Chateau Cascade

by Dusty Ridgeman

  His magical skill – infantile as it was – was also deeply unreliable. He eventually stopped practicing at work when, to his surprise, he shattered a mug while trying to cool it. He had to hide his hand, blue from supernatural cold, in his apron as he scurried into the back room. Catching his breath, he realized that his recklessness could have easily gotten him caught. He resolved never to practice in public again.

  When he applied to the Chateau in his seventeenth year, he did not display any of the magic he had learned. He knew he wouldn't be able to impress them with his newfound, faulty parlor tricks. Most of all, he did not want to risk an interrogation and potentially having his book confiscated. His application was unceremoniously rejected for the second time.

  By his eighteenth birthday, his skill had both grown and plateaued. He could consistently envelop his hand in a wreath of flame, frost, or crackling electricity without harming himself. For months he tried to master the incantations to allow him to do more, such as throwing spheres of these energies at his opponents. No matter what he did, the power simply would not come to him. He decided that this would have to be enough, and he applied to the Cascadian forces once again.

  A New Life Begins

  He awoke before the sun and strapped on his scuffed and dented banded mail, slipping his steel short sword into a sheath hooked into the leather belt; all had been bought used from a traveling blacksmith. The price was discounted on account of their worn nature but still high enough to take almost every coin Jak had scraped together. For the last year, he had practiced his swordplay against scarecrows but without a proper instructor, he feared he was just wasting his time.

  At dawn his father sighed as he watched his son depart. The boy had bought space for himself on a merchant’s wagon heading to Chateau Cascade. His father wished that Jak would hurry up and get over this phase; he was consumed with thoughts of what had happened to Jak's mother, and he wondered if becoming a soldier was his boy's unavoidable fate. For a brief moment he considered telling his son the truth of what had happened but quickly shook the inclination from his mind. He was resolved to take the secret to his grave. That is the sacrifice he'd make for his only son.

  The ride was a few hours long and uneventful. The merchant spoke with him as the time passed and chuckled in disbelief when Jak told him that he was applying for citizenship. They fell into a long silence after awhile, and the young man took a moment to whisper the words of an incantation he had learned from the book. He still hoped he would be able to get accepted without using his magic – he knew that if he displayed it, uncomfortable questions and maybe even an investigation would follow. Nevertheless, this was his ace in the hole. He had hoped to have developed far more skill with mystic arts by now, but this would have to be enough if things went badly.

  When Jak arrived at the Chateau's eastern bridge he was, as usual, stunned by the imposing architecture of the place. The Sphynx was a raging torrent, its rushing waters moving at tremendous speeds and creating a whooshing din that made conversation all but impossible without shouting. He figured it shouldn't be possible for this massive miles-long bridge to stand here against the force of the waters, let alone withstand the weight of the Chateau built upon its center. Against all odds the Chateau had stood here for ages, for as long as anyone could remember. When the wagon approached the gates, he leapt off, neatly catching himself as the merchant's oxen pulled forward and were let into the massive open gates. Jak stood and took in his surroundings. He stared up at its tall minarets, like a slack-jawed yokel, naked wonder printed across his face. He had been here twice before, but the grandeur of the place had not yet lost its impact on him.

  A man wearing blue-tinted steel mail and wielding a large pike broke the boy out of his reverie with a shouted greeting. Jak told the man of his intention to apply for citizenship, and the guard led him to a windowless office room. He had been here twice before in his failed applications, and nothing had changed. A jagged crystal sat in a stone basin resting on the round wooden table that dominated the small room. It was roughly the size and shape of a watermelon, and a soft glow emanated from it. The crystal's dim bluish light filled the room with shadows, creating an eerie ambiance. Jak wasn’t sure if the crystal was magical, but he was certain of its value; even the wealthiest resident of his hometown could never afford something like this. A Cascadian officer sat at the other side of the table, and Jak struggled to get a glimpse of him in the shadows. This man had the job of evaluating Jak's fitness – it had been a different man each year, but compared to the others this one was very strange indeed.

  The officer was wearing a tuxedo and a cape. Had Jak been less provincial, he might have mistaken him for a stage performer. The man's jet-black hair was slicked back, widow’s peak prominent beneath a top hat which must have been at least a foot tall. This, along with the man's high boots, gave the interviewer the appearance of inhumanly great height. His slacks, overcoat, and cape were all made of a dark-colored velvety material. The inner side of the cape was white, and beneath his open overcoat he wore a vest patterned gaudily with gemstones the dull, ruddy reddish color of drying blood. Below his neck, a similarly red oversized bowtie was neatly pinned to his clothing. It was a warm day, and Jak wondered if the man was hot underneath all those layers – if so, he didn’t seem to show it.

  Despite the layers of clothing, Jak could tell that this man was on the thin side. Aside from a tiny goatee in the center of his chin, his face was completely clean shaven. Though it was getting late in the day there was not any stubble to be seen. From the man’s face, Jak guessed he was about thirty-five, but he couldn’t be sure in the shadowy room. Even in such darkness, the man was wearing a pair of teashade sunglasses.

  He didn’t deign to stand when Jak entered the room. He only looked up, flashing the wan smirk of an annoyed man with rapidly thinning patience. With one white-gloved hand he gestured toward the other chair, then rested his arms on the table with the fingertips of each hand touching each other. Jak sat. The man in the top hat gave him an uncomfortable stare from across the table.

  “You’re a boy,” he said, almost startling Jak. He wasn’t shouting, but his evenly pitched voice was still too loud for the small room. Jak soon noticed that this was how the man spoke all of the time.

  “Well, I know I’m young, but–” Jak spoke but was cut off.

  “You’re a boy who’s been here twice already. You were probably interviewed by some pencil-pushing idiot who somehow managed to do his job properly by rejecting you. Now you’re being interviewed by me.” As he filled the room with his too-loud voice, he stood up from his seat and began to pace back and forth behind his side of the table. He gestured with his hands as he spoke, somehow managing to look both bored and energetic at the same time.

  “Perhaps that violet princess thinks it’s a funny practical joke to put me on babysitting duty. Well, it’s not, and I’d bet good silver that worm Rafael has something to do with it.” He abruptly stopped his tirade and sat back down. He laced his fingers and stared through them at Jak; it was clear that he was expecting a response. Instead, he met Jak's thoroughly confused gaze for several awkward seconds. Finally, the young man began to speak in a shaky voice.

  “B-beg yer pardon, sir, but I don’t even know who Ra–” Jak began but was again cut off.

  “Oh, forget it. Stop calling me sir – I know you’re just a stupid farm boy, but do I really look like someone who will be impressed by formalities? My name is Quentin Gold, and I’m here to babysit you today.” He made a quick, dismissive gesture toward the luminous crystal. “Do you like the crystal lantern? I caught you staring.” The man spoke loud and fast. Jak felt himself getting the beginnings of a headache as he squinted at Quentin through the hazy light.

  “Well, si– Mr. Gold, it’s just that I’ve never seen them anywhere but the castle.” Jak wasn’t above bristling at the bizarre man’s blatantly insulting tone, but he knew enough to hold his tongue.

  “I imagine you haven�
�t been many places. You don’t even know where these come from, do you? Haven't you even heard of Lantern City?” Quentin smirked from beneath his ridiculous top hat, a look that would infuriate almost anyone all by itself. He was obviously enjoying himself as he bluntly mocked the young man to his face.

  “I don’t know wh–”

  “You don’t know much, do you? You don’t look like much either. You stink of goat, did you know that? Filth and dung, and rancid cheese. Just my luck to have to babysit some idiot yokel. How were you made, boy? Was your father lonesome? Did one of his cloven-hoofed stock look comely to him one night? No, you don't look very goatly.” He paused to remove his rounded sunglasses, neatly placing them onto the wooden table before smirking and continuing his foul tirade. “His sister, perhaps?”

  Jak stood up, clenching his fists. Anger welled up inside of him and it was all he could do to keep himself from leaping across the table at this foul-mouthed stranger sitting there insulting his departed mother. He glared into Quentin's twinkling blue eyes, wrestling against his sudden impulse.

  “Oh, so there’s some fire in you after all. All right, farm boy. Let’s see it.” Quentin stood and pressed a stone in a dark section of the wall behind him, and a man-sized portion of it slid away to reveal a hidden room. “Come, boy,” he said, slipping into the shadowy room. Jak quickly maneuvered around the table, followed, and saw that the room's shape was a long, wide rectangle. Ensconced upon the wall were six large luminescent crystals, casting more of their strange, shadowy light. Each was a different color, and the resulting technicolor clash was already making Jak dizzy. Nevertheless, Jak glared resolutely at Quentin who now turned to face him, arms crossed. They stood less than six feet away from each other. “Use the sword, idiot. Nick me with that shoddy old blade and not only will I apologize for what I said about your whore mother, I’ll make you an officer here on the spot.”

  Jak gripped the worn pommel of his sword as it rested in its sheath. He was still angry but wasn’t sure what to do – was he really supposed to draw down on this unarmed stranger? This wasn’t anything like his last two applications.

  “What’s the matter, boy? Are you stupid and deaf? Draw steel while I’m still in the mood to humor this embarrassment or I’ll send you straight back to your rancid farm. Try and cut me, farm boy. Just try.”

  The interviewer's insults had finally gotten the better of Jak; the young man's temper was well-past lost. Metal sang as he unsheathed his sword and rushed forward. The tip of the blade pointed at Quentin’s midsection only a few feet away. The man in the top hat seemed totally unperturbed – he just stood there, arms crossed, feet slightly apart. When Jak was maybe half a foot away, Quentin seemed to blur slightly and emit a faint, crackling hiss. Jak had somehow charged right past his target. He stumbled, stopped, and shook his head to clear it. Had the light of the crystals played some trick on his eyes?

  “Are you blind as well? I said you were stupid, but I didn’t think you were soft in the head. Out east a water-head like you might end up as a wizard’s pet.” Quentin let out a quick, self-amused chuckle at his own derisive insult. He hadn’t even moved from his arms-crossed stance.

  Jak stared at his opponent, his mind churning. Concentrating, he forcibly willed himself to calm down. Forget the taunts, he thought. This must be part of the test. Real heroes can't be baited.

  Jak advanced again, slower this time, more deliberately. Now he slashed with the edge of the short sword, great clumsy diagonal arcs that, if they connected, might have lopped off an arm or split open the taunting man’s shoulder. Somehow, the man in the top hat seemed always just out of reach, even though he didn’t seem to be dodging. Always there was that strange blur, a hiss, and then he just… moved. First here, then there; Jak became certain that it wasn't just a trick of the light. Something supernatural was at work here. Was the room itself enchanted?

  This continued for several minutes. Soon, Jak was breathing hard from the exertion – no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t hit his opponent. As far as he could tell, the man hadn’t even broken a sweat using whatever strange power was keeping him untouched.

  “Put the sword away now, boy. I’ve seen enough. With training you'd be an average fighter, nothing more. You’ll make a decent guard for your father’s goats, but you’ve got no business here. Go home.” Quentin turned his back, swishing his cape in a dramatic flourish.

  Sheathing his sword, Jak raised his voice. He gesticulated wildly while speaking, filled with frustration: “How is this fair?! You didn’t hit me either, and I can’t even move around like you!”

  A low chuckle filled the room. Jak had the strangest feeling of being lighter as he listened to the man speak. “Hit you? Now there's an idea,” came Quentin’s amused voice, his back still turned to Jak. He turned around, revealing a weathered short sword held tightly in his hand. In an instant, he was rushing at Jak. The blade came down in a crude chop that was sure to drive deep into the boy's shoulder blade.

  Jak went to pull out his own sword to block the blow but found it wasn’t there. Time seemed to slow down as he realized that, somehow, it was his own blade that was rushing toward him. Instinct took over; in an instant, Jak's hand flew up toward the oncoming attack as if to catch the razor-sharp blade. At the last second, he spoke a magical command word. The magic he’d prepared while traveling to the castle was suddenly unleashed.

  In a flash, his hand turned blue and hoarfrost spread across it. An aura of chilling cold emanated from it, and in the same moment, he caught the falling blade. The edge cut into his hand only slightly – most of the force of the blow had been dissipated by the magical aura. Jak felt nothing but a cold numbness, the same as any other time he had practiced this spell. A thin rivulet of blood pooled and began to coldly congeal around the blade.

  Both combatants stared dumbfounded at this development. Jak, for one, had no idea that the spell even had this defensive utility. Adrenaline started to give way to relief as he realized that he could have died in this room, killed by an insulting bastard who didn't seem to care if his test turned deadly. Now, he knew the test was over, and for better or for worse, his magical skills were no longer a secret.

  The man in the top hat broke the silence. “Well now.” With effort, Quentin pulled the sword away – a slight cut remained in Jak's ice-blue hand. The interviewer flipped the weapon around and casually offered the hilt to Jak, who took it as he stood up. “Come with me,” he said. He briskly walked out of the room, his cape trailing behind him. Jak followed.

  ✽✽✽

  “Farm boy's your problem now, jackass!”

  Quentin shoved the young man through the open door. After stopping by a medic's room to bandage Jak's now-warm hand, they had walked together up several flights of stairs and down a long hallway. Finally they stopped at a wooden door; its entire surface was covered in carvings of indistinct faces, and looking at it made Jak uneasy. The spacious room beyond had the appearance of luxury and comfort. A massive window dominated the leftmost wall; Jak marveled that he could see but not hear the Sphynx's falls from it. Arrayed in front of the window were a variety of exotic plants; Jak thought to himself that whoever lived in this place must be quite the gardener.

  Instead of proper chairs there were comfortable looking cushions in a variety of colorful hues placed throughout the room. There was a shin-height round table in the center of the room and a small, serviceable-looking kitchen to the right of the door. Jak noticed that the kitchen looked completely immaculate – he wondered if it had ever been used. Except for the scent of the plants wafting over from the window, the room was anodyne, sterile, empty.

  A soft, sonorous voice came from the area just behind the open door. “Quentin, please. Do you have to treat all of our guests like this? Even you must learn manners someday.” A pale man with peculiar long violet hair and steelberry-grey eyes emerged from a hidden workspace behind a wooden chifforobe tucked away in the corner of the room. He had a faint and unusual accent
that Jak could not place despite having served travelers from both the West and the East at his bar job.

  Quentin hadn’t stepped into the room with Jak. Instead, he stood aloof at the threshold. “Whatever. He's yours now. Knows a little magic somehow, probably possessed by demons or something. I hope you and the violet witch had a good laugh,” he spoke. As usual, his voice was heavy with sarcasm, and he had barely finished his words before turning with a flourish and stalking away.

  Jak shifted his weight uncomfortably and turned his attention toward the stranger in front of him. Here was a man wearing modest clothing – a simple brown tunic and pants. By his clothing alone he might be mistaken for a tradesman of some kind. He was of average height and was neither muscular nor thin. He had the hawkish face of an artist – delicate features that looked as though they were carefully chiseled out of marble. He would be considered traditionally handsome, but the color of his hair and eyes gave him an outlandish, alien appearance. Despite this, just looking at the man had a strangely calming effect on Jak.

  A moment passed as they considered each other. He put his hands together – palms flat against each other like those of a prayerful friar – and bowed slightly. “I apologize for my colleague's conduct,” came the soft voice. “He does not know the meaning of respect.” He paused, then reached to shake Jak's hand. Like everything else about this man, his handshake was a delicate thing. The movement was quick, and Jak noticed that the man's hand was oddly cool to the touch. “My name is Rafael. Please, sit. We have much to talk about.”

  “I am pleased to meet you. What is your family name, sir?” Jak inquired. He had never gotten this far in his previous interviews, but his eagerness to continue was tempered by his natural desire to be respectful.