by Liam Reese
They didn’t get father but he’s strong. They’ll drag me down, I know it.
“The throne room,” Besmir said.
Joranas jerked sideways, his chest feeling cold, at his father’s words. Even though he had spoken in a normal voice it had sounded far too loud to Joranas’ ears and he had jumped. His eyes picked out a number of vertical lines, slightly darker than the gloom of the throne room and he wondered at them.
“Tiernon kept people in there,” his father said. “Women he wanted to use...for any number of things.”
“Like what, father?” Joranas asked, his eyes wide with suspenseful wonder.
“I...ah...Maybe you need to be a little older,” he said. “He starved and mistreated them all. Your aunt Thoran was one such.”
“Aunt Thoran!” Joranas squealed, peering at the cage as if he could see her image inside.
“Hmmm...” Besmir hummed. “Come, the throne is this way.”
Joranas trotted behind his father his eyes darting all over the place and seeing demons in the shadows. He turned just before running into his father’s back and found himself before a platform set above the main floor. On it sat a single chair, large and golden with a pile of dusty cloth behind it.
Tiernon’s throne.
“Want to try it?” his father asked.
Joranas’ lower belly felt hot, then cold and he abruptly needed to urinate. He stared back at the expectant face of his father with his mouth open. Nothing, no words came from him but his thoughts tumbled like rolling rocks down a mountain.
No! Tiernon will come back and possess me. I have to. Father expects it.
Besmir smiled and squatted beside his son, resting his hands on his small shoulders.
“There is nothing to fear,” he said gently. “Just an old building and some horrible memories. I would never let anything hurt you, son. Never.”
Joranas took a deep breath and stepped up to the throne. He turned, the throne room filling his vision in its darkness, and sat slowly down.
The gilded wood was cold and hard beneath him. The throne was far too large and he felt suddenly stupid, his childish fears pointless and foolish. He smiled at his father who smiled back, nodding his approval.
Something stirred in the shadows at the far end of the room. Joranas’ eyes snapped to it, his young brain trying to make out what it might be at the same time as panic gripped his heart, squeezing hard. A pitiful squeak issued from his throat and his father frowned, spinning to see what had scared him so badly. Joranas leaped from the throne and dashed across to lean against his father’s leg.
“I s-saw something move,” he stammered, “in the shadows.”
Joranas pointed a trembling hand at the point he had seen move, thrilled and frightened when he felt his father start towards it.
Besmir sent his mind flashing through the space, searching for who or whatever had scared the boy. He knew nothing should be in here with them but he also knew there were other things. Inexplicable things that came from different worlds and had different values. His consciousness flew round the throne room revealing the few life forces in the room; a few spiders had populated corners, hoping for an easy airborne meal. Those airborne meals flicked around, trapped by the building they had found their way into and a family of mice had made their home just inside the main door to the palace itself. Apart from those few things, they were alone.
Joranas stuck to his father as he crossed the room, hoping whatever he had seen was his imagination but not able to believe it was. The gloom parted as they approached, shadows peeling back to reveal the bare stonework of the wall.
Joranas let out a breath he had not realized he had been holding, the relief in his chest a thing of beauty.
Besmir laughed when he heard the relief in his son’s breath, realizing he had felt some anxiety himself.
“Old buildings full of shadows, eh son?” he said as he led Joranas from the room and back towards the other rooms.
Joranas nearly screamed when he saw the figure.
“The Hall of Kings,” his father said. “Our family going back generations.”
Joranas saw there were a number of statues here, lining the walls, each in a different pose and each dressed in their royal robes. He approached the first, looking into the stone eyes of someone who had died centuries before. The clothing smelled damp and musty, as if water had gotten to it and the boy recoiled from the smell, wrinkling his nose.
“Looks like the roof is leaking now,” his father said, walking slowly along the corridor.
Joranas stared at the charred hole where one of the statues had been obliterated by some immense force. He swallowed when he saw his name carved in the stone, the click audible in the hallway.
“Your grandfather,” Besmir said. “We named you after him, you know?”
Joranas nodded, the information vaguely familiar to him. The sight of his own name here in this mausoleum had shaken his young mind and he wanted nothing more than to leave, immediately.
His father led him past a door that had been sealed. Heavy iron and oak bars had been attached to the outside and spikes driven into the stonework at either side. He looked at it as they passed, a curious sense of belonging pulling him towards the door.
“What’s in there, father?” he asked, stopping.
“The purest evil you can imagine,” his father said in a dark voice. “Tiernon’s private chambers hold something so malevolently evil I can’t remove it, or even destroy it. I don’t know how he built it, even if he built it, but this is the best solution we could come up with at the time.”
Joranas turned to see his father rubbing the beard he had just decided to grow and staring off into nothing, remembering events that had taken place before he was even born.
“Come on, I’ve got something much better to show you,” Besmir said as he turned away from the door.
The subtle tug pulled at Joranas’ mind as he dragged himself farther down the corridor after his father, now it had been awoken in him, however, it was something he could not ignore.
Through yet another door, this one carved with intricate details of flowers, plants, and animals, some of which Joranas was unfamiliar with. Tiny, winged people flew between the flowers, dipping an occasional hand into the nectar filled throats as they went. Joranas examined the door in fascination, his mind drawn into the scene as he imagined himself among the flowers.
His young mind fought to comprehend what his eyes told him was inside the room. Stacked from floor to ceiling on shelves that had been built into the walls were hundreds–thousands–of books and scrolls. This room had a musty atmosphere also, but one that was filled with the enticing aroma of parchment, wax, tallow smoke, and polish. Gone was the thick layer of dust that coated the other areas he had seen, kept at bay by unseen hands. Giant, ornate candelabras stood attached to the pillars holding the ceiling aloft, filled with lit candles while oil-filled lamps burned in wall sconces adding to the natural light that flooded through the windows.
The center of the room was dominated by a table, but a table the likes of which Joranas had never seen. His young eyes roved over the image of Gazluth represented there with reverence. Whoever had built it had been a master of his craft as every detail looked perfect. Joranas found Morantine immediately, the city’s spires and palace built and painted to be an exact miniature replica. The mountains looked to have real snow, the vast grasslands appeared lush enough for herds to feed on and Gazluth’s few forests were comprised of individual trees, each crafted separately before being added to the model.
“Amazing,” Joranas breathed. “Is it magical?”
“No,” his father shook his head. “Whoever crafted it was a genius, however.”
Joranas nodded, running his fingers over the impressive sculpture, caressing cities and towns before stroking meadow lands.
“What brings you two here?” a deep voice asked.
“Uncle Zaynorth!” Joranas cheered running over to hug the old man.
“By the Gods!” Zaynorth cried when he saw Joranas’ bruised face. “What happened?”
“Bullies,” the king said shortly.
Besmir watched as the old illusion mage tickled his son until he was squealing with laughter, a small smile tugging at his mouth.
“So what are you doing in here?” Zaynorth asked as Joranas resumed his study of the map table.
“It’s time he saw for himself what power lies in his blood,” Besmir said, casting a glance at his son, “and at what cost.”
Zaynorth pulled at his beard, now more gray than black, as his eyes searched his king’s face. Besmir grinned.
“Don’t look at me like that, old friend,” he said. “If he’s fighting, I just want to make sure he doesn’t incinerate someone’s child by accident.”
Zaynorth nodded, looking at the boy he had come to love as a grandchild and hoping he would not hate him once he had shown him what he knew he must.
“Joranas,” the prince turned, a bright smile on his face, “come here, lad. I have something to show you.”
Chapter Three
“Good night mother,” Joranas said in a low voice almost as soon as he and Besmir returned. “Aunt Thoran, Sharova,” he added solemnly.
Arteera looked from son to father and back before holding her arms out to Joranas.
“A little early for you to be seeking your bed, Joranas,” she said. “And it is very unlike you to refuse food. What’s the matter?”
Joranas glanced almost guiltily at his father before looking back at the queen.
“Nothing, mother, I’m just tired from today,” he said.
Queen Arteera looked at her son as if she could see inside him, see what the problem was, but nothing in his face gave her a clue as to why he looked as if his world had ended so she released him.
“Good night then, my little prince,” she said, kissing him on the forehead.
Joranas looked up at her for a few seconds, uncertainty and fear in his eyes. It looked to Arteera as if the boy aged before her very eyes, maturing faster than she liked and a horrible suspicion crept into her heart. She stared coldly at her husband as Joranas made his way, slump-shouldered, from their dining room.
“What did you do?” she asked as soon as the door closed behind her.
Sharova turned to Thoran, his expression strained.
“Maybe we ought to leave for now, love,” he said, cutting his eyes to the monarchs.
“I got Zaynorth to show him what it means to have Fringor blood in his veins,” Besmir replied calmly as he poured himself a goblet of wine.
Thoran laid her hand on her husband’s arm for support as she got awkwardly up from her seat. Her distended belly looked huge beneath the blue dress she wore, making her ungainly and overbalanced. Sharova stood, supporting his young wife until she gained her feet.
“Yes, love,” she said. “I do feel a little light headed. Maybe we should leave for now.”
“There’s no need,” Besmir said darkly. “Stay, enjoy your meal. I have work to catch up on.”
Without another word, the king turned and left, taking his goblet with him and leaving three shocked people behind.
Besmir stalked through his home, away from the accusing eyes of his wife, the puzzled eyes of his sister in law and the permanently haunted eyes of Sharova. He set the goblet on a table as he passed through one of the hallways and climbed the stairs to the upper level. Pausing outside the door to Joranas’ room, he almost sent his mind through to see if the boy was all right.
No, I vowed I wouldn’t do that to my friends or family.
His hand hovered before the wood as if he was about to knock but something stopped him. He had shown Joranas what had happened a decade ago. Shown him what the use of his magic, his birthright, could do if misused and seen something, some light, fade from the lad.
He hated himself for it.
The Hunter-King of Gazluth trudged along the corridor and slid through the door to his bedchamber.
Joranas tossed and turned in his soft bed. Sleep eluded him and he could not rid himself of the images Zaynorth had planted in his mind. He had seen his father burn Tiernon, a wasted husk of a man, burn him, then heal him to burn him again.
Zaynorth’s gift as an illusion mage put Joranas right there, as if he had sent him back in time. He could hear Tiernon’s screams of agony and the insane laughter that followed, smell the singed hair and flesh as it cooked on the man while he still lived. He felt the heat singe his own skin as his father sent wave after wave of flame at the crouching, broken thing that cowered in the corner of the empty room.
“Not my proudest moment,” his father had said when Zaynorth had taken the images from his mind.
Tears had blurred them both as Joranas looked from Zaynorth to his father and back again.
“Why?” he squeaked, his throat tight.
“You had to see that,” his father said. “You had to see what magic did to him...and started to do to me.”
His father had hugged him then, pulled him into his strong arms and held him as he cried, sobbing tears of fright and repulsion onto his father’s shoulder.
“It was me who ended Tiernon’s life,” his father had said.
Joranas recalled the horrible sound the sword had made as it entered his great-uncle’s body, the sickening splash of hot blood as his father had wrenched the blade clear and the coppery stench of blood that mixed with the aroma of cooking meat in the air.
“Yet he was doomed long before I got anywhere near him with that blade,” his father explained. “Remember how Tiernon looked before I started burning him? Remember that wasted, ancient thing squatting in the corner?”
Joranas had nodded against his father.
“That was all that was left of him,” he had said. “Magic had drained his life force, his soul, to the point there was nothing left. Worst of all,” his father had said in a tone of warning, “he sacrificed people to extend his life, give him even more power, and still it ate at him like some disease.”
Joranas swung his legs from the bed, feeling the cool floor beneath his feet. He dressed silently in the same clothes he had worn earlier and slipped out of his room. He could hear the low tones of his father and the higher voice of his mother as they spoke in their bedchamber but he turned away from those sounds and trotted down the stairs, skipping the third step from the bottom as it always squeaked.
His father’s guards would be stationed at the main doors but Joranas had long ago discovered another exit from the house. He entered the kitchen, the cook fire banked low in the hearth and grabbed an apple from a bowl as he opened the door leading down to the cold cellar.
Darkness engulfed him like a blanket but he had always been able to see with virtually no light and made his way down the creaky stairs into the chilly, subterranean chamber. His breath fogged before him as he passed the massive slabs of ice his father had brought at immense cost to keep the food down here cold. The scents of meat and fruit came to him as he passed various areas of the store on his way through the cellar to the far wall where an iron grate had been set in the floor.
Loosened by years of draining water, Joranas levered up the grate with ease, dropping into the dark sewer that led from the house. He had been repulsed by the stench the first time he had been down here but his sense of adventure had spurred him on. Who else would know of a secret entrance to the home of the royal family?
Roughly half his height and filled with sludge a few inches thick, the passageway led the young prince out from beneath his house and down towards a sluggish river, the water chuckling over rocks. Once free of the sewer he could stand once more and took a deep breath full of the scent of river water and summer flowers.
A sea-foam curl of stars gave more than enough light to see by and Joranas made his way upstream, wandering aimlessly along the riverbank, kicking stones into the water as he went. Something moved in the darkness ahead and he froze, almost laughing at himself as he saw it was just a man who had h
ad too much to drink and had come to relieve himself in the river. Joranas waited until he had staggered back up to wherever he had come from, singing a low tune, before continuing.
He considered his father’s words as he walked.
“I’m telling you all this, showing you these horrors, as a warning, son,” his father had said. “You have immense power running through you, but using it comes at a cost. Not an immediate cost, oh no,” his father had looked at Zaynorth then, almost as if accusing him of something, “but eventually. Simply put Joranas, when you use magic, you use up some of your life force,” he had explained. “That’s it, gone, used, never to return. There is nothing you can do to get it back. Tiernon tried,” he said, “he murdered hundreds of people trying to get back the life he had spent using magic and still he looked like he did at the end.”
Joranas shuddered at the thought of ever ending up like Tiernon.
“Why are you telling me all this, father?” Joranas had asked. “It’s not like I can do magic any way.”
“You can, if I teach you,” his father had said. “I can show you how to use your powers to create and destroy, but I had to show you the risks first. You needed to see what using too much magic can do to you.”
Joranas looked around, realizing where he was without knowing he would come here. The curtain wall surrounding the palace looked smaller than it had earlier. He crossed to the main gate, leaning his head and both hands against it as his father had done. Something within the wood sensed his being, his identity, and it opened with ease. He stepped inside, the overgrown gardens, only gardens to him now. Even in the strange light cast by the stars and nearly impenetrable gloom he could see the trees and shrubs that had scared him so much were harmless.
He reached the main building in a few minutes, shoving his way past overhanging branches and kicking through piles of dead grass. He paused to look up at the sightless windows and saw they held no fear for him now. There was absolutely nothing in this dead, empty palace to be afraid of. It was himself he should fear, what he might be capable of and the awful power that coursed through his veins.
