by Jaime Castle
Loud whoops and whistles erupted from the bar. Whitney bowed again, looking up to lock eyes with the fuming dwarf, a humorless smile playing at the edges of his mouth.
"And you call me a farmboy?” Whitney asked. “Someone get this sad dwarf another ale. He’s either too drunk or not drunk enough.”
The dwarf appeared thoroughly unimpressed. Whitney rounded the table, his gaze never leaving the dwarf. He plopped back into his chair, grabbed his ale, and kicked his feet up on the table.
There were a few scattered hand claps before the tavern returned to their business. Two weeks in the same tavern burning through all the autlas he had, Whitney wondered how many times they’d heard him boast the same feats. The bard started plucking his lute again. The barmaids made their rounds, dodging the grabby hands of several toothless men. Haam continued polishing mugs.
The dwarf calmly stroked his beard once, then took his turn climbing the table, even though the thing was nearly the whole height of him.
“And I be Grint Strongiron,” he said. “Son of a drunken wife-beater. Brother of a coward. My wife’s uglier than the South end of a horse-headed north. I got seven fingers, nine toes and enough spawn to start a small war.”
He took two wobbly steps toward Whitney.
“I’ve broken more bones than I be able to count, many of them me own. I helped dig out the throne room o’ the Dragon’s Tail alongside Brike the Pickaxe when yer great, great, grandfather was still an ache in his own grandfather’s britches.”
He leaned over, getting as close to Whitney as he could without toppling over.
“Ye say ye’ve stolen from a Lord and some warlocks?” he continued. “But ye ain’t done nuffin’ till ye tooken from a King!”
Whitney’s head cocked to the side before he laughed deep and hard. He looked around, but the crowd was no longer paying attention.
“I ain’t thought I said nuffin’ funny, Thief,” the dwarf said. “Even from his bed, the King of Glass still be stealin’ food from me family’s mouth. Ye’d be doin’ the world a favor, showin’ the old prick what the feelin’ be.”
“Steal from a King?” Whitney said, incredulous. “What would you have me do, traipse into his throne room and take the crown right off his head?”
Grint jumped down, missing the landing either for lack of judgment of too much drink. Maybe both. He stumbled into the next table, disturbing two shady-looking mercenaries decked out in brown, leather armor. Grint raised both hands in apology before turning back to Whitney.
“If that’s what ye gotta do,” he said. “Otherwise, this li’l display of yers is just shog and spit.
“Shog and spit, you say?”
“Aye. Heard the King of Glass be havin’ himself a masquerade—one of them fancy balls nobles like so much. If ye’re so good, I be bettin’ ye could sneak right in couldn’t ye, farmboy?”
Whitney let his feet fall from the table and leaned forward, circling the rim of his mug again.
“Steal the Glass Crown,” he marveled. Just when he thought life was getting boring…. Finally, a challenge that might be worth putting his drink down for.
Whitney tapped the top of his head. “All right, Dwarf. Next time you see me I’ll be wearing it.”
II
The Thief
WHITNEY’S MOTHER once told him, “The only thing worse than stealing is stealing from a dying man.” Rumor was the King of Glass was, indeed, dying, though Queen Oleander would have you hanged if you were caught saying it aloud.
The masquerade was in mere hours and Whitney had to be in the castle when it started. It was intended to celebrate King Liam’s birthday, though most figured it would be a final send off to the King who’d done more to shape the Glass since Remy the Revealer.
Alas, everyone knew The Glass Kingdom stood on the precipice of a new ruler, and even at mid-day the fog laid like a thick blanket over the streets of Yarrington and rain fell in heavy sheets as if the skies themselves were in mourning.
Good conditions for a thief... usually.
While Liam the Conqueror was bedridden, his guards were very much alive, an attribute they used to great effect in chasing Whitney through the quaint, winding streets. Old Yarrington sat on the ridge just outside of the castle walls, looking down upon the rest of the city. It was where the King’s stables lay, and the high nobles of the Glass Kingdom lived in extravagant mansions festooned with stained glass.
Whitney tore around a corner onto yet another unmarked pathway. Stabled horses roared, startled by the sound of clanking iron as the guards passed. If that wasn’t enough, thunder cracked, sending them into a frenzy.
Whitney thrived in chaos. This had been his passion since the day he’d left the farm—the thrill of being chased by guards armed to the eyeballs after snatching some rare treasure. But even as he dodged an especially deep puddle in the cobblestone path, he found himself going through the motions.
He cleared the row of stables and cut a sharp turn. Wetness plastered his face as he slid in what he hoped was mud. He cursed his luck. He’d already stolen some very expensive clothing for the masquerade and now they were ruined. He also couldn’t afford the time spent recovering, but from the sound of it, the city guards weren’t fairing much better in the conditions. He looked over his shoulder and counted three men.
The map he’d purchased and memorized had been yellowing and brittle—and apparently out of date. Whitney turned and wound up face to face with a wall made of solid stone piled three meters high.
This was supposed to be a garden.
He used to love this part, thinking on his feet, improvising in the face of certain doom. But lately, it had all become so mundane, whether it was a wizard’s staff or a lady’s gem. He found himself disheartened and unable to move, wondering if he should just slip away and end this wild boar chase.
Whitney slid to a stop before the towering wall. Cold rain beat down on his back and neck, but it felt good after the sweat he’d worked up running from the guards. He didn't want to escape, or else he would have by now. He just didn't want to make it seem too easy.
He dug the mud-slick tip of his boot into an almost imperceptible notch in the stone and pushed himself up just enough to wrap his fingertips around the lip of the wall. One hand slipped on rain-slick stone. He glanced back after he caught his balance to see the guards closing in, but the heft of their armor slowed them. If he was having trouble climbing the wall, those lumbering fools wouldn’t stand a chance.
He dug in once more and thrust upward. This time his fingers found purchase and he yanked himself up. Wiping his face and glancing back at the guards, he decided it hadn’t been mud he’d slipped in. He fought back the urge to vomit over the edge of the wall.
This isn’t worth it, he thought. Nothing seemed to be worth it anymore. Piss in the wind and shog in my mouth.
He forced himself to focus. He could only count two guards through the driving rain, both struggling to pull themselves up the wall, shouting up at him to stop. He looked in all directions for the third before swearing and hopping down the other side. Again, his foot slipped in what definitely wasn’t mud, sending him into a split. He used the momentum to roll, thoroughly tarnishing his clothing. Nonetheless, he was soon on his feet again, running.
He continued to pound dirt, splattering the mud below. Visibility wasn’t great, but he could just make out the far wall of the castle now, looming in the distance as if taunting him. The small gem in his pocket was enough to get him thrown in the district lock up, but running from the guards would land him in the castle’s dungeon. Right where Whitney wanted to be.
He peered back again. Now, none of the city guards could be seen. When he turned back around, the third and missing one stood in the path before him. He was a hulking brute with a scar from what appeared to be a bad burn covering the bulk of his face. One eye was white and, Whitney assumed, useless. The other, dark brown.
Why is it always the big one?
The guard reached fo
r Whitney with both giant hands. He wasn’t really a giant—maybe a half-breed. Compared with most parts of the world, Yarrington seemed to be uncommonly tolerant of races of all kinds. Whitney easily dodged the man’s thick sausage fingers and threw a punch of his own. The guard wore leathers emblazoned with the sigil of the Glass Kingdom—the Vigilant Eye of Iam. Whitney knew couldn’t he do much against armor, so he aimed for the man’s bare elbow, just below where the arm pads stopped.
His fist cracked hard against bone. Whitney flexed his hand. He probably cracked a knuckle, but the blow forced the guard to stop momentarily and shake out his arm.
A moment was all Whitney needed.
Behind him, he heard the clatter of the other two guards clearing the wall. He slipped past the hulking guard and ran. So far, in spite of a couple hitches, the plan was working. Only one thing remained. It needed to look absolutely real.
He reached the end of the street which he’d been prepared for.
At least that old map was good for something.
He stopped, feigning surprise, frantically looking for a way out. He scampered up the wall in futility and turned back toward the guards.
He dug his hand into his wet, muddy pocket and produced the little gems he’d swiped in plain sight after securing proper masquerade clothes. “Look, fellas,” he shouted over the rain as he walked toward them. “I think this is a misunderstanding.”
“Lady Holliday’s jewels jumped into your pocket then?” the hulking guard asked. The others bellowed in laughter.
“Here, you can have it back. No harm done, right?”
Without another word, he bolted full speed toward them, acting as if he was trying to run past. As expected, the hulking guard planted his feet. Whitney braced for what he knew was coming. The man reared back and a second later, Whitney Fierstown was swept off the streets of Old Yarrington.
III
The Knight
“FILTH AND BRAGGARTS, all of them!” the boy whispered through gritted teeth from beneath his sheets. “Liars, thieves, drunks, and murderers!”
Torsten Unger, the Wearer of White, leader of the King’s Shield, had been winding down for the evening when he heard those words in the voice of Prince Pi. Torsten looked around, confused. The boy hadn’t left his room in the West Tower of the Glass Castle for a year.
Torsten peeked out of his room, his gaze met by his newest shieldsmen, only passing by. Rand placed his fist over his heart, as was customary when greeting the Wearer.
“You hear that?” Torsten asked.
“Sir?” said Rand.
“The uh… never mind. It’s late. Tired is all.”
Rand looked at him, puzzled. “Goodnight, sir.”
Torsten tipped his head and waited for the boy to pass. He’d spent the day overseeing the training of several new recruits, as well as ordaining that very young man into the King's Shield. Rand was a promising recruit. Young and a bit overeager, but Torsten had a hard time faulting anyone for wanting to serve.
Iam gazed down upon the ceremony with great joy, no doubt. But even with the Vigilant Eye of the one true God watching over them, the Glass Kingdom would need all the security it could get when King Liam passed. According to the royal physicians, it could happen at any time.
Torsten focused back on Pi’s voice—less of a voice really, and more like a feeling. When Torsten left his quarters, he’d hoped to avoid catching any eyes but even if he hadn’t held the station of Wearer, he was hard to miss. More than once he’d been mistaken for a half-giant. His chest was thick as an iron keg, hands large enough to pop a man’s skull, and closer to seven feet than six.
As he passed more of his men, he lied to each in turn. How could he say he was following an invisible voice to the Prince's bedroom in the middle of the night?
The large, arched, stone and stained-glass door stood a whole head taller than Torsten. He cracked it enough to see a sliver of the Prince’s chambers. It felt dirty, wrong—although he had no ill motives. But the Queen had forbidden anyone, even the Wearer of White, from seeing her sickly son. It had been that way since his predecessor, Uriah, caught the Queen’s heathen brother whispering madness into Pi’s ear.
It took Torsten a moment to figure out where the boy was. Then he saw the bulge in the sheets. A moment later, Prince Pi cast off the covers and stood. He was so young, yet his eyes spoke of a lifetime of horrors. His head was cocked to the side while he paced, his messy, dark, hair hanging limply like a wet blanket.
“Yes, they must pay for their sins,” he said. “The goddess demands it and she will do it, not I.” His head twitched so hard Torsten worried he’d snap his own neck. Hearing a boy so young speaking of the goddess startled him.
Torsten instinctively stepped backward as the boy abruptly stood, crossing the room. There was no doubt he’d heard Torsten’s footsteps, but he seemed entirely unconcerned. The pale light of the moons gushed in through the boy’s window. Beyond its arch, Torsten could see the Yarrington’s twinkling lights—candles, lamps, and campfires. Those paled in comparison to the false light reflected off the castle's spires and the flat, glassy plain of Mount Lister.
Torsten drew a deep breath before cracking the door a bit more. He eyed the great mountain through the northern window. It stood, a monument of the ancient God Feud, a deep emerald green against the cobalt sky. Torsten found the spot between two foothills on its rocky side—the spot where the fallen goddess, Nesilia, was said to lay buried beneath the rock.
Torsten’s glare fell back to the room where countless angular symbols were hastily etched in stone walls, smeared with blood. He may have been young, but it appeared Pi’s devotion to the Buried Goddess exceeded even that of her cultish priests. Torsten had cleared plenty such miscreants from basement shrines throughout Yarrington since having joined the King’s Shield.
Most believed Nesilia had been dead for thousands of years, and Torsten numbered among that lot. Legend was, and so her followers believed, she was not dead, only buried—waiting to exact vengeance upon the one who buried her.
Did the Queen know of Pi's obsession? She’d never mentioned a word of it to Torsten. The Nothhelm Family, which had ruled over The Glass Kingdom for centuries, served and revered Iam—the one true God. What would the people of The Glass Kingdom think if they knew the King's only son was a heretic worshipping the false goddess Nesilia?
The voice came again in Torsten's mind, this time louder. He grasped his head, slithering his fingers through his hair, biting back the urge to scream. He rolled his head in sharp circles, gnashing his teeth as the foreign words bombarded his mind. When it was over, he looked up to see the Prince clutching his own head.
“Buried, not dead. Buried, not dead,” Pi muttered over and over. “The color crimson and a thousand eyes. I see the color crimson and a thousand eyes!”
Torsten’s heart pounded, threatening to burst through his rib cage. He saw large tears flow freely from the young boy's eyes and his own eyes began to water. The Prince now stood in the middle of his chamber—a room that would dwarf most houses. A circle surrounded him, painted in red on the dark stone floor. Torsten noticed a bloody bandage wrapped around Pi's hand. He knew blood magic when he saw it.
The boy raised his voice, beginning a chant. The words drifted in and out like the flight of galler birds in spring, ebbing and flowing, sharp tucks and wide swoops, impossible to know where one word ended and the next began. They would seem nothing more than mindless blabbering to any hearer, and that's what they were to Torsten—nonsense.
Pi’s eyes rolled, only the whites showing. He convulsed, head whirling and hands flapping. Torsten flinched and bit back disgust. It was in that moment, Torsten finally understood the Queen's eternal sadness. It was the Queen’s brother’s fault, but Oleander blamed herself.
Torsten remembered the day vividly when he found the former Wearer of White in these very chambers after Redstar fled. The Queen’s brother’s cold heart matched the bitterness of the northern land fro
m which he hailed. When he visited the Castle, Uriah warned against trusting him. Torsten felt it too, that unsettling feeling just from being in the presence of such a heathen. The Queen still let him in. Blood was blood after all.
As Uriah had expected, he’d betrayed the Queen—why wouldn’t he? Oleander had been taken from Drav Cra at such a young age. From the ruins to the throne. She had been given a crown and Redstar was left amongst the remnants of the war—the slaughter almost absolute.
It was said Redstar fled under the cover of darkness toward the Webbed Woods. Queen Oleander tried to hide the betrayal out of embarrassment, but Torsten was the first to see the boy that next day. He was inconsolable. Redstar had stolen the boy’s favorite toy. They called it an orepul—an effigy doll made for his birthday in the rudimentary style of Oleander’s Drav Cra ancestors.
The Queen blamed its loss for her son’s madness, believing it held a part of his soul. She sent Uriah with a small battalion to the woods to retrieve Redstar and the stolen effigy, but they never returned. Torsten was named in his place, with no choice but to follow her orders as she sent more and more to their doom.
As Pi finished his words, a small spark—an ember—grew in his hand but quickly faded. He cursed loudly, words he shouldn’t know at his age.
“It won’t work without it!” He picked up a wooden chair and heaved it through the open window to the pasture below, no small task for a boy his size.
Pi peered over the edge to find the chair cracked and splintered two stories below. He planted a foot on the sill and pulled himself up, standing there a long while, teetering back and forth. Torsten threw the door open and watched as Pi tilted forward, catching himself at the last instant. Torsten was halfway across the room when without a word, Pi stepped back down, took a few steps, and collapsed.
