Prince of Malorn (Annals of Alasia Book 3)

by Annie Douglass Lima

  Ernth reappeared, looking even grumpier than before in a green woolen tunic and breeches. Korram couldn’t help but laugh at his expression. “You look just like a Lowlander!”

  But it wasn’t really true. Ernth looked decidedly out of place. His hair, though clean now, was still a shaggy mass of tangles. He carried himself the way he might have if he had been dressed in stinging nettles. Only the deerskin boots and snowcat-tooth necklace looked natural on him.

  “You’re the one who looks like a Lowlander,” Ernth grumbled. “Look at you in those bright clothes.”

  “I’m hoping the guards will think so too.” Korram reached out to straighten the collar on his friend’s tunic. “Are you ready to go? Where’s Thel?”

  “Your sister said she’s trying on different clothes to find the colors she likes best, or something pointless like that.”

  Korram chuckled at the scorn in his friend’s voice. “I think Kalendria has found a kindred spirit. Well, that’s all right; the two of us can take care of it on our own. When I’m talking to any servants or guards, do your best to seem intimidating. You can keep scowling the way you’re doing now, but try not to appear so uncomfortable.”

  “I am uncomfortable,” Ernth complained, reaching over his shoulder to scratch vigorously between his shoulder blades. “I can’t understand why Thel likes these clothes. They’re too thin and itchy.”

  “Well, don’t act as though they are. Act as though you’re confident and in control and ready to knock anyone’s head off who tries to cause us trouble. Let people think I have a personal bodyguard now; one who won’t take any nonsense from anyone.”

  Ernth brightened. “Well, that sounds sort of fun.”

  “Look menacing,” Korram encouraged him. “Don’t talk much, but stay close to me and stare at the guards as though you know they want me dead and you’re thinking how stupid they would be to try anything.”

  “Because they do want you dead,” guessed Ernth.

  “Some of them, probably. But I don’t know which ones, and I’m assuming those most loyal to Rampus have gone with him to Alasia. So don’t actually attack anyone unless they attack us first.”

  Ernth hefted his spear. “I hope they do try. I’ll show them they can’t mess with us!”

  “I hope they don’t try,” Korram admonished. “Fortunately, I don’t think anyone’s likely to without Rampus here directing them.” He pointed to the huge leather-bound book that had been lying on his desk since before he had left. “There’s a section in chapter nine of Malornian Law and Government about attacks on members of the royal family. The punishment is death, and the only exception is if a king or queen grants the attacker a royal pardon. So I’m fairly sure most people would only be brazen enough to risk it if Rampus had personally commanded it and was here to personally guarantee their safety afterward.”

  “Lowlander rules sound awfully complicated,” Ernth observed, reaching under his collar for another hard scratch.

  “Some of them are,” admitted Korram. “I’ve been studying this long and boring book with my tutors since I first learned to read, and I still don’t completely understand all the laws and procedures. But I’ve learned more than enough to know what I can and can’t do as crown prince and how other people are supposed to treat me. And I know that just about everyone in the kingdom is required to obey my orders in just about everything not directly related to military or government matters. So let’s go get Arden released.”

  He led the way out of his room, along the hallway, and down the stairs. Servants at their stations bowed as he passed, and though he chose to regally ignore them, Korram did notice that the looks they gave him were quite different than those he had received earlier.

  He had never been to the dungeon before, but he knew where its entrance was: in the south wing on the ground floor. Two guards stood before the closed door.

  Korram stopped and waited expectantly, but he was not surprised when the two men merely bowed. “Welcome back, Sire. May we help you with something?” one of them asked politely.

  “Of course. Open the door,” Korram ordered, as though his wishes should have been obvious, which he felt they should. He allowed just a hint of impatience into his voice.

  “I beg your pardon, my lord,” the second man apologized, “but you surely can’t want to go in here. This leads only to the dungeon.”

  Korram drew himself up to his full height, which still meant he had to raise his gaze to look the man in the eye. “I beg yours, guard,” he retorted stiffly, “but I don’t recall asking you to guess what I might want. When I give an order, I expect it to be obeyed. Without question.” He turned to focus his gaze on the other guard as well. “I don’t wish to repeat myself.”

  The two men hesitated, and then the first one stuck a hand into his pocket and pulled out a ring of keys. “Of course. Forgive us, your Highness,” he apologized, sorting through until he found the right one and then fitting it into the lock. He pulled the door open and bowed again as he ushered Korram and Ernth through.

  They found themselves in another hallway, a shorter one this time. Two more guards sat chatting on a bench before another closed door. They jumped guiltily to their feet at the pair’s approach, and their mouths fell open in shock as Korram drew close enough for them to recognize in the torchlight.

  “Open the door,” he ordered imperiously before they could speak. “I have business in the dungeon. One of you will accompany me down there and prepare to release the prisoner Arden.”

  They stared at him. “I-I beg your pardon, my lord,” one of them stammered. “It’s past visiting hours, and in any case, the minstrel was imprisoned by direct order from Regent Rampus. The regent is the only one who –”

  “That’s enough,” Korram snapped, making his voice cold and stern. “You obviously don’t recognize me.” He knew the man did, but that wasn’t the point. He turned to the other guard. “Perhaps you could enlighten your partner here. Who is it who stands before you?” He laid a hand on the hilt of his sword and raised his head so the jewels on his circlet would be sure to sparkle in the torchlight.

  “It’s Prince Korram,” the man informed his partner unnecessarily. “We didn’t realize you were back in Sazellia, Sire.”

  “Well, I am, as you can see.” Korram fixed the first man with his gaze again. “Regent Rampus isn’t even in my kingdom at the moment, but I am, and I’ve given you a direct order. If for some reason you believe you’re not required to obey Malorn’s crown prince, you may go and find yourself other employment. Now.”

  Still the man hesitated. “Sire, the regent will be angry –”

  “I will inform the regent you were following my command. If he has a problem with that, he may take it up with me upon his return.” And he will. Korram had no doubt about that.

  Finally the guards both nodded, and the second man withdrew a ring of keys. “I’ll come down and release him for you, Sire.”

  Three sensations hit Korram one after the other as the dungeon door swung open. The first was the blast of an icy chill that rose from the darkness below, and he wrapped his coat more tightly around himself with a sudden shiver. As the guard plucked one of the torches from its bracket on the wall and began to lead the way down the steep stairway, the second sensation – a noxious smell – rose to meet them. Korram gagged and pulled his collar up to cover his mouth and nose, wishing he had brought a handkerchief to breathe through.

  Behind him, Ernth made a disgusted sound. “What is that?”

  “It’s the smell of human suffering,” Korram replied grimly. How could Arden possibly have survived three weeks in this awful place? Had he survived?

  The third impression answered his question. A swell of sound was rising gently from the darkness below, softly, delicately, raising goose bumps along his arms and neck that had nothing to do with the cold. Confused, Korram stopped and blinked, imagining for an instant that light was starting to glow around him like some strange underground dawn. But no, i
t was only music, gradually growing in beauty and power, each separate note splashing around him like a drop of sunshine, like flower petals drifting down from the stone walls and ceiling.

  “What is that?” Ernth repeated, his voice an awed whisper now.

  Even the guard had stopped, mesmerized. “The minstrel’s playing again,” he whispered back.

  The very air around them seemed to tingle. Korram’s nose stopped protesting. It was as though the melody was battling the stench in the air and winning. Either that, or it was simply driving anything but its own beauty from their senses.

  “Go on,” he whispered finally, and the guard started as though his mind had been far away. Quietly the three of them resumed their passage down the narrow stairway, clutching the walls on either side to keep their balance since there was no railing. The stairs were steep and the walls damp, slimy with patches of moss and mold. But at the moment it seemed the most important reason to tread carefully was that the sound of someone falling would interrupt the music.

  Korram wasn’t counting, but there must have been at least fifty steps. At the bottom, a tunnel-like hall stretched before them, dimly lit by more torches stuck into iron sconces. On the other side, the rough stone wall was broken at intervals by metal doors with heavy locks.

  The music was drifting toward them from the end of the hall. On tiptoe, the three of them approached its source. As they passed, Korram paused to peer through the narrow, barred windows in the doors. He saw nearly the same thing in each cell: a thin, haggard-looking figure dressed in rags sitting or lying on the filthy floor, staring at nothing with a dreamy smile on his face as the music swelled and swirled around them all.

  The torch the guard held sent shadows darting and swaying all about, dancing to the music. Cockroaches scuttled along the walls, and here and there a rat stirred in the shadows, but even the vermin seemed to be listening, enthralled by the beauty that was so out of place here.

  And then Arden’s voice rose in song, intertwining with the malute in perfect harmony, its loveliness so piercing that unexpected tears sprang to Korram’s eyes. He had heard Arden perform at banquets and palace events more times than he could count, and his talent was always impressive. But somehow despite – or perhaps because of – the filth and horror of their surroundings, the beauty of this song seemed elevated to a new level. For some reason it made Korram think of the view from Mount Nezkodney the morning after the snowcat: too piercingly lovely and lonely to bear.

  The three of them stood motionless before the last cell, none of them willing to break the spell by interrupting the song. Something about the dungeon’s acoustics made the melody resound hauntingly from the stone walls and ceiling. Korram could imagine the individual notes and words flowing around them like a warm summer breeze, wafting beauty and hope down the dingy hall; into each lonely cell; up the steep stone staircase.

  “Alone in damp and dismal cell

  Where reeking drafts drift, sighing

  Removed from mem’ry as from sight

  In dungeon’s everlasting night

  Where hungry rats and roaches dwell

  A prisoner is lying

  “From out his prison music pours

  In musty air it lingers

  And echoes from the dripping walls

  From vaulted roof it spins and falls

  Through icy air it swirls and soars

  From ever-moving fingers

  “An old malute he cradles near;

  Its golden voice is singing

  Of grassy meadows, blooming trees,

  Of sunlit mountains, gentle breeze

  Of hope and joy found far from here

  Through gloomy darkness ringing

  “And in the dreary dungeon keep

  Where slimy moss is growing

  The captive his malute he plays

  Through endless lightless nights and days

  In dingy cavern dank and deep

  Bright music ever flowing

  “And when at last death creeps along

  His soul from flesh to sever

  The strings shall rot in silent clasp

  Unsinging in his bony grasp

  But from the lonely walls, his song

  Shall echo back forever.”

  The music wandered gradually off into the darkness, leaving the dungeon all the more dismal for its absence. Korram shivered, fighting an unexpected sense of loneliness and loss. He was suddenly aware of the bone-chilling cold and of the stench emanating from the tiny cells.

  He licked his lips, but it took three tries before he could make his voice work. “Arden.”

  There was a rustle, and then a pale face appeared behind the bars of the little window. “Prince Korram?”

  “Yes. I’m getting you out of here.” Korram nodded at the guard, who started again as though he had completely forgotten why they had come. He fumbled for his keys, and in a moment Arden stood before them, blinking in the torchlight and clasping Korram’s hand with both of his.

  Ernth stared at the malute hanging from its strap across the minstrel’s chest. “Is that what you were using to turn this nasty stinking hole into – into – into springtime and starlight and waterfalls?” he demanded. “It’s like magic!”

  Arden smiled at him over Korram’s shoulder. “Music is magic, my friend.”

  An hour later Korram still felt that magic surrounding and stirring inside him, like echoes from Arden’s song. He gazed fondly around the supper table at the faces of the people he cared about most. There was something oddly satisfying about having his five favorite people in the world all in one place.

  Mother, sitting across from him and watching him with eyes full of love and pride. Kalendria, trying to act prim and proper in front of their guests but obviously bubbling with excitement at her big brother’s return. Arden, thin and pale but bathed and shaved and enjoying his meal the way only someone who has lived on moldy bread and water for three weeks can. Ernth, his gaze still dreamy, forgetting to complain about his uncomfortable clothes and the Lowlander food he was eating with his fingers.

  And Thel, looking self-conscious but unexpectedly pretty in a soft blue gown, her thick dark hair brushed and fastened with one of Kalendria’s silver clips. Has she always had such bright blue eyes? Korram had to keep looking again to be sure it was really Thel, but he returned his attention to his plate when he saw his mother and sister exchange knowing smiles.

  When the meal was over, they made themselves comfortable on the sofas in Mother’s sitting room. Arden took a seat on the stone hearth, his malute once more in hand, fingers softly playing with the strings. He smiled at the instrument the way a person might smile at a friend with whose help he has just survived a dreadful ordeal.

  “So, tell us about your time in the Impassables,” Kalendria urged Korram, stroking the cat that had just jumped onto her lap. “Sergeant Sanjik told us that you got your army, and Thel said that she and Ernth are a part of it. We know that Sanjik went to help you train them, but we want to hear all the details.”

  Where should he even begin? Kalendria and Mother and Arden knew almost nothing about life in the mountains, nothing at all about Mountain Folk culture or the difference Acceptance made or the importance of the Mid-Autumn Gathering. How could he possibly condense the experiences of the last five months, the learning, the relationships, the changes in his outlook on the world, into an evening’s discussion here on the sofa?

  The others watched as he floundered for words. Arden strummed his malute encouragingly, but Korram just couldn’t find a way to even start explaining. He wanted to tell them about the snowcats, but those stories wouldn’t mean as much if they couldn’t see the whole picture, and were they really relevant to the matter at hand?

  “I did get the Mountain Folk to agree to help me,” he told them all at last, “but only because I became one of them. I survived a journey through the mountains alone and got myself a horse.”

  Ernth was nodding, Thel smiling, but the other thr
ee were obviously bewildered.

  “He got Accepted,” explained Thel as though that would make it all make sense. “That’s when I met him.” She waited for a reaction but got none. “Korram and I met on the Rite of Acceptance,” she clarified, obviously expecting an excited response.

  Each separate note from the malute was like a question mark dropping into the puzzled silence.

  “Well, anyway, I got my army,” Korram concluded. Later, when he had had time to think of how to tell it properly, he would regale them with the exciting stories about danger and survival and let Arden turn it all into a ballad. For now it would probably be best to focus on what was happening in the two kingdoms and the plans they needed to make. Still, he felt a pang at the thought that his family would probably never really understand that all-important chapter in his life.

  “The rest of my soldiers are in the foothills waiting for me to make a plan,” he told them. “The three of us came down into the city today to talk to you about what we should do next, and then we heard about Rampus invading Alasia.”

  Mother nodded. “It came as a terrible shock, though perhaps we should have expected he’d try a move like that. He’s managed to convince much of Malorn that his quick thinking saved us from being invaded by the Alasians. Now people are excited about all the new resources the regent has given us such cheap and convenient access to.”

  “We’re certain he did it to make sure the High Council would pick him to be the next king,” Kalendria put in, scratching Sir Fluffle behind the ears, “assuming you didn’t return or after he found a way to get rid of you.”

  “So what do I do now?” wondered Korram. “Obviously it’s too late to save Alasia; the damage has been done. I heard he wiped out most of their army and murdered the royal family.”