FOUR KINGS: A Novel

by M. D. Elster

  “Very well, Sire,” Sir Lewin says through gritted teeth, bowing. He moves towards Mr. Fletcher and me, gesturing for us to follow him.

  “I take it, that did not go as you planned?” Mr. Fletcher says in a low, amused voice to Sir Lewin.

  Sir Lewin gives a jaunty, indifferent shrug. “Truth be told, I was planning on following you around anyway.” He chuckles. “Only, the way I was going to go about it, you wouldn’t have ever noticed.”

  “Trust me so little, do you?” Mr. Fletcher asks, raising an eyebrow.

  “You heard the King,” Sir Lewin says in an insulting tone, smiling his easy smile. “Everyone knows foxes are never to be trusted.”

  “Your suspicion is… all because he is a fox?” I interject, suddenly annoyed. I come to a halt, and Sir Lewin and Mr. Fletcher stop to turn back and look at me. “You don’t know him. Everyone here is treating Mr. Fletcher like a criminal when you have no proof he has done anything at all!”

  Sir Lewin blinks at me, surprised and taken aback. Then his young leopard-spotted face relaxes and he grins an entertained smile. “You seem quite the expert. And your assessment of his character is based on… one? Perhaps two afternoons spent in his company?”

  “Are you implying I don’t know how to make up my own mind about a man’s character?”

  “I am implying you should demonstrate a little more caution. I mean Mr. Fletcher no offense, but you are a human in a land full of creatures who would very happily slit your throat and drain out your blood for the power it would give them; you should not be in such a rush to make up your mind about anyone right now. You are too hasty in nature,” he paused, smirks, and winks. “Your grand entrance into this hall only demonstrates my point.”

  “That was not very gentlemanlike of you, bringing that up in front of the king,” I say.

  “You have quite a lot of opinions about how one should conduct oneself. I was not under the impression that humans were a particularly polite race, or that they were so dedicated to etiquette…”

  “All right, children,” Mr. Fletcher intercedes. “Let’s not have a big fuss. If Sir Lewin intends to shadow my movements here during my visit to Lion’s court, so be it. I take no issue. He is acting under orders from his king — a king he very nobly wishes to protect.”

  Sir Lewin looks unconvinced, but he smiles and nods as though he and Mr. Fletcher have come to an agreement.

  “Shall we?” Sir Lewin asks in a genteel voice, offering me his arm as though to prod things along.

  “You say it as if we take pleasure to be in your company,” I snipe.

  “Please, Anaïs,” Mr. Fletcher chides, “Be civil. Sir Lewin has not shown you any great discourtesy.”

  “He has not shown me any great courtesy either.” I can’t help myself. I don’t like Sir Lewin, simple and plain.

  And with that, I decline Sir Lewin’s arm, and storm as far ahead as I can without causing more trouble. We follow the herd of creature-beings making their way out of the Golden Champions’ Hall and towards what I presume to be some sort of banquet hall.

  CHAPTER 18.

  The banquet hall is a large and echoing oasis, filled with potted palms and other greenery. A system of running water threads its way through several fountains in the room, eventually flowing within troughs cut in geometric patterns into the marble floor. The long narrow tables are arranged in a triangle at the center of the room. They are very low to the ground and surrounded by silk cushions instead of chairs. Just as in the grand hall, a handful of musicians are playing exotic instruments I don’t recognize — some variety of lute or sitar, and a sharp-twanging, harp-like instrument that the musician plays in his lap.

  I approach the banquet tables cautiously, unsure how to find my proper place.

  “Well, you certainly didn’t get far,” Sir Lewin says, his leopard-face smirking as he swans over. He directs Mr. Fletcher and I to a couple of spots at the table and gestures for us to sit. “I hope you enjoyed your hiatus from my charms, brief though it was.”

  “Charms?” I ask in an innocent voice and pretend to look around as though he has misplaced something. “I noticed no charms.”

  Sir Lewin represses a laugh. Evidently my insults amuse him. Before too long, the servants begin to swarm around us, placing dishes of food on the table. Giant gold and silver trays are brought out, piled high with dates, apricots, some kind of tomato stew, and ten different varieties of flatbreads. Several stuffed pheasants are brought out, and I wince to see an entire goat roasted on a spit — head and all — followed by an entire lamb. I watch the ram-headed man eat the lamb and goat meat with a chill running down my spine, his teeth gnashing the greasy flesh. Something about this prospect strikes me as… well, cannibalistic.

  “You look uncomfortable,” Sir Lewin observes, watching my face. “Surely you have these dishes back in your human world. Do you not eat the meat of animals?”

  “We do,” I say. “We just don’t…” I try to think of what to say. “We just don’t eat anything that looks rather like us.”

  “I don’t know what you think you look like, but you look like an animal to me — a human animal. We are all animals, Anaïs,” Sir Lewin says. “Humans included.”

  “Hear, hear!” the Lion King roars, listening in on our conversation and raising a golden goblet high in the air. “We are all animals, and only the strongest of us are meant to rule!”

  “Hear, hear! Long live the Lion King!”

  I also notice there is no silverware. They all eat with their human-looking hands, and so I, too, join them.

  “My advisors inform me you also visited the Raven King’s court,” the Lion King says. “Tell me, human girl, what you thought of your experiences there.”

  Mr. Fletcher and I exchange a look. I know I must tread lightly.

  “The Raven King was kind enough, but not so hospitable as you, Your Highness. I thank you for including me in this generous banquet.”

  “Did he speak ill of me?”

  “The Raven King?” I shake my head. “He did not speak of you at all, Your Majesty,” I say, but this appears to displease the Lion King more than if I had passed along the malicious gossip he had been expecting.

  “I am surprised,” the Lion King says. “Raven and I have a special hatred for each other; he thinks he’s cleverer than me, when really the truth is the poor bird-brained man mistakes his own insanity for intelligence.” The Lion King looks at me and narrows his eyes. “He’s mad, you know — the Raven King.”

  I think back to the terrifying hunt the Raven King compelled me to join. “I have to say I am inclined to agree with that assessment, Your Highness,” I say to the Lion King.

  He throws back his heavy lion head and smiles, pleased with my answer. “Raven rubs a lot of people the wrong way. There was even a time when the Snake King and I were allied against him. That is, of course, until the Snake King turned on me.”

  “You and the Snake King, allies?” Mr. Fletcher says, appearing contemplative. “It is difficult to picture. We certainly don’t learn that version of history in the Glade of Commoners. May I ask what happened to your alliance, Your Highness?”

  “I hardly know myself,” the Lion King replies. “The Snake King very abruptly pulled his troops out, mid-battle, and left my men to struggle and die. He gave no explanation for it and never apologized; I believe it was an underhanded tactic on his part to crush my army and unseat me. Never trust a snake! It was around that time he revealed his love of black magic, and began obsessively collecting everything to do with the dark arts. His grimoire has since become legendary. He has collected more spells than anybody. I believe he thinks he can conjure up a potion to crown himself the High Cyning!”

  The Lion King pauses and frowns.

  “And perhaps he has finally hit upon a way…” the Lion King mutters. He turns to address me. “As you know, humans are not native to our land, and now they are turning up here, dead. Who knows what sp
ells the Snake King has collected in his grimoire; it is possible he knows the ritual needed to transform human blood into the ugly potion that enslaves our kind.”

  The king’s eyes slide towards Mr. Fletcher with a stern look.

  “Of course, even the Snake King would require help to fetch his human victims from the other side. I’ve heard only the High Cwen and a handful of trickster creatures know how to open the gate that leads to the human land. As it so happens, foxes are perhaps most infamous of all the tricksters. What say you to this charge, Mr. Fletcher?”

  Mr. Fletcher looks up with an innocent expression. “I swear to you, Your Majesty — on pain of death — I am not helping the Snake King. You have my word.”

  “Hmph,” the king grunts. “Well, someone must be helping the Snake King fetch these human girls from their world, and I doubt it is the High Cwen.”

  I think about this with fresh perspective. I don’t know the High Cwen — I only know she is a harpy, that she is reclusive, and that she does not want war in her land. But I have met her daughter, and what’s to stop a mother from teaching a daughter the family magic? Moreover, what’s to stop the daughter from misusing it? The Young Cwen… she strikes me as both ambitious and bold. I peer at Mr. Fletcher. I would like to ask him — in private, of course — if he’s ever questioned the Young Cwen’s intentions.

  “I don’t understand why we’ve let the fox dine with us,” the woman with a head of a cougar says, cutting in on the conversation with disdain. “The stench of his lies is putting me off my food.”

  The Lion King laughs. “It seems Lady Crawford is not a fan of yours, Mr. Fletcher.”

  “I don’t know how I have offended you, my Lady,” Mr. Fletcher says, “but you have my regrets.”

  “Quite frankly, nothing you say can be trusted, Mr. Fletcher. Your reputation precedes you; you are known to be the sort of sly-witted creature friendly to all four courts, and loyal to none. As I said — there is a certain stench, the kind not usually permitted in a civilized court.”

  “Perhaps it is your manners that stink, Lady Crawford,” I quip in defense of poor Mr. Fletcher. The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. I feel Sir Lewin elbow me sharply and realize I have severely miscalculated.

  I clap a hand to my lips and look at Lady Crawford; she is actively recoiling, her cat-face spreading wide as though to hiss at me.

  “You dare insult me, human?” she demands.

  I don’t know what to say. I look around the room for some guidance, and to Mr. Fletcher, most of all.

  “I will not stand for it!” Lady Crawford declares. She slams her goblet down on the table and rises from her cushions. There is a weighty pause before she speaks again.

  “I hereby challenge the human to a match of Lion’s Dare!”

  The room reacts with surprised gasps.

  “What is Lion’s Dare?” I whisper to Mr. Fletcher, bewildered.

  “A duel,” Sir Lewin answers, overhearing me. “Lady Crawford is challenging you to a duel. I suggest you find some way to decline; she is quite lethal when she wants to be.”

  “I didn’t ask you, I asked Mr. Fletcher,” I reply, annoyed that Sir Lewin is intervening.

  “Fine,” he shrugs, “if you want to let Lady Crawford rip you to shreds, be my guest.”

  Meanwhile, the Lion King’s eyes light up at the prospect. “Yes! A match of the Lion’s Dare! An excellent way to end our evening; most entertaining.”

  “But… Sire…” Mr. Fletcher intervenes. “What if… what if her human blood is spilled? Wouldn’t that present a danger to anyone who comes into contact with it?”

  “Psshaw! Superstition and nonsense! It cannot do harm in and of itself; the blood must be changed through ritual. It will do no harm for another player to simply come into contact with fresh blood that has seen no black magic. If you don’t believe me, I shall cut the girl open right here and right now — I am not afraid!”

  “Sire!” Sir Lewin protests. “That is not necessary. Besides the question of whether human blood is to be feared or not, but we are getting away from another concern — what about the human herself? This is all very amusing, but we can’t possibly expect Anaïs to compete in the Lion’s Dare! She has no military training, and simply by looking at her, one can easily see she is quite fragile!”

  “Nonsense!” the Lion King roars. “Naturally, I will act as referee, and call the game off before anyone reaches mortal peril!”

  “Mortal peril?” I repeat, not liking the sound of that one bit.

  “Do not look so timid, human! Daring is what defines a creature! Everyone! To the Champions’ Hall! Sir Lewin — instruct the young human! You shall serve as her second.”

  “Her second, Sire? Wouldn’t her companion the fox make a better second in this case?”

  “Nonsense! You are much better versed in the way Lion’s Dare is played, and besides — the human appears to have taken a shine to you!”

  And with that, the Lion King sets down his goblet and charges towards the grand hall, roaring with delight.

  CHAPTER 19.

  Back in the Grand Champions’ Hall, servants scurry about in every direction, scrambling to convert the room so as to accommodate my duel with Lady Crawford. I see raked seating being erected, and in the center of the room, some kind of fighting ring is being roped off.

  I feel a tremor of panic and look to Sir Lewin. “I’ll ask again: What is Lion’s Dare? How is it played?”

  “Oh, so now you decide to look before you leap, eh?” he replies. “Your sense of caution is underwhelming, human.”

  “Anaïs,” I correct him. “Call me Anaïs.”

  Sir Lewin glances at me, sees the terror on my face, and relents. “All right — Anaïs, then. I’ll tell you what you need to know. First, let us establish a strategy…” He looks me over, his eyes running from head to toe. “Hmm, well you’re small, so I think your best bet is to focus on dodging. If you are quick enough, you can likely dart away from Lady Crawford and cause her to miss. I’ve seen her fight before; she’s powerful, but a little lazy.”

  “Cause her to miss? So then we’ll be throwing punches at each other? With our fists?”

  “Yes and no…” Sir Lewin replies.

  “What does that mean?”

  Before he can answer, two servants scurry forth, each of them holding a velvet cushion. One runs towards me, and the other towards Lady Crawford, who is standing on the other side of the room readying herself for battle. Each cushion, I notice, is laden with a glove-like object. As I look closer, I see the glove is a lion’s paw, spiked with sharp steel claws. Alarmed, I glance up at Sir Lewin.

  “Think of how a lion fights — that is how you want to use the claw,” he instructs me.

  “We are to… take swipes at each other with these things?” I ask in disbelief.

  He nods. “In any manner you can. The only rule is you cannot step out of bounds. See those white lines marked in the center of the fighting ring?”

  I look to where he points and I nod.

  “Stay within those lines,” he says. “The first assailant to garner ten points wins. Sometimes the game is ended before that, but only if it becomes evident that one of the players is in mortal peril.”

  There are those words again: mortal peril. I can’t say I care very much for the sound of that. I look around to see if the servants intend to reemerge with more armaments. “Do we wear any armor?”

  Sir Lewin shakes his head. “No. Lion’s Claw is often our bloodiest combat art, I’m afraid. You may get a bit scratched up if you’re not careful. But the Lion King — he is supposed to end the game and declare a victor before things get too bad, so…” Seeing my distress, Lewin squeezes my arm. “It’s a game based on courage,” he reminds me. “Oh, and protect your head! The secret to any kind of fighting is to always protect your head!”

  Always protect your head… something about these words strike a familiar chord, a
s though they echo of something back in my human world. But I don’t have time to puzzle out the connection. By now the entire population of the banquet room has filtered back into the grand hall. The seats have nearly filled up. Mr. Fletcher was compelled to remain with the spectators. I scan the crowd, relieved when I see his furry face. He gives me a nod of reassurance. You may not like the leopard, but you’re in good hands, Mr. Fletcher confided in a low voice before taking his place up in the stands. I believe he fancies you.

  I’m certain Mr. Fletcher is wrong, but I look at Sir Lewin now, and feel a faint blush.

  “I assume you are right-handed?” he asks, oblivious to my thoughts.

  “No,” I reply. “I’m actually left-handed.”

  “Hmm, that might actually help. Lady Crawford will have a tougher time defending against your left — that is, if you manage to get in any hits in…”

  “You don’t sound optimistic.”

  “Sorry.” He shrugs. “Only being honest.”

  Sir Lewin helps me on with the lion claw. It indeed slips over my hand like a glove, and then is further buckled into place at the wrist.

  “Wave it about to get a feel for the weight. Take a few practice swipes in the air,” he orders.

  I obey. It is heavy and unwieldy.

  I glance nervously across the room at Lady Crawford, slipping her hand into her own golden lion claw. She stares back at me, and is terrifying. Her eyes are hungry, flinty, hateful. With the claw covering her hand she looks almost like a real cougar, one that, if encountered in the wild, would just as soon eat me as look at me.

  “Aren’t you afraid of possibly touching the human’s blood, Lady Crawford?” someone shouts from the stands.

  “Hardly. I hope to see plenty of it,” Lady Crawford calls back in a defiant tone.

  “Just be careful not to touch it! Human blood is poison!”

  “I’m not frightened.” Lady Crawford tosses her head defiantly. She is every bit as confident as I am intimidated.