It wasn't as if he'd never seen girls before. Some of the older maidens that flocked to royalty as a career move, would wait around trying to wrestle with his brother and would get the younger son by mistake. Most would laugh to themselves, pat his head and then ask if he had any idea where Henrik was. It had been just a wash of pink flesh, nothing to get too excited about, especially as the shame of being little more than his brothers keeper burned much brighter than any fledgling hormones.
But Ciara was...something. Something different. Something important. Gods, maybe he should have paid better attention during Pajama's random sonnet interludes. Was he supposed to compare women to flowers, or was it specific times of the day? An enjoyable fall rainstorm? A snappy hat?
His musings skittered to a halt as the door swung open and a now dressed girl began to pick the warning sign off the handle. She glanced down at the prince scrabbling to his knees and trying to get up without looking at her. Ciara took finding Aldrin ass planted on the ground in front of their room in stride and extended her hand to him. He took it sheepishly and stood, tottering like a baby deer.
"Where's the witch?" she asked him quietly.
Down to brass tacks and what not, Aldrin wiped away at his bruised backside, "Breaking into every lock box in the library. Possibly every lock in the church." Isa went on a spark spree once she'd been let off her reins.
Ciara sighed, "Here's hoping she knows to play dumb if any of the priests catch her." Something told her any true witch worth her broomstick wouldn't get caught in the first place.
"I ran into Bishop Bezoar," Aldrin whispered.
Her head snapped around, expecting listeners to come skittering out of the walls. She leaned back and grabbed Aldrin's shoulder, pulling him into their shared quarters. Dragging a third bed into the already cramped room meant one had to crawl over Aldrin's to even get inside. The only standing room was a small scrap of open floor space already covered in their cast off clothes.
Ciara settled upon her bed, which normally had a set of leopard print blankets that she kicked to the floor in the middle of the warm nights. Aldrin began to lower himself onto the witch's bed but, as his eyes caught the perfectly sharp edge of a tucked in cheetah blanket he thought better of it and stood.31
"That guy makes my skin crawl," Ciara said, rubbing her arms.
Aldrin did his very best to not think about skin and anything associated with that whole region that clothes keep well covered. He just nodded a bit and gulped. The air in the dead city was dry as grave wrappings and played hell on his still flaring allergies. Her fingers tented up and she laid her head upon them, massaging her forehead.
"You all right?" Aldrin asked, trying to figure out what to do with his impotent hands. He sucked in a breath as her knee grazed his in the tight quarters.
A weary face broke free from her lap and Ciara said dismissively, "I'm fine. I'll be better when we get out of here and back...funny, I almost called the caravans home."
"We've covered over half of the library. Less than a week before we find something useful or accept it as a dead end."
"Then on to Tumbler's End," Ciara said quietly.
"Yes," Aldrin agreed, masking as much pain as he could in his bottomless eyes. "Back to my father's men."
He'd welcomed this side quest, this journey to redeem himself from the witch's pricking fingers. Not because he honestly feared her power; as watching Isadora showed, the most they seemed able to do was get into poorly locked boxes and cause people's hair to stand up. No, despite playing the part of the biddable fool, what he really wanted was any excuse to keep on the trail, to keep as far from the crown hanging precariously over his head like the blade on a guillotine. Aldrin had no way of knowing if and when it would finally slip and sentence him to a lifetime of royalty but he was fighting it every chance he had. Being on the run provided him with a freedom he didn't realize he was missing.
Duty was one of those four letter words Chase and Chance did their thesaurus-like best to never use. To return to the real world, where his father was murdered, his brother missing, the Queen turning farm boys to soldiers to meet the rising arm of the Empire. It was the scorpion hidden inside the Soulday pudding (a favorite prank of his sister).
As he turned away from Ciara, who was putting her feet up for a rest, the door burst open. Isa stood there, her hair an extra half foot taller as small sparks jumped from her fingers. She climbed over the third bed. "I found it," the witch said excitedly, dumping a small book into the reticent prince's hands.
Aldrin touched the cover, little more than calf leather with a small marking of "JP" branded onto the bottom right corner. He glanced at Ciara, who sat up with the news, and -- trying to feign excitement -- cracked the cover.
"Well..."
Aldrin flipped through the book, his fingers grazing past chapters, headings, and very expensive type setting. He reached the end and turned the pages backwards, hoping to find understanding that way.
"It's a book of recipes?" his voice lilted, confusion clinging to every syllable. "Fantastical recipes. Here's one for Unicorn Horn Stew. 'Do not simmer for over ten hours or carrots will break down and horn will explode.'"
He held the book up to Ciara, who risked a glimmer of hope at being able to finally free themselves of the dead's hospitality. The moaning and cries for an end to their fresh agony (especially gelatin day) kept her up most nights, staring up into the shattered ceiling trying to not fall under the growing pressure of her hips pressing into the stone bed. Getting as far away from the blue robes clustered together like hens, pushing small carts overloaded with torture devices, was a balm to her overheated soul. Even the witch seemed excited to leave, throwing her considerable weight behind the project. It tugged on Ciara's ear that Isa seemed both knowledgeable and ignorant of their cause, tossing aside books from the wrong eras but balking at the name of Humphrey or some of Casamir's greater exploits.
"This one's for gnome flambé," Aldrin continued reading the cookbook aloud, as if it would help, "and here's a descriptive account on the butchering cuts for a troll." He raised the book and pointed to a small drawing of a rock outline with limbs. The caption simply said "None."
Ciara turned to the witch and rolled her eyes, "Some big find. Soon as we catch one, we can have harpy hair pasta."
Isadora ran her fingers back through her over excited hair, trying to style the pale mess into place, "For all the demons," she cursed, "check the front flap, you moron."
The book fell open and the prince's finger found a plain note, long ago carved into the leather cover. "'If Found Please Return to Khud c/o Immir, 506th St and Leighton; Cas's Tomb and Gift Shoppe.'"
"Well that would be helpful if we had any idea where this Immir, or Leighton or 506th street were," Ciara said, trying to throw a cold bucket of reality on the tempting words "Cas's Tomb."
Now the witch smiled, a small thing that sent most trickster gods scurrying under their thrones, "Read the appendix."
Aldrin flipped back through the pages, leaving behind entire lost sections on the art of plucking griffins and what wine goes best with dragon liver. His fingers followed along old notes, scribbled from one of the past owners, a chef who seemed to really enjoy the bits involving faux halfling. At the back, just before the review of a local eating establishment32, was a map hastily drawn by an amateur hand.
"Whoever owned this book must have really wanted it back. His map included some mountain ranges and larger cities. Like Ostro," Isa said, glancing at the Prince of the backyard that supposedly housed the body of the world's greatest hero.
Ciara took the map from Aldrin's trembling hands and tried to read the unknown divots and hills, "So we take this back to the Historians, compare it to Medwin's other maps and find the tomb."
"Sounds almost too easy," Aldrin said softly, glancing up at the ceiling.
"After the past months we've had, I'll take easy," Ciara admitted, "And if this is deep in Ostero land, then your armies should have no trouble
s taking you there."
She was trying to be encouraging, pointing out just how close he was to actual freedom from this life of subterfuge and being owned by "magic." But Aldrin only nodded quietly, falling surprisingly obtuse.
The prince ran his finger once more over the cover, around the loop of the "P." His mind wheeled about before he nodded and reached for the pack long tossed to the ground, "Right, we leave tonight. Grab everything we can quickly."
"Are you certain?" Ciara asked, hoping that the promise of a partial night's sleep might finally shake off the weariness settling in her marrow.
His muddled eyes focused perhaps for the first time in fifteen years, "Yes."
It didn't take long to stuff their meager belongings into the two packs, Isa directing them along the way. "This would go much faster if you'd help," Ciara huffed, knotting a pair of socks whose owner she was uncertain of.
"I am helping, there's a shirt under the bed," the witch grinned, enjoying this rare chance to observe others in new habitats. The most she ever got was the occasional lost woodsman raving about grandmothers eating wolves or Baba Yaga's bi-yearly "Chicken Legs Extravaganza! Bring Your Own Broom." An extroverted witch didn't last long unless she was one of those "speaks to woodland animal" types.
Aldrin solemnly folded every pair of partially shredded hose and fraying tunic as if he were about to be graded upon it. Each perfectly square pile went on top of the books, nestled safely in the bottom.
"We need food," Ciara said. They tore through their meager supplies most of the trip out and a few late nights when none of them wanted to risk the glares of the priests huddled over tables, poking various anatomical wax models with pins.
"I can get it," Isa said, stretching her arms. Even if any of the doctor priests found her, they'd probably run screaming the other way.
"No, the kitchen is near the door. We go together, scavenge what we can, then leave. Preferably before anyone catches on to our leaving," he said, almost commandingly.
Ciara wanted to argue, something about the plan stuck to her like a thorn to a sock, but she couldn't verbalize it. Instead, she stuffed the last few piles of their discarded clothing into the bags and picked her coat up off the floor. Aldrin did the same, draping it around his shoulders and not bothering to cinch the waist.
"Torches would be a very bad idea," Ciara said, picturing the glow that would follow them down every narrow hall, their shadows dancing upon walls.
The witch smiled again, "Then, I believe I can help." She reached into her pocket and pulled out another crystal, this one clear as a diamond.
Walking over to the brazier, Isadora closed her tiny eyes and turned her hand so the crystal and her fingers, dipped into the flames. "What in the hell are you..." was as far as Ciara got before the witch removed her unburnt hand.
A small orange glow pulsed inside the diamond, flickering like a small flame. Isa breathed out slowly, and small plumes of smoke dribbled from the corner of her mouth. But the dancing light remained.
"And that's better than a torch..." Ciara prompted, the fresh shadows dancing on her periphery.
Without saying a word, Isa closed her fist, shutting off the flames trapped inside. When she opened it again the light flared back to life. Isa looked up through her lashes at Ciara, her pale eyes gaining a red tinge in the ethereal light.
"Magic," Ciara muttered, grabbing her pack and heading out into the silent hall. With the sputtered cough of a woman up to two ounces of ditchweed a day, the witch laughed, more plumes of smoke kicking from her breath like a frosty night.
The walk to the kitchen was silent, Aldrin leading the way. Isa kept her fist closed as Ciara watched behind. The three were prepared for the entirety of the order to swoop out of their cells and rain surgery down upon them. But it was an almost uneventful trip to the dining hall. A mouse skittered out of the walls and made it within a few inches of the witch before it paused, looked up, then beat haste the way it came.
Cautiously pushing open the dining room door, a fluffy blonde head poked around the edge hunting for shadows within. But only the dark shadows of some chairs bounced against the walls as the hearth snored softly, flaring occasionally as it dreamed. "Perhaps our luck is changing," the prince whispered.
Ciara looked around as well, trying to spot a pair of occupied shoes hidden behind a tapestry or beneath the table, but the boy was right. There was no one. Not even one of the younger ones, drinking a gallon of that black tar and chattering about the rhythm of circadas before he passed out into a plate of what was supposed to represent the digestive tract.
That thorn was back, digging into tender shins. Her growing fever turned to chills in the dead room. "Let's get what we need and leave," she whispered into his ear.
The prince's eyebrows flatlined, but he otherwise nodded and took one careful step into the hall. When nothing happened, he placed a second down. It took about ten before he stopped pausing every moment, waiting for something to come seeping from the walls after him.
Isa walked crisply into the room, heading directly for the kitchen, pausing only to bonk Aldrin over the head with her diamond hand. The boy was mid over step, and the shift in his center caused him to weave. Ciara tried to grab his hand but it was too little too late and he crashed to the floor. A smoky chuckle puffed from the pantry, as the witch made herself at home digging through shelves.
Ciara's hand grabbed the prince's and pulled him up while their eyes gravitated to the side and front door. But despite the loud thud from noble ass hitting stone, no one came running, hobbling, or snorting at being awakened through the doors. It was still whisper quiet.
By the time they joined Isa most of the day old bread already made its way into her pack, as well as the dried beef and handfuls of dried fruit that didn't make it into Brother Balm's liquid Soulday cake. "You want to leave some of that for the monks?" Ciara asked.
The witch spun around, her arms overloaded with cans of flour, as if they'd have much use of that on the road, "If their stomachs grumble, they can pray to their god for manna."
Aldrin laid a hand upon her burdened arm, which earned him a razor glare but little else, "There are people suffering here, only take what we need to survive."
Isa glared at the prince, "They only suffer because these fools and their mighty gods force them too. Some of them could have been healed by a witch's hand."
"Then why didn't you?" Aldrin asked removing his hand.
Her lips pulled into a deadly pout as her eyebrows lowered. Slowly, Isa turned and placed the canisters of flour back upon the shelf. "You know nothing about life, little king," she muttered threateningly under her breath.
Aldrin chose to ignore her, restocking a canister of salt that must have taken years of petty pilgrims to fill. Ciara joined him, replacing most of what the witch piled upon the small barrel of pickled pig's feet. "An entire ham? What were we going to do with that?"
"Raise a demon from the depths beyond the veil to do my bidding," Isa said morbidly, "Or, I don't know, perhaps consume it."
They settled on most of the old bread, the chipped bits of beef, a handful of bones in case they decided to make soup, and refilled their water skins in the rain bucket. Aldrin nodded approvingly as the witch continued to glare, slipping a sugared plum deep into her pockets. As the three exited the dining hall for the front door, an old pair of eyes watched from atop the long vacant pedestal. No one ever looks for the crazy old guy posing as a statue until it's too late.
"Witch, shield your torch," Ciara hissed, as they passed the only maintained room in the entire city, the chapel.
"Sandworm, shield your tongue," Isa responded but still closed her fist, sending the hallway into darkness. Aldrin promptly ran into her, apologizing profusely and drawing more attention to them than any small candle would have.
And still nothing. Isa crossed the open threshold first, watching through the sides of her eyes. She tiptoed carefully in the shadows, leaving no sound from her tiny feet. Aldrin follo
wed, hunched over deep as if the altar could shield him from any wandering eyes.
Finally Ciara, who didn't have it in her to crouch, stepped lightly into the harsh glow of a judgmental god and froze. The endlessly spinning head of Hospi shined her beacon of cleanliness, health, and having liquids come out of your nose upon the shadow cowering in her temple. Ciara froze, waiting for the other hammer to drop, for a horde of blue robes to descend having finished Mass, or Services, or Vespers, or whatever they called waking at 3 in the morning and braying like donkeys for an hour.
But only silence answered back.
Finally, she exhaled and looked in, shielding her eyes from the straining glow of the goddess and snapped her head around at Isadora, "There's no one in there."
"I know," the witch smiled.
Aldrin stood sheepishly, stretching his shoulders. How moving at crotch height made anyone vanish from sight he was uncertain, but one of the Historians raved about it being a masterful skill in other kingdoms.
"Let's get the hell out of here," Ciara grumbled and stomped loudly across the threshold, just as the light of Hospi rotated from her face.
She led the final way, only down the short-term patient corridor (which, as they'd learned on the first day was unoccupied...now) and to the door. Then out of the ruins, out of the caravans and no more having to keep a princeling alive. Freedom sparkled in the air.
Isa opened her hand wide, casting more light across the dead hallway. Aldrin watched it bobbing in her palm and asked, "Do you mine those yourselves?"
"What?" she'd been listening to something no one else could hear.
"The gemstones, or crystals, that you use. Do you witches mine and cut them or do you hire out?"
Isa pulled the diamond closer to her eyes, which had a strange ring of blue about the iris despite the orange haze, "This is Dwarven make."
"Really?" Aldrin lit up like the Soulday tree after Mitrione and his dangling cigarette got too close.
Her stubby finger pointed to a small etching in the bottom. Sure enough, there was the tiny hammer flanked by a "D" for Dwarven and a curious symbol to represent whichever clan made it. Or so the old legends said of the Dwarves.
The King's Blood Page 30
