FOUR KINGS: A Novel

by M. D. Elster

  “I can’t do this,” I say to Sir Lewin. Panic has begun to set in.

  “You are doing this,” Lewin replies. “There is no declining.”

  A trumpet blast sounds.

  “That is the signal for you and Lady Crawford to take your starting positions,” Sir Lewin says, nudging me.

  “LET US BEGIN!” the Lion King bellows from his seat. I gaze into the cheering stands. For all intents and purposes, the hall has been thoroughly converted into a gladiator arena.

  Lady Crawford and I meet in the middle of the fighting ring, and I look into the black pupils of her yellow cat eyes. Her brow furrows and her muzzle parts as she bares her teeth for a brief instant. Yet again, I almost believe she is on the verge of hissing at me.

  Another blast of the trumpet sounds, and Lady Crawford and I spring into action.

  At first, very little happens: She circles me as I move away, careful not to step out of bounds, but also careful never to turn my back to her. Then, all at once, she lunges forward and takes a swipe at me. The golden claws of her glove flash in the light, and a split second later, I feel their sharp points bite into the flesh of my left arm. I cry out and quickly retreat, clutching my bleeding arm and stepping over the white boundary lines as I do so.

  “Point, Lady Crawford!” the Lion King booms proudly from his seat in the stands. A mixture of cheers and boos goes up from the crowd.

  I double my resolve and step back into the middle of the ring. My arm is wounded deeply enough to be dripping blood. I can feel, quite suddenly: All eyes in the hall are staring, riveted by the sight of my blood — my human blood. I tell myself to ignore the wound, but then a second thought occurs to me: What if I use it to my advantage? Be careful not to touch it, the spectator had cried. Human blood is poison. Lady Crawford claimed not to be afraid to touch my blood, but there is only one way to test her resolve.

  As we resume our lockstep dance around the fighting ring, I purposely and strategically allow blood to drip a bit on the mats around me. My plan works — not only is she distracted by the very thought, sight, and smell of it, but also in trying to avoid it, she steps right in it. As she lunges to take her second swipe at me, her foot slips on the blood! When she falls, she touches down outside the white boundary lines.

  “I believe that is a point for Anaïs, is it not?” Mr. Fletcher calls in a loud voice to the king.

  “It is,” he reluctantly agrees. “A point to the human girl!”

  Another mixture of cheers and boos goes up from the spectators.

  Lady Crawford and I resume combat. For the rest of the match, she gets in a few more swipes — nicking me twice more, but much less severely than her opening blow — and I am able to get a few points in return, mostly by learning to dodge quickly and occasionally trick her into stepping outside the designated lines.

  Finally, we arrive at an impasse wherein we have both achieved nine points. The next point will be the deciding one. I glance at Sir Lewin and see he is wearing an expression of impressed disbelief, but no one is more surprised than me that I have managed to hold my own against Lady Crawford this long.

  The trumpet sounds and we begin again. This time Lady Crawford is holding nothing back; she comes at me immediately and with tremendous intensity. She gets in another nick or two before I manage to sidestep her. But my darting out of the way appears to trigger her inner cat nature; as I move away, she begins to give chase as if driven to do so by blind animal urge. She tackles me, and we wrestle each other to the ground, both of us swinging wildly while at the same time trying to avoid the terrible claws attached to our right hands. And then, with Lady Crawford blinded by her predator’s rage, my one and only opportunity opens up.

  I have never been a violent person, not even as a child playing around in the woods. The war taught me to be meek and to hide myself — and above all else, avoid violence at all costs. In the woods, in Paris… even backstage at the nightclub in New Orleans, I became an expert in making myself invisible, at dodging possible confronters, not at striking out against them.

  So I am surprised when I find myself faced with the opportunity to take a clean swipe at Lady Crawford, and I feel my arm fly. We are wrestling on the mats, and at one point, both wind up flat on our backs, side-to-side. A fleeting second passes during which I realize: While I still have some energy to spring, Lady Crawford is quite winded, and thus, momentarily disabled. Her body tenses as she arrives at the same realization. She is on my right, and my left hand is ready. Abruptly, before another second ticks by, I grip my lion claw into a fist, heave my body over in a sudden roll, and bring my hand — like a mace — smashing down with tremendous force, right where Lady Crawford’s head is momentarily resting. As my hand goes flying, I squeeze my eyes shut.

  I am a little frightened of myself; shocked by my own violent impulse, and my ability to follow it through.

  But — perhaps somewhat to my own relief — I feel my hand strike the ground, as opposed to Lady Crawford’s skull. I open my eyes, and see Lady Crawford has managed to scoot away, just in time. However, she has scooted right over the white boundary line. I blink. Could this mean…?

  I gasp in surprise as the realization sets in: I have defeated Lady Crawford.

  “Final point goes to the human!” spectators shout from the stands, and a roar of applause goes up. I move to leave the fighting ring, hoping Lewin will help me take this heavy weapon off my hand.

  The cheering continues, but when I look up at the Lion King, I notice there is a frown on his proud, fearsome face.

  “MOST UNSATISFACTORY!” he suddenly booms. Immediately, all the cheering ceases and the great echoing hall goes silent. “Lady Crawford, you are weak and lazy; I hardly think that represented your best effort.”

  Standing at the other end of the fighting ring and being helped off with her deadly claw, Lady Crawford blinks up at the Lion King, bewildered.

  “Your Highness?”

  “You heard me!”

  Her jaw drops. “Your Highness… I apologize.”

  “I don’t care for your apology,” the king retorts in a dismissive tone. “If you can’t even beat a small human girl, what business do you have being in my court?”

  “The girl is more spry than she looks, Sire,” Lady Crawford says.

  “Bah!” the king scoffs. “You’ve forgotten how to fight properly. Allow another member of the court to show you how it’s done. Sir Lewin — you’ll do!”

  “Your Majesty?”

  “I demand a second round of combat! I bid you and the human to do battle in a real match of Lion’s Dare — not this farce.”

  “But, Sire… she is wounded…!”

  “She is fine! A wounded warrior fights even more fiercely. Patch her up and get to it!” he commands.

  Two stewards run out and one hastily binds up the deep gash in my arm (fearful, I notice, to come into actual contact with my blood). They tie a tourniquet in an effort to staunch the bleeding, but do a poor job in their haste.

  “Now, if you would oblige our deserving court, both of you — enter the ring!” the Lion King continues to command.

  Sir Lewin and I exchange a look, and I watch as he climbs into the fighting ring, walks to the middle, and turns and bows to the king. Not knowing what else to do and seeing very little alternative, I reluctantly follow him into the center of the ring and also bow. Then we turn to face each other. It feels like an eternity passes as we stand there, eyes locked, waiting for the trumpet to signal the beginning round. Despite feeling injured, tired, and frightened all over again, I find myself annoyed. I can see on his face that Sir Lewin doesn’t believe I stand a chance. His pity is intolerable; indignance gives me fresh strength. I suddenly decide not to back down.

  “Are you ready to be defeated by a human?” I say.

  Lewin raises an eyebrow in surprise, then his muzzle twists in an amused smirk. “Don’t think just because I feel sorry for you, I’m going to go easy on yo
u,” he replies. He flourishes his claw and smiles, but I can see a more serious expression lurking beneath the surface.

  His eyes flick to the bandages tied about my wound. Perhaps he’s frightened to touch human blood? Or… could it be? — is he actually worried for my sake?

  The trumpet sounds. But before we begin fighting, something strange happens, high up in the spectator stands. The nobleman with the head of a hyena, Lord Hyland, stands up, and begins to make a choking noise, clutching his throat. Stunned, everyone stares in silence as his body twitches with sudden convulsions. He looks around wildly, as though begging for help, but his ailment is mysterious and it is all happening so quickly, no one knows quite what to do. After thirty seconds or so, the choking sounds abruptly stop, Lord Hyland’s eyes go black, and he keels over, falling forward, pitching over the railing and falling to the ground down below. His body lands with a terrible slap on the golden-toned, sandy stone floor.

  The silence is sustained for a good thirty seconds more. Then it is shattered.

  “MURDER!” someone shrieks.

  “It was poison!” shrieks another.

  “ENOUGH!” the Lion King booms. His deep voice is enough to silence the wails of hysteria forming throughout the crowd. “EVERYONE TO YOUR CHAMBERS! GUARDS: CHECK THE PREMISES FOR INTRUDERS! LET US ACT SWIFTLY TO APPREHEND WHOEVER IS RESPONSIBLE.”

  “Sire,” interjects Lord Randall, the ram-headed advisor, “It is not terribly unreasonable to consider Lord Hyland’s food may have been poisoned during tonight’s banquet. What if the individual responsible is already here… present among us?” He gives the Lion King a meaningful arch of his eyebrow, then turns his head to regard me.

  The Lion King follows Lord Randall’s gaze. “Where is her companion, the fox?”

  Sir Lewin and I look to the stands, where Mr. Fletcher had been sitting, but he is gone.

  “I am sorry. I stopped watching him, Your Majesty,” Sir Lewin calls up to the Lion King, “when you ordered me into the ring.”

  “I don’t want your excuses,” the Lion King snaps. “For now, take the human girl to a guest chamber, and keep careful watch over while she is there. We will get to the bottom of this!”

  “Let’s go,” Sir Lewin says, slipping off his claw and taking my uninjured arm. “Hurry now, Anaïs! The king is angry; it is best if you were out of his sight.”

  CHAPTER 20.

  “Sit down,” Sir Lewin commands, after showing me to a private chamber and locking the door. With the lion claw still attached to one hand and my opposite arm beginning to throb, I lower myself onto a silk ottoman with some difficulty and look around. It is a bedroom, a grand, luxuriously furnished bedroom lit by a roaring fire, pillows the color of jewels piled everywhere, like a sultan’s palace. The walls, I notice, are entirely gold-leafed and the windows are embellished with intricately carved ivory screens. Sir Lewin helps me take off my lion’s claw.

  “Goodness. Where are we?” I ask.

  “This is known as the Gold Room,” he answers. “It is considered an honor to stay in such fine quarters — usually it is reserved as a reward for the champion of the evening’s game of the Lion’s Dare.”

  “So, tonight, that would have been me,” I say.

  “Doubtful, as it was clear to everyone that I was about to beat you,” he counters, “Before we were interrupted.”

  “Hah. Hardly,” I say, although secretly, I agree. I am no combatant, beating Lady Crawford was a stroke of luck, and I was far too wounded. Sir Lewin doesn’t reply. Instead, he shoots me a skeptical look. Then he reaches for the arm of my shirt and begins to rip it lengthwise at the seam.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, unable to hide the note of alarm in my voice.

  “I’m going to look at that nasty cut of yours,” he says. “I saw what a poor job they did binding it.”

  On instinct, I blush and recoil. Sir Lewin snorts as though half-amused, half-indignant.

  “C’mon, now — what is this sudden shyness? I assure you my intentions are honorable! I’d be mad to want anything from a human girl, hah! — that would be the day.”

  My cheeks burn with a twinge of humiliation. Of course, he is right. My defensive recoil came from some source within me I cannot readily explain. Well, I think to myself, so much for Mr. Fletcher’s supposition that Sir Lewin fancies me. It is clear he hasn’t the faintest desire for me, let alone my entire kind.

  I allow him to rip the shirt up to my shoulder. It is my nightshirt from the asylum; I wonder how on earth I am going to explain my torn garment to Nurse Kitching and Nurse Baptiste. As Sir Lewin carefully touches the flesh around the wound I wince.

  “Hmm,” Sir Lewin grunts, frowning as he inspects the deep gash Lady Crawford left on my upper arm. “This truly does not look good. The king should have halted the match much sooner. I do believe the king forgets: Human bodies are exceedingly fragile compared to our own.”

  “I did beat Lady Crawford,” I point out.

  “Yes, but at what cost? You won’t be so pleased with yourself if you lose an arm over it! The flesh already looks a bit red and angry around the cut; hopefully that is not a sign of infection. Let me send for some hot water, spirits, and bandages. In the meantime, start sipping this; it will be of help to us if we wind up having to stitch your cut.”

  He hands me a snifter of what looks like gold bullion that has been smelted into liquid form. Remembering the Raven King’s sharpberry wine, I arch a wary eyebrow at the shimmering golden substance.

  “It’s only aquafière,” he says, “the preferred tonic in this land.”

  “That word… in Latin…it sounds like… ‘proud-water’?” I say, trying to work out the concatenation of familiar linguistic sounds.

  Sir Lewin shrugs. “It is a numbing agent that renders the imbiber immune to pain. Knights drink it before riding into battle.”

  I watch as Lewin walks to the door, opens it, and relays a few sentences of instruction to one of the servants standing guard in the corridor outside the room.

  “What did you mean about human bodies being more fragile?” I ask, after he closes the door again. “We may differ from the uh… ahem, neck up, but from the neck down, quite a lot of it looks the same to me.”

  “Indeed, the shape and form is mostly similar,” he replies, “but you live only a fraction of our lifespan, our bones are more tensile, our skin more difficult to pierce or cut, our blood and organs more resistant to disease.”

  “Oh,” I murmur, rather surprised.

  “So you see, you were considerably brave to climb into that fighting ring,” Lewin says, smiling at me, “Perhaps even braver than you knew!”

  “I don’t think it counts as bravery if you don’t know the risks,” I say. “I think most would merely consider that a matter of ignorance.”

  Sir Lewin nods, and his smile takes on hints of kindness. “Very modest,” he says. “And wise.”

  A knock sounds at the door, and he moves to answer it, receiving the first aid supplies. Again, he closes the door and returns.

  “Now,” he says, drawing up a stool next to my chair by the fire. “Let’s patch you up.”

  I look on as he washes and disinfects the deep gash, wincing at the terrible sting of the alcohol.

  “Sip on the aquafière,” he orders. “It’s all I can offer to deaden the pain.”

  I look down at the snifter dubiously, and finally, swig as much as I can in one go. I cough terribly as it burns my throat and chest on its way down. For all my time in nightclubs — first watching my mother sing, then lurking around backstage in my stepfather’s nightclub, I have never indulged in alcohol, other than an occasional supervised sip of my stepfather’s kir. The aquafière is a bit strong for my taste; it doesn’t seem to be alcoholic, but whatever it is, it is helping with the pain, so I continue to sip.

  “You’re not afraid to touch my blood,” I blurt out, watching him work. His hands are steady, gentle. “Everyone els
e around here seems terrified, as though I have some sort of contagious disease. I don’t understand it.”

  He pauses, and looks at me. “What do you know about the power of your blood as it pertains to our world?”

  “Mr. Fletcher explained something about a ritual…” I say. “That if one of the Four Kings did some kind of ritual with my blood, he might create a powerful potion, and use it to conquer the other kings.”

  Sir Lewin nods, and resumes his ministrations. “Yes, that’s the gist of things, more or less. And the reason everyone is both intrigued and yet somewhat fearful of your presence here.”

  “But why are they afraid to touch my actual blood? What do they think will happen?”

  “The potion Mr. Fletcher told you about — did he describe exactly what it does to creature-beings in our world?”

  “A little. He didn’t go into detail.”

  “Your blood, Anaïs, is a drug to us. Once ingested, it enslaves the victim. A creature-being will accept any order; he will go anywhere, do anything — at any cost — in order to serve his master. The dreaded Boar King created an entire army of devoted followers in exactly such a manner, and used them for wicked purposes. The old Harpy stopped him only by banning humans and administering some kind of antidote to his endless legions of soldiers, and it was rumored to be only just barely enough to turn the tide. The Boar King was a terrifying leader. You see, human blood… it robs us more animalistic beings of our free will.”

  “But… only if it has been ingested, and only after it has been bewitched by black magic, correct?” I ask.

  “Yes, that is correct.”

  “So, in tending my wound now… it doesn’t matter if you get some of my blood on your hands?”

  “A great deal of superstition abounds, and not everyone takes an enlightened point of view on the matter, but… no. It should not affect me to dress your wound.”

  “If it did, you would suddenly have to obey my command, right?”

  “Well,” Sir Lewin says, smiling up at me in amusement. “You could give it a try and see how that goes.”