by Coral Walker
16
Feond’s Stone
For the rest of the day, every bell from every belfry tolled cheerfully for the new king, and when night fell and the moons rose high, they tolled again, solemn and heavy, for the death of the old king.
It was a timely circumstance, agreed the folks who massed in the streets and markets either to dance for the new king or to mourn for the dead one.
Barato was a divided city that night. With the illuminated streets dedicated to the new king’s pageant, the old king’s last procession was consigned to the backstreets that were shadowed and musty.
From one dark street to another, with head bent low, Marcus followed the old king’s wagon, listening to every squeak of its wheels as they rolled over the cobbled path. Following behind him came a few royal musicians, playing their instruments as they went.
The music from the new king’s pageant was jolly and loud. No matter which street they turned into, it was never far from their ears, one tune after another, each one with renewed energy and cheerfulness, as if there were a valuable prize for the loudest and jauntiest one.
It was dispiriting. The old king’s musicians blew hard, battling for a space to grieve. But, old and spent, they paused and panted after every few notes. Soon seeing no chance of winning, they gave up playing their instruments and let the parade slip into a shameful silence.
After watching the old king being installed in the chapel where he would lie in state, Marcus went straight to visit the Queen. To his surprise, Cici came into the reception room to greet him.
“The Queen is resting,” she informed him, quickly lowering her eyes to the ground.
“Then I shall leave,” he muttered, turning.
“Please wait, would you?” she called, her eyes momentarily meeting his before veering away again.
Marcus stopped, gazing at her carefully for the first time. Nervous and uneasy, she was in complete contrast to her usual self.
“I have something to give to you,” she said in an uncertain, hushed tone, and from an inner pocket she drew out a small silver locket not much bigger than her thumbnail. Opening it with her fingertips, she laid it flat on her open palm and extended her hand to show him what was inside.
The locket was empty, except for a coloured picture. As he fixed his puzzled gaze onto the picture, his heart stalled. He knew every face in that small picture — Jack, Brianna, and Bo in the front row, while he and Zelda snuggled behind them, all smiling. He knew exactly how it had been taken — it had been in one of his dreams.
So that life was all real. He’d had a life without knowing it, and he had left them to suffer.
With a quivering hand, he took the locket, his eyes lingering on each of the miniature faces. “Where did you get it?” Holding back his tears, he turned to the young woman.
She looked as shattered as he was. “My father had it. He took it from Brianna.”
“Where is she? Where is Jack? You still have him, don’t you?”
To his dismay, she shook her head. “Father has them all — all three of them.”
“Bo as well?” Marcus’s heart ached.
She nodded with a sad smile.
“I should go. Your mother the Queen might wake at any moment,” she said and turned, disappearing into an inner room.
+++
Without a moment’s delay, Marcus mounted his horse and galloped towards Targura Dungeon. Higo was behind him like his shadow. Some distance away, he saw the dark silhouette of troops gathering by the iron gate. Without faltering, they galloped on.
The troops closed ranks as they got closer. With an agile movement, Higo slipped off his horse and drew his sword before his feet touched the ground.
“Hey, Captain Martiloo. What’s this about?” Higo called to the captain, who was wearing a feathered cap today.
In the dim light, Marcus could just about recognise the angular profile of the captain. Rolling off the horse and gesturing Higo to put away the sword, he strode forward and looked the captain in the eyes.
The captain looked uncomfortable under his gaze. After a small hesitation, he thrust his sword back into its sheath and saluted him with three loud stamps of his heavy boots.
“I’m sorry, your Highness. I’ve orders from King Mapolos. We must take you to the New Temple of Justice,” said the captain.
“Hmm, the New Temple of Justice? It was only pillars and foundations the last time I saw it,” Higo sneered behind Marcus. “Are you sure you’re not joking?”
“When did you see it?”
“A few moons ago. It was all blocked off. A friend of mine let me in to have a peek.”
“Ha, for the last three moons they’ve been working on it day and night, and it was declared finished last night, exactly at the time the mourning bells for the old king started to toll.”
“How could you know all that?”
“We were there when the announcement was made,” Martiloo said, with a touch of pride and pointed to the soldiers behind him. “We’ve made two trips there already. While you folks were either dancing in the streets for the new king or mourning for the old one, we had our orders to carry out. This is going to be our last trip.”
Marcus stood, listening attentively, his surprise no less than Higo’s. It had been widely believed that the building of the New Temple of Justice was a doomed project, and that was why Lord Shusha had guarded it so tightly out of sight. And now it was done, and done right on this eventful night. What timing!
Doubts arose in his mind, but he quickly dismissed them. Turning to Martiloo and looking into his face, he said, “I have no objection to going with you, my friend. But I have a request. I came here to pay Princess Zeleanda a visit. Once it’s done, I’m yours.”
Martiloo grinned. “I would be more than glad to agree to your request, your Highness,” he said, and raised a hand to scratch his square face, “but Princess Zeleanda is no longer here. She was taken to the New Temple of Justice, and I was the one who oversaw her safe transfer there. It was actually my second errand before first light hit Mount Tarata.” The grin on his face widened to give him a wild look before shrinking back to its expressionless official countenance.
“What was your first errand, may I ask?” said the Prince.
“Taking the three children to the new Temple, your Highness.”
Marcus’ heart sank all at once. For a while, he lowered his head and said nothing. When he looked up again, he sighed and let his shoulders droop. “I’m yours then, my friend. Take me wherever you like.”
“Thank you, your Highness. If I’m not mistaken, you are mine now, and in that sense, you must do whatever I say,” Martiloo said cautiously.
Marcus nodded.
“I request your sword then … please.”
Higo jumped in with a cry, “No, don’t give up your sword, my Prince! Let’s have a good fight! They have twenty; we are two. Each of us can do away with ten men stronger than they are.”
Higo was right, Marcus thought, with his sword and Higo’s, these men were no match.
But it was not his time to fight — not yet.
“Higo,” he glanced at him, trying to look as assured as he could, “my friend, did you hear that? They took the children and Princess Zelda. I must let them take me to where they are. My mind is made up.” With that, he calmly unbuckled the sword from his belt, caressed it and felt its weight before handing it over.
As quick as a mouse snatches a crumb, Martiloo grasped it from his hands. Once the Prince’s sword was safe in his grip, Martiloo’s face broke into a satisfied smirk, and he drew out his own sword with the other hand, pointing its sharp tip towards Marcus and Higo. Two or three of the other soldiers followed his lead, hemming them in with sharp weapons shimmering in their hands,
“It’s just routine, your Highness,” said Martiloo, “Orders are orders. As a precaution we must fetter you for the journey.”
A tall man, with jangling chains in his hands, edged closer.
Higo ha
lf drew his sword from its sheath and whispered into Marcus’ ear, “Change your mind my Prince, and run. I can hold them off.”
“No, dear Higo. I will not run.”
Higo’s face flinched, and he cried, “They are going to chain you up like a criminal. Just yesterday, you were the heir apparent.”
The irony and bitterness in Higo’s voice grated the air, and Marcus’s attempt to brush away his concerns with a reassuring smile turned into a grimace. With an effort, he pulled his gaze away from Higo and shifted it back to Martiloo.
“I’ll keep my word whatever happens,” he said, feeling the desperate stare from Higo that was scorching his back. “You have no need to fear my escape. But I request that my friend Higo be spared and allowed to take his leave.”
Brows lifted, Martiloo gave a dry smile. “That’s easy to arrange. He was not mentioned anyway in the orders, except that any resistance should be crushed, by force if necessary.”
He gave a whistle to his men, and a path appeared through their ranks.
“Do whatever I tell you, Higo.” Hardening his heart and his voice, Marcus looked sternly into Higo’s face. “Leave, you must. It’s my order.”
“No, my Prince!” Higo cried in a desperate tone. “Unless they drain my last drop of blood, I’ll not leave you.”
“You know my situation, my dear friend,” Marcus said softly, “The more I look at it, the more I believe there is a destiny ordained for me. I have been in darkness, calling their names without knowing why. It’s all clear and bright now, and I know at last who I am and what I have done. They are my family, Higo. It’s now as clear as the stars in the sky. They’ve been taken to the temple, and I must be there with them. They need me just as I need them. Whatever happens shall be my fate. Leave, my friend. Go back to your family, and take care of your mother.”
Pained by the blankness in Higo’s face, Marcus sighed and turned to face the captain. “I’m yours,” he declared, overwhelmed by a sudden weariness.
As soon as he had spoken, the troops surged round him like a flood. In a brief moment, they had his arms bound in front of him.
He was no longer a free man.
There was the sound of wheels crunching on the gravelled road. A coach rolled into sight and halted in front of them. Four armed soldiers, two at the front and two behind, were guarding the coach. One of them jumped off and opened the door exposing its shadowed interior of bare seats with buckles and chains.
Marcus marched towards it.
+++
To Marcus’s surprise, the coach rolled to a stop, sooner than he expected.
“It is a detour, your Highness,” said Martiloo, unbuckling the ankle chains that secured him in the seat. “The King is expecting you at this very moment.”
Six fresh-faced royal guards were waiting for him outside of the coach.
In the crisp morning light, the golden dome of the King’s chamber was gleaming magnificently in the distance. Hands bound in front of him, Marcus found himself in a shaded cloister, being escorted towards a small, isolated chamber obscured by the deep shadow of a large tree canopy. It had a simple and unpretentious look, making a dramatic contrast to the glamorous royal edifices all around it.
Once inside the chamber, he was immediately confronted by Mapolos, the new king, and his six counsellors. Towering behind them, in the centre of the room, stood a tall stone in the shape of a man and pale pink in colour.
Feond’s Chamber and Feond’s Stone — it came to him all at once. It had always been in a forbidden part of the palace where no one but the King could enter, so he had never come here himself, but had learnt about it from Lord Tulardigo. The Stone looked the same as depicted in the Ruler’s Encyclopaedia that he had studied from a young age. It was associated with the idea of preventing rivalry between princes — he remembered it vaguely. The stone was hollow inside and possessed some mystical divine power that could rid a prince of his regal attributes.
Mapolos came straight towards him, arms outstretched, and a warm smile appeared on his face. “Brother, it’s good to have you here.” He squeezed him by the arms, and the fetters that bound Marcus clinked noisily under the pressure.
“They bound you!” he exclaimed, and gazed down at the dark chains with glee. “Now you shall know what it’s like to be crippled. Chains, permanent ones that sink into your flesh, confining you and distorting your bones, with no mercy and no hope of ever being free.”
The left side of his face twitched oddly as if the old pain had come back to him. But soon he brightened up, waving his arms about in the air. “My dear brother, I must go through this ancient practice with you. It was not my decision but the counsellors’.” He gave a small laugh and looked over his shoulder. “My dear Lord Tulardigo, would you mind if I ask you to tell Prince Marcus the decision?”
Lord Tulardigo, looking frail, trembled when he heard his name called. “Perhaps Lord Shusha would like to take my place,” he said in a tired voice, without raising his head.
“Forgive Lord Tulardigo, he is tired after all these events. Lord Shusha, please.”
Out of the row of counsellors stepped Lord Shusha, face to face with Marcus. While his thin lips had loosened into a grin, his eyes were blank, as cold as ice. “Your Highness, I’m afraid it was a clean-cut result — five to one, all voted in favour except Lord Tulardigo — you are to be placed inside Feond’s Stone without delay to rid you of your sovereign faculty.”
Marcus listened mindlessly, as though they were talking about someone else. When Lord Shusha’s claw-like hand clutched one of his arms, he jerked and awoke suddenly to his plight.
He was to be put inside Feond’s Stone!
“He’s my young brother. I shall take him, my Lord,” Mapolos cut in, and seized him from Lord Shusha.
Marcus felt his arm being tugged and, with blind, automatic steps, he let himself be led.
Two brawny men pulled open the front part of the pink stone, revealing within a concavity that was about the size of a coffin. There was a sharp tweak on his arm, twirling him around, and the next instant he was pushed back by the chest, his back smashing onto the concave interior of the stone. A strange and powerful chill permeated rapidly through his skin and into his flesh and bones. Without him realising it, he started to shiver violently.
“I have been dreaming of the day, my brother, when your fate would be in my hands,” Mapolos whispered, gazing coldly into his eyes.
“But ... why? Are ... n’t we ... brothers?” Marcus stuttered through chattering teeth.
“Brothers? That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard in my life,” Mapolos sneered, and gave a chuckle. “You were handsome, fit, loved by everyone, while I was crippled, derided and teased. Mother never even wanted me in her sight.”
“It ... hasn’t ... been ... easy for her.”
“So you think that it was easy for me!” cried Mapolos. All of a sudden, his eyes grew wild and flaming, and he grasped Marcus’ neck and pressed it down hard. With a frantic look, he barked into his face, “Beg me for mercy, beg me for mercy now, I might let you go!”
“I feel ... sorry ... for you, Mapolos.”
“Sorry?” his face twisted into a grin. He let go of Marcus, rubbed his hands together and looked askance at him with a gleam in his eyes. “We will see about that. This is just the beginning, brother.”
“Shut him in,” he shouted to the guards and turned his back.
Mapolos and his counsellors started walking towards the exit. Lord Tulardigo lingered a while behind. A wretched old man he now looked and the sorrowful glance he gave Marcus was hard to take.
The stone lid shut against his face, and the next moment he was in pitch darkness with the cold surface of the stone all around him, pressing against his skin. Sharp chills, like hundreds of invisible knives all stabbing him at the same time, overcame him.
+++
When the door of the chamber opened, and a streak of light struck him, he wasn’t sure how long he had been ly
ing there on the cold floor.
He was half carried, half dragged to the coach that had been waiting since his arrival. Captain Martiloo, who must have been dozing all that time, looked startled when his drowsy eyes fell upon him.
“My goodness, your Highness. What’s happened to you?” he gave a genuine cry before his lips pressed tight at the stern glances of the royal guards, who ensured that Marcus was locked securely in his seat before marching away.
Sitting on the bare bench of the coach, Marcus shivered uncontrollably, unaware of the rude and curious glances that Martiloo frequently gave him.
Without the King’s faculty, he was no longer a privileged man.
Through the bare window, he saw streets, houses, and then hills, forests and giant rocks flashing past. It was his land that he had gazed at thousands of times with the eyes of a future ruler.
“Just yesterday, I was going to be King,” a bitter voice murmured in his head, like a gnawing worm, empting him.
The temple was far outside the town, on the cliffs that surrounded the city. On the way there was no shortage of people walking towards it, staring at the coach with open curiosity as it passed.
A distance away, the temple came into sight. It was a round, open structure, like a theatre, with a grand rostrum in the middle and two tall towers standing like pillars on either side.
The coach stopped beside one of the towers. A crowd immediately gathered, old and young, big and small, they all seemed to wear the same unconcerned, cold look.
There was a long flight of stairs to climb. He wobbled with dizziness and finally reached the top. In front of him, Mapolos, with the gleaming crown on his head and a brilliant purple robe draped over his well-built torso, looked glorious on the majestic golden throne.
Someone pushed him unexpectedly from behind, thrusting him suddenly forwards. Stumbling on his feet, he heard a shout, “Kneel.” And the next moment, someone shoved him hard from behind, and with a thump, he dropped to the ground.
17
New Temple of Justice
