“Let us see it then,” the Al-Ferian said. “Put it on the table.”
Affon stomped up and banged the stick down. She did not raise her chin, but instead lowered her brow, so as to darken her eyes as she glared out at Rúathar. She tapped her foot as the stick was inspected. It looked remarkably innocuous, and Rúathar did not seem impressed.
“I think you spent more time striking others than searching,” he said.
“So?” she replied, almost on top of his words. “I found mine quicker than the rest of you.”
Rúathar was clearly not convinced. She had found a twig from a Perasalon, sure enough, but there were many like it throughout the Stumps, and she had picked the first she stepped on, without thought or meditation. Ifferon could also tell that she had been rash, not attentive, and he could tell from Rúathar’s stern eyes that what she had picked would be useless for the Ferhassan.
“We have enough with our finds,” he said. “This will do.”
He gathered up the forest relics and handed them to two Al-Ferian guards. He gave a knowing look, like a tree might give to another, and they seemed to understand. One guard took the cupule, bark, leaves, and sap and brought them to the Wisdomweavers, who were buried deep in the leaves of books. Some of the priests began immediately to assemble the relics into a container, which they stood upon the stone plinth like an urn for the child’s ashes. The other guard took the twig and headed for the secret passages, where undoubtedly he would reach the edge of the Stumps and cast it back into the wood, like an inedible fish thrown back to sea.
“What now?” Ifferon asked, glad that Affon did not see what had been done with her find, and glad that his quest in the Stumps was over—yet dreading what new quest awaited him.
“This fortress is our home now,” Rúathar said, and as he spoke his voice rose like a towering Perasalon, forcing all to halt what they were doing and look upon him. “It is our refuge and it is our prison. Our enemies will come like a flood upon us, and we will swim or drown, and if we fail here, then all in this world are doomed. The process of rebirth begins, but sowing the seeds of life takes time—a time that the forces of death will use against us.
“Some of you know what we will face. Some of you have prepared for this day since we learned that Éala, whom some of you know as Corrias, had incarnated in this world. Others of you have walked into a situation you barely know, like a chessboard in play, with you as a piece from another game. It matters little what your situation is. What matters is the situation we all are in.
“You and I cannot leave here, and if you try to, you will be killed by our sentries. Willingly or not, you have pledged your life to protect the Host while the resurrection takes place. It is a pledge you may have to honour before the siege of the mountains is through.”
VIII – MADNESS IN MADENAHAN
In Madenahan, the capital of Boror, the guards began the evening watch. Some stumbled from their beds, while others stumbled from the taverns. None stumbled from the empty chapels of Olagh. The watch houses bustled, and as the night grew dim, there was a flicker of stars in the sky, and a flicker of eyes staring out from walls. Lanterns blazed, halberds were lined up one by one, the guards stood staring and yawning, and some stood like part of the wall itself.
At the South Gate, which looked out over the Lonely Road, two guards stood watch while the others played ilokadi, the four-sided game of chess, in the watch house. Amidst their frequent dozing, roused by the roars and cheers of the guards in their game, they spotted a figure approaching the gate.
“Who is that?” the first guard said, peering over the parapets. “It looks like some beggar from the border towns. Why would he come to our city when he knows our laws against panhandlers?”
“That hasn’t stopped some vagrants in the past,” the other guard said, and he spat upon the ground, as if it were the bodies of the poor. “We had to hang one from the North Gate just last week to ward off the outcasts of Arlin. The smell is still in my nostrils.”
“I am glad I was not on duty then,” the first guard said. “I would have had to burn my gloves if I set a single finger on one of them.”
“Better than them setting all their fingers on your purse,” the other guard said, and he coughed a terrible cough and spat again.
“Are you sure you didn’t catch something from them? I hear the whores are cleaner.”
They laughed, but their mirth was cut short when the man clambered to the door. Grime lined his face and grease laced his hair. His clothes were tattered and torn. His arm hung like the pauper from the gibbet at the North Gate, and his hand was starting to blacken, matching the dark rings around his eyes.
“Halt!” the first guard cried, and he held his halberd before him, nudging the man back a foot or two. “Who do you think you are? Do you know what city this is? There’s no space for the likes of you!”
The peasant opened his mouth to speak, but the coarseness of his throat caught and crumbled his words. He stumbled to one side, but the other guard launched his halberd out to stop him falling over, fearful that they would then have to haul him away from the gate and bury him. They would not bother to check if he had really died or not. No one would miss him.
“Go on then!” the second guard shouted, nudging him with the point of the halberd. It nicked him across the stomach, but he did not seem to feel the pain. “Back to whatever pit you came from! Go on south and die on the road there! No one travels those routes now.”
Then the man looked to his side, where nothing was, and he nodded. “Aye,” he said to the wind, before turning his glazed eyes back to them.
“Another one struck by the moon,” the first guard said.
“I need,” the man said with a cough, “to see ... my father.”
“Well, he’s not in here,” the second guard said. “Go on now, away from here, or your corpse will be a warning to your family if they try to crowd our streets.”
Then the first guard paused for a second and his hands started to tremble. He ran his halberd across the patches and strips of fabric of the man’s clothes. “Isn’t that a bit rich for him?” he said, his voice low, a hint of doubt in his tone. “Looks like a noble.”
The second guard scoffed. “Stealing from the high-housed, are you now? Scum!” He pulled back his halberd and prepared to lunge at the man, but the first guard grabbed it just in time.
“Wait!” he cried. “Look at the crest he wears.”
The guard strained his sight to see the faded emblem of twin serpents on the peasant’s chest, the symbol of the ruling house. “Olagh bless, it’s …”
“Who is that?” a third guard said as he strolled to the gate with a lantern in hand. He held it close to the man’s face, revealing his grim features. “Another one looking for refuge?”
“No, Edgaron,” the second guard said.
“That’s … that’s Herr’Don,” the first guard added, and he stood frozen.
Edgaron dropped his lantern, which clattered off the ground and almost toppled Herr’Don from his unsteady feet. He ran to the Prince and wrapped Herr’Don’s good arm around his shoulders. He struggled to haul him into the cobbled paths of Madenahan. “You shouldn’t have come back here,” he whispered to Herr’Don. “This is your father’s city. That should have been reason enough to stay away.” They clambered through the streets as a crowd began to gather near the gate, wondering why a guard would haul a vagabond into the place of the privileged.
“Who would have thought he would come back here?” the second guard said as the lumbering figures disappeared into the crowds. “Herr’Don the Prince.”
“Herr’Don the Mad,” the first guard corrected.
“Not an outcast from Arlin then,” the second guard said.
“No, just an outcast from the King’s Court,” the first said with a grin.
* * *
Herr’Don was brought down the narrow ways of Madenahan to Ilokmaden Keep, a towering bastion that made the thin streets and tiny hovels l
ook even skinnier and smaller, like a monstrous fat man towering over the emaciated bodies of his kin, who he did not think deserved even the crumb they had been given. Ilokmaden’s bloated body sat upon a plateau above the main level of the town, where it could keep away from whatever filth lined the streets, like the drunks who could not make it through the maze from the four taverns at the four corners of the city to their homes, or the streetwalkers who knew the maze like they knew the hidden places of the body, and even the slop and sewage that the servants cast down from the windows of the high towers.
There were five towers along the southern side of the Keep, lining the plateau like great fingers upon an outstretched hand. In the palm stood the main building, strong and square, and so clearly man-made that it looked awkward upon its naturally carved base. A central wall surrounded the Keep like a bracelet, and there were two entrances, one in the north-east and the other in the north-west. Through these passed a constant carriage of people, to and fro, like veins pumping blood in and out to keep the fist-fortress of the King alive.
It was through the north-east gate that Edgaron hauled Herr’Don, and the Prince felt a shiver run through his body that he knew was not his fever, but the memory of his childhood under the firm grasp of the Keep and the various staff who wandered its halls, like wagging digits constantly reminding him of the rules, berating him on his failures, and raising him in the eternal absence of his father.
He used what little strength he had left to look up at the great stone box that his father called home, and he envied the Garigút for the insults laid against them, for to be “less-of-home” seemed almost a better fate than to have to live inside the belly of this beast.
And so it seemed to all who lived there, for it was rumoured to be alive, and the tales of its animate existence were some of the first he heard as a child, usually from the cooks and the cleaners, for few other children were allowed inside. Some said the Keep had always been there from the time of the Elad Éni, luring people inside, while others said that it was built by the Moln from rock that had survived volcanoes, and others yet thought it was made from the actual bodies of the Moln, who joined together for a long rest and would one day wake again.
In the depths of the night many could hear the strange sounds throughout the corridors, and even stranger ones from the cellars, like the rumbling of a stomach that needed more men and women to come inside and waste away their years. When a member of the staff would die, the others would say: “The Keep has eaten.” And when a replacement was needed, they would add: “The Keep needs to be fed.”
Some were born in the Keep, as Herr’Don was, but unlike he, some of them would also spend their entire lives there, never leaving its many levels. It was so colossal that there was often no need to leave, and those few who missed the sun could sometimes periodically go up to the roof and the ramparts, where they could join the guards in their glowers at the specks of people far below, like dust upon the carpets.
Edgaron hauled him past the hustle of people bringing barrels and caskets in and out of the gates, and he dragged him up the long ramp to the main door, ignoring the eager eyes of all who looked on and wondered. Rumour swept through the city like a plague, infecting every ear, spreading on every tongue, and while some spoke of strange things, many began to nod knowingly at the whisper that Herr’Don had returned from whatever exile his father imposed on him.
Edgaron banged on the door with his fist, and the wood creaked in answer. Few used this way, as it was mostly a ceremonial entrance, for entertaining dignities from across Iraldas, or for those few occasions when the King would wander as far as the gates of the inner walls, to pretend to be one of the people, before hurrying back to his jewel-cluttered chambers. It took a long time for someone to open the door, possibly from shock that another would be so brazen as to bang upon it, or from difficulty finding that seldom-used key.
When at last it swung open, firing dust in all directions like a trap, Salstrin the Steward stood before them with a great ring of keys around his left forearm, a white cloth draped upon his right, and a scowl upon his face that would have frightened away most who looked upon him. Yet Edgaron was not like the others, Herr’Don knew, and he was glad that it was he who stumbled upon him as he stumbled to the city’s southern gate.
“There are other doors,” Salstrin said. He was always a man of few words, which was probably why Herr’Gal employed him, because the King was a man who heeded few. Salstrin’s glare was his most potent weapon; he never once was in a brawl, and often he ended them by simply walking into the room and staring down everyone in turn, as if his eyes were some bewitchments. He attempted to cast his spell upon Edgaron.
“It’s Herr’Don,” the guard said.
Salstrin scoffed at the name, echoing the years of disdain and derision he heard from Herr’Gal’s lips. “He’s gone,” the Steward said.
“He’s back,” Edgaron said, blocking his words and parrying Salstrin’s glower with his own. The Steward suddenly realised what he meant and almost toppled. To most they would have seen little change in his composure, but to Herr’Don’s experienced eyes he could see Salstrin’s left shoulder droop with the weight of the keys, sending a tiny clink into the air, like a betrayal of the Steward’s poise. Salstrin’s eyes wandered the length of Herr’Don’s huddled form in amazement and disgust, and the tiny twitch of his mouth was another treason of his body.
“In then,” he said, and the agitation in his voice was clearly evident. He stepped back into the shadows, away from the prying eyes of those outside, who might start to add his own dignified name to the pandemic of tales, which began to leave the city of Madenahan and head for the other towns and regions of Boror.
Edgaron pulled Herr’Don inside, and neither were surprised that Salstrin did not extend a hand. The Steward did not even offer his white cloth to dab the Prince’s many wounds, but kept it upon his arm like a badge of office. He watched from the ridge of his nose and upturned chin as the guard rolled Herr’Don onto his back on the cool, marble floor, his body clattering off the ground, the sound of which reverberated through the chamber like an alarm. Then Salstrin slammed the door shut quickly and locked it with a clang; it was a sound of comfort to the Steward, for he enjoyed more the locking of doors than the opening of them.
“This is too in view,” Salstrin remarked.
“Where will we bring him?” Edgaron asked.
“He looks sick,” Salstrin said. That was his way of saying the infirmary. He grimaced as he looked upon Herr’Don’s discoloured arm.
“I will inform the King,” he said, and immediately he turned and walked off with his usual methodical rhythm through the long corridor to the great stairs that curved to either side.
“He hasn’t changed then,” Edgaron said. “Neither has your father, Herr’Don. I wouldn’t expect much from him.”
Herr’Don did not expect anything. Well, that was a lie. He expected to be ridiculed and shouted at. If those actions were not there it would be almost like a sign of love, and he had spent too many disappointed years expecting it.
“I will get someone to help,” Edgaron said. “You’re a bit heavy for my arms alone, and I think I’ve done my share of dragging princes for today. I would say stay here, but you would think it an insult. I will be back as soon as possible. Let us hope it is before your father hears about your arrival. At least he rarely listens.” He patted Herr’Don on his good shoulder, as he often did when they were little, that one gesture of love that was allowed between the men, and he wandered off to find the healers, wishing the many winding chambers were as easy to navigate as the maze outside the Keep.
“So we wait,” Belnavar said, sitting down beside the Prince. Herr’Don wondered why a ghost or a phantom of the mind would need to sit, but he supposed it was more for his sake than anyone else’s.
Herr’Don looked up at the ceiling, where hung an unlit chandelier, huge and ornate, one of the many unnecessary extravagances of the Keep’s interior,
hiding in the darkness as if from shame. Black statues stood on either side, tall and pointed, like rotting teeth on either side of a dark red carpet, an elongated tongue that lapped at his back as he lay there, tasting him.
The Keep needs to be fed, he thought.
* * *
It was not long before a hustle of people came for him, with a hush of voices that seemed to belong to more than just the men who were present. Edgaron was there, and Belnavar had not left him, but they were both silent as he was lifted up and dragged through the halls and down the stairs to one of Doctor Olbar’s many grim cellars.
He was placed upon a table, like a dinner serving. The wood was cold, for the warm blood of previous patients had long dried up, and the cracks in the walls of the room were used by the spying wind. It took four guards to tie Herr’Don down, but Edgaron was not one of them, for he could barely watch the struggle, and he only stayed to offer what little comfort he could to one in need of more.
Olbar approached, his hands firmly masked in leather gloves, ones that perhaps a warrior might don before taking up his hallowed sword. He made no effort to hide the worn saw in his hand, such a brutal tool of medicine that made Herr’Don wish for the sword instead. A guard managed to pry Herr’Don’s mouth open and stuff a wooden peg between his teeth.
“Bite,” Olbar said. “It will distract the pain.”
But he was wrong. His teeth burrowing into the wood could not distract him from the metal teeth of the saw burrowing into his skin and bone. It was not a sharp, swift bite, but a slow and endless gnawing, and it felt as if time had ceased its own droning continuum to come and watch with all the spectators, to come and mock with their eyes at the dismemberment of a prince.
The foul taste of the wood was soon outmatched by the smell and taste of blood, which sprayed in all directions, fleeing from the mashing and the munching of the hungry saw.
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