by Donovan, Rob
“There is no set age for it to happen,” the mother said feebly. The weak response indicated that she was worried where Marybeth was heading with this question.
“True, but did it also not occur to you that it has been going on for slightly longer than normal? She began bleeding six days ago, yes?” Marybeth said. Mira and her mother nodded in unison. “Round about the time I learnt she possessed one of the stones,” Marybeth pressed.
“You had nothing to do with it!” the mother said, but Marybeth could detect the doubt in her voice.
“Your daughter will continue to bleed until there is nothing left of her, until she is like a dried up prune.”
Mira’s mother covered her daughter’s ears and begged Marybeth to stop talking.
“Her skin will shrivel up, slowly at first. The colour will drain out of those rosy cheeks of hers—”
“Stop it, please, I beg you,” Mira’s mother screamed.
Marybeth stopped and waited. She watched as both mother and daughter sobbed and tried to comfort each other. Mira’s father had rammed his balled up fist into his mouth and was biting down hard.
“I can stop the bleeding. She can live a normal life. All I want is the stone.”
“Take it! Take the damn thing,” Mira’s mother held out her hand and dropped the stone into Marybeth’s outstretched palm.
“Thank you. Your daughter will stop bleeding in three days,” Marybeth said, walking towards the door. “One more thing, you will not mention this to anyone else.”
She was not sure that they had even heard her until the mother whispered to herself more than anyone else.
“Please, just go.”
* * *
As Marybeth made her way back to tracking Rhact and his family, she began to doubt whether she was doing the right thing. For years, centuries in fact, the Ritual had been obeyed and followed religiously. Anyone that found a stone on them had unquestionably obeyed their mandate. They had travelled to the city of Lilyon and had fulfilled their duty. Frindoth had existed under this ruling and structure and still thrived. Was she really doing the right thing by interfering in the order of things?
She reined her horse to a stop, it needed a rest anyway. She only had two of the three stones she required, it was not too late to give them back. The path she was travelling down could ultimately cause the destruction of Frindoth. It would cause irrecoverable damage to the land she loved.
She could go back to being a part of the Order, the only true family she felt like she belonged to since the death of her father. Despite her hatred of Iskandar, she begrudgingly admitted that she liked the company of Mondorlous, even Jaegal was not so bad, in an annoying brother sort of way.
She took out the two stones from her pouch and bounced them in her hand. She could not say for certain why she had not taken the stone off Janna. Something about it just did not feel right to her. A voice told her it was important the stone stay with that family and she had learned to trust her instincts. She would follow the Oberons for a while and see where that path took her.
Tall, green stalks of grass reached up to her feet. A small breeze bent their tips to one side, causing a light rustling sound. She closed her eyes and lifted her chin into the wind as it brushed her cheeks, the cool sensation caused her to smile.
Is Frindoth so bad now that I need to interfere? she thought. Out here in the meadow, it was difficult to believe it was. A new image appeared in her mind. It was of the despair the twelve stoneholders were going through right now, the misery and helplessness of their families.
She thought of her king. She did not know Jacquard that well, but what she had seen of him had been enough to convince her that he was an honourable man who cared for his people. It would have been easy for him to ignore his kingdom like his predecessors, to let the warlords govern their own territories, whilst he remained safe behind his solid walls.
Jacquard had not been like that, however. He showed an active interest in his land, he made an effort to unite his people and travel about his kingdom. She knew from the other members of the Order that he took the business of the Ritual very hard and for that she admired him. No king should be helpless in controlling his land.
She thought of Iskandar. A familiar flare of anger stirred within. He was the reason she was doing this. What had started as a personal vendetta had now materialised into something more important. There was another who shared her belief that the Gloom could and should be stopped. The man who could alter his appearance.
The face changer frightened her. She had never encountered a man with that kind of ability before. She was not sure of his true intentions or whether or not she could trust him, but for now they shared a common goal.
She must be doing the right thing. Why else after all these years had he found her? Why had it worked out so conveniently that she was the one escorting the key stoneholders? Why else after decades of men, women and children obeying the law and following the edict of taking the stones to Lilyon, had she been able to easily persuade three stoneholders to either give up their stones or stray from their destiny? Why had the Custodians allowed her to leave the Marshes of Night with the scroll? Why else?
Marybeth opened her eyes, the breeze had stopped. Everything around her seemed to have come to a standstill. There was only silence. She looked around for any sign of wildlife; there was none. Even her horse stood still patiently awaiting instruction.
“I am doing the right thing,” she shouted out to the meadow.
Silence was her only response. She motioned her horse forward with a growing sense of unease.
Chapter 13
Jacquard stabbed his fork into the steak and sawed at it with his dagger. He had a more civilized knife next to his plate but he had never got out of the habit of using his dagger after years of campaigns on the battlefield.
The steak was tough but still tasted good, as did the eggs and mushrooms. Jacquard relished his breakfast time. It was the only part of the day where he was truly left alone. Not even Jefferson ate with him at his morning meals. It was here, alone in his private chambers, he could spend some time alone with his son.
His private quarters consisted of his bedroom, a study and the room where he could entertain guests for private meetings. This particular room was fairly basic. It contained the small round table that he now sat at, with chairs for three other people.
Althalos could come and go as he pleased in Jacquard’s quarters and he only summoned him if he specifically fancied spending some quality time with his son. This morning was such an occasion.
He hadn’t turned up yet but Jacquard was not surprised. He had spied him practicing in the yard at sunrise. Althalos had easily beat off five of his friends, anticipating their moves well in advance of them actually attempting to strike him. Each parry he made was carefully orchestrated to manoeuvre his opponents into a position where he could defeat them a few swings later.
He marvelled at his son’s skill with a sword; it already surpassed his own. The prince wielded a blade as if it was an extension of his body and he possessed lightning reflexes that he certainly didn’t inherit from his father. Still, it was his fighting brain that pleased Jacquard the most. Being good with a blade was only half the battle, the tactical nous in combat and a stroke of luck was the thing that ensured you came out alive. Yesterday Fyfe had remarked how impressed he was with the prince. The comment made Jacquard proud as the master-at-arms was sparing with his compliments.
He put the last slice of steak into his mouth as Althalos entered the room. He wiped the grease from his lips and embraced his son.
“I saw you in the practice yard this morning. You have become quite a swordsman,” Jacquard said.
Althalos dismissed the compliment with a shrug. He was immaculately dressed in a white shirt and beige trousers. There was no sign of his exertions in the training yard.
“It means nothing unless I can replicate that form on the battlefield,” Althalos replied.
Jacqua
rd scowled. “That time may come sooner than I had hoped.”
“Good, he needs to be stopped.”
Jacquard raised an eyebrow at his son’s response. Althalos had the grace to look ashamed. He was raised better than to embrace war.
“Vashna should not be taken lightly. I am certainly in no rush to meet his warriors.”
“Why not, Father? I do not doubt the threat he poses, but we must move swiftly to crush his rebellion. It will send a message to the rest of Frindoth that we are still in control.”
There was truth in his son’s words. He had been thinking the same thing himself. Still, Althalos’s enthusiasm for war surprised him. Could he blame him, though? He was a young man that had been trained to use a sword since he could walk, and now was the first real chance he would have to prove himself.
A knock on the door interrupted them. A young maid entered to remove the breakfast. She was a pretty girl, with long brown hair, and slightly more weight in the face than perhaps she should have, but this seemed to complement her features. Upon seeing Althalos, she hesitated and then quickly looked down on the floor blushing. She gathered the breakfast tray quickly and left the room, glancing once more at Althalos as she did so and causing her cheeks to colour even more.
Jacquard looked at his son inquisitively, but Althalos merely dismissed the episode with a wave of his hand, before the two laughed together.
“She seems nice,” Jacquard said.
Althalos nodded but did not say any more on the matter; clearly it was not something he wanted to discuss with his father. Jacquard took the hint and changed the subject back to Vashna.
“You are right, Vashna is someone we cannot ignore. I was hoping we could at least get this despicable Ritual out of the way first, but it seems clear Vashna intends to use this distraction to his advantage. I’m proud of you, my son, you will be a tremendous asset in the inevitable war.”
“That’s if I make it past the Ritual,” Althalos said and looked away as he attempted to mask the tears in his eyes.
His son’s vulnerability moved him. They had not discussed Althalos receiving the stone yet. Both of them had deliberately avoided the topic. Jacquard had not been sure how to bring up the subject and his son had seemed to accept his fate very quickly, seeing it as part of his duty. It seemed like so much time had passed since they found out about the stone, that mentioning it seemed pointless.
Now, looking at his son trying to hold back tears, Jacquard regretted that decision. He was reminded of how protective he felt towards him. A million memories rushed over the king, from when Althalos was little and had looked at him the same way: Althalos falling off his first horse, hitting his head on the bed post after playing some silly game or when he had been afraid to jump into the lake and swim by himself for the first time.
He was suddenly reminded that his son, although a man in many ways, was still young. Althalos still no doubt missed his mother as much as Jacquard did (another subject that the two of them had always seemed to avoid). Jefferson had often told Jacquard that Althalos asked lots of questions about his mother as he could barely remember her.
Jacquard enquired what Jefferson had replied and the old man would shrug, saying he had told Althalos he should really talk to his father about her. Althalos never did, though, and told Jefferson he did not want to open that wound. Jacquard had never attempted to rectify the situation because in truth his son was right. He found it too hard to talk about Mirinda.
“I’m truly sorry I have not been able to find a way to stop the Ritual and defeat the Gloom,” he said, placing a hand on his son’s shoulder and looking him in the eye. Althalos sniffed and furiously wiped the tears away.
“It’s not your fault. I’m just being weak. I should accept my duty, I’m sorry.”
Jacquard pulled his son towards him and hugged him. The king could not remember the last time he embraced his son. That did not seem to matter now. All he wanted to do was comfort his son. Althalos seemed unsure how to react. His body felt rigid in Jacquard’s arms; however, emotion overwhelmed the prince and he threw his arms around his father, squeezing him as hard as he dared. Jacquard searched for the words to comfort his son. He wanted nothing more than to make his pain go away.
“Don’t ever think you are being weak. You are far stronger than I could ever hope to be,” Jacquard whispered into his hair. “You are my son and already a man. I couldn’t be more proud of you. We will get through this.”
“It’s the not knowing. If I knew I was going to be selected, then at least I could deal with it,” Althalos said.
“I know,” he released his grip on his son and held him at arm’s length. “Remember this feeling, because this is exactly what it feels like before a battle starts. Except in a battle the odds of your surviving are a lot less.”
“In a battle, you have more say in your own destiny, though,” Althalos said with a twinkle in his eye. Jacquard smiled.
“Yes, I suppose you do.”
They were interrupted by another knock on door.
“Gloomsday! You wouldn’t know this is my private quarters, would you?” Jacquard said. “Enter!”
A young steward opened the door, whom Jacquard only vaguely recognised. He was scruffy looking, his clothes were slightly too big for him. His face was covered in angry looking spots which seemed to complement his greasy hair.
Jacquard was very fastidious over the appearance of his staff but something about the boy’s conduct prevented him from saying anything. The boy was nervous, wringing his hands over and over. He was also out of breath.
“I’m so sorry to interrupt, my lord, but Kelstrom sent me to inform you Guynor has just arrived,” the boy said.
Guynor was the first man Jacquard had knighted when he became king, having fought alongside him during the long campaigns against the Kronians. He was a tall, no nonsense man and fiercely loyal to Jacquard.
“Good news about Vashna, hopefully. See to it that Guynor’s men are fed and his horses are seen to immediately,” Jacquard said, turning to put a cloak on.
“That will be difficult to do, my lord.” Jacquard turned back to the boy confused. “Guynor arrived alone and on foot,” the boy said.
* * *
Jacquard arrived in the palace hall expecting the worst. His expectations were not far off.
“He is not in a good way, my king,” Jefferson said, walking briskly to match Jacquard’s strides.
The palace hall was the biggest room in the castle. It was generally used for feasts or the monthly forum where citizens of Lilyon were welcome to come and air their grievances. Jacquard’s footsteps echoed on the wooden floor. The tables and chairs were stacked away behind the row of stone pillars on one side of the room. Pillars cast ominous shadows from the sun shining through the giant windows on the opposite wall.
At the end of the hall, Jacquard could see a small crowd of people, huddled around what must have been Guynor in the open doorway. As he drew closer, he could see the crowd of people were mostly made up of his knights. All of them were looking down with deep concern. This is bad, Jacquard thought.
As he approached Guynor, Longshaw the Daring raised his head and acknowledged the king. In contrast to his name, Longshaw the Daring was a short stocky man. Jacquard’s attention fell to the man’s eyes, one blue and the other silver. The chief knight maintained a well-trimmed beard in an attempt to take the attention away from them but Jacquard thought the facial hair only magnified the oddity of his eye colour.
Longshaw cleared his throat, and immediately the other knights looked around to see Jacquard. The twins Orwent and Orton cleared a space for him. The first thing Jacquard saw was Paule Jacobs, the chief physician, kneeling down beside Guynor. He was frantically applying some bandages to his body. Paule was biting his tongue in concentration, his long hair falling across his face as he worked. Beside him was a bowl of red stained water and a cloth.
Jacquard looked at Guynor and stopped in mid-stride. Beside him he heard A
lthalos gasp. Their friend was almost unrecognisable. Paule had covered one side of Guynor’s face with bandages but the side that was visible was sickening. Every bit of skin was bruised a brown/purple colour. His eye was swollen shut. The skin around the socket was an even darker shade of purple. A nasty scratch stretched from his ear to mouth.
His armour was gone, and all he wore in its place was tattered rags soaked in blood from wounds that had been inflicted all over his body. One in particular on his leg was very deep. The cloth that Guynor had used to attempt to close the wound had come undone. Jacquard could see the white of the bone in the gash. The surrounding tissue was a worrying jade colour. A wave of nausea swept over the king as pus oozed from the abrasion.
“You look terrible, my lord,” Guynor said and attempted a smile, which immediately turned into a wince.
“What happened?” Jacquard said through clenched teeth.
Guynor tried to prop himself up to speak but immediately fell onto his back. He lay like that for a few minutes and Jacquard was unsure whether or not to repeat the question. Finally, Guynor began to talk, grimacing every now and again as Paule cleaned and sewed up a lesion.
“We followed Vashna for days, always staying just out of sight, but occasionally infiltrating his men. At first he merely travelled from village to village asserting his authority and demanding the people swear allegiance to him. Those that refused saw their homes burned and their families put to the sword.
“After the first couple of villages, the folk became aware of what was happening. Most of them swore allegiance out of fear for their families. Some, I’m ashamed to say, readily supported Vashna and were only too happy to join his forces.
“His army grew with every village and town he visited. There were a few skirmishes but Vashna rarely involved himself in the battle. He has a new champion now, a young man with a painted face, called Stasiak. He is a formidable warrior.
“I have never seen a man with such a thirst for blood or so consumed with hatred. When Vashna orders his men into battle, quite often it is Stasiak that leads the charge and is the last one to emerge from the field with a mountain of corpses surrounding him.
