayed with Krish for a long time. He and Balthrir stood there in silence, much as they’d done in the last few days of their journey. Understanding each other without the need for words.
They stared up the shaft. All was darkness with a tiny circle of light at the top. There was noise. A general hubbub. Had the sound of the chamber above changed in any way? The waiting was killing Krish. What was happening? Had Gulwin been successful? Was the palace starting to come down? Or had he failed? Minutes ticked by and then the noise overhead did indeed change. Calm for a moment and then the unmistakable tone of raised voices.
Panic.
Shoutin
g and screaming as Krish tried to focus his eyes on the speck of light above them.
‘It is,’ said Balthrir. Krish looked over at her to affirm that the same question had been on her mind. ‘It’s getting brighter.’
The light of dawn shone down the shaft of the well for the first time in centuries. It hit the shaft at an angle, so Krish and Balthrir were spared being blinded after hours in the murk. The walls of the Black Palace were coming down.
Then Krish noticed tiny shapes descending the shaft. Was it just the fizz of the dark playing tricks with his eyes? No. A whole line of prisoners were lowering themselves down the shaft at great speed. Krish and Balthrir jumped to one side as the line almost crashed onto the floor of the well, the prisoner hanging at the end of the line just stopping himself from hitting the ground with his hands. The prisoners, both men and women, were stripped down to their undergarments and hanging upside down. They panted heavily. All were sweating profusely, glistening a little in the light now shining down the shaft. They looked alarmed but ready for action. Krish wondered if the prisoners had dreamed of a time such as this during their endless days forming the walls of the Black Palace. The prisoner at the end of the line stretched out his arms, barked at Balthrir and then at him.
‘You! Climb one up,’ he indicated the prisoner above. ‘And hold him by the waist! You! Arms around my waist and hold your friend’s legs! I’ll hold yours!’
Balthrir stepped forward and the lead prisoner cupped his hands together to form a step. Balthrir stepped into the cupped hands and the next prisoner up held on to her legs. Balthrir put her arms around the prisoner’s waist. ‘Where’s my staff?!’ cried Balthrir.
‘They are searching for it! Quickly!’ answered the lead prisoner.
Krish swung the satchel of Myrthali behind his back and approached the lead prisoner. ‘What is happening up there?’ asked Krish, a commanding tone in his voice that seemed as unfamiliar to himself as it was to Balthrir. He had passed beyond panic. He could leave any time he wanted. But he wouldn’t leave yet. He would not abandon Balthrir and he would not allow this land to be ruled by a figure as malicious as Obsendei ever again. He was ready to fight.
