Web of Eyes

by Jaime Castle

  He probably wasn’t exaggerating. He was ancient. Probably knew the Buried Goddess before she got buried.

  “How about a different question, then?” Whitney turned his back and took a few steps away before returning his gaze to the man. “What’s an old man like you done to deserve the cell?”

  The man eyed Whitney—his face beginning to soften, if only for a moment. His eyes scrunched and his mouth curled into a snarl.

  “That’s two questions, ye biff,” he said. “I seen a hunnerd of ye come and go from these cells and not one of ye deserved to be here more than I.”

  “For all you know,” Whitney said, “I caused a riot and killed the Queen.”

  “Ye dun’t.”

  “That’s true, I didn’t.” He smiled. “But I might've. Actually, all I did was steal one little coin.”

  Whitney pushed himself away from the bars and fell backward into a roll, head over feet until he was seated on the floor with his back against the wall.

  The old man stared at him but didn't seem the least bit fazed.

  The sun was beginning to set outside, the blue-purple light of night painting the cells the same color. Whitney settled against the wall with one leg propped up, arm on his knee, examining dirty fingernails.

  “So, ye dressed like a fruitcake?” the old man asked after a brief silence.

  “When in Old Yarrington…they say.”

  He looked down at the tattered hems of his pants and swore under his breath. It was all part of the plan to get into the King’s soiree, but he hadn’t counted on the sky unleashing a torrent worthy of the gods and his outfit getting completely ruined. When he escaped, he would have to find someplace to clean up if he was going to fit in at any masquerade—royal or otherwise.

  The old man harrumphed and laid down on the bench that would be a seat and a cot. Whitney rose and did the same. It was hard stone and completely unacceptable in terms of comfort, but Whitney had suffered more for less. After a while, he felt a familiar feeling in his stomach. He stood and strode toward the cell door.

  “Can I get a menu?” he shouted. “There a barmaid available?”

  No one answered.

  “Stew and mead, then.”

  “Ain’t time for eatin,” the old man said without stirring. “Ye missed the meal and that’s that. Ye’ll have to wait till supper time.”

  Whitney sat again.

  “I don’t plan to still be here at supper time,” he said under his breath.

  “Neither did I me first day. Look at me now. Get comfortable, kid.” He cackled his way into a coughing fit once more.

  Whitney rolled his eyes and peered back through the tiny sliver of a window—his only connection to the outside world, for now. Every dungeon across the world had two things in common. They left the promise of being free right there to drive men mad, and not one had ever been able to hold him for long.

  VI

  The Knight

  TORSTEN STOOD at the opposite end of the Grand Hall, watching as Queen Oleander took her place beside King Liam on the dais. Once upon a time, the Nothhelm's were the picture of royalty. His massive, glass throne stood as a monument to his power, a tangible reminder of his accomplishments and deeds. They say that it was half the size when his father died in battle against the Panping and Liam the Conqueror was named King. Everything in the Glass Kingdom was half the size.

  The Queen’s, nearly as impressive, was elaborately decorated with glass flowers of her namesake. But it paled in comparison to her.

  She looked even more stunning seated only a meter away from the decrepit King. It was a sad sight to behold. He was struck down in the prime of his life by a disease even the best of the realm’s physicians couldn’t name. Oleander had spared no expense, even bringing mages and healers from across the Torrential Sea to bring with them the wisdom of their false gods. Still, nothing could heal the King.

  What remained of his hair was stringy and peeked out in wiry wisps from below the Glass Crown. His white eyes stared blearily, his mouth hanging open, drool playing at the corners.

  Torsten ached for his once mighty Lord. The days he’d spent at Liam’s side were his best; first wearing the mail of a squire and then, donning light blue and white of the King's Shield. Now, he was Wearer of White—King Liam's personal sentry and the Kingdom's most respected military authority outside of the King himself.

  He’d watched the King’s steady decline and had been there with Uriah when the King was still cognizant enough to question it all.

  “What’s happening to me, Uriah?” His voice was still strong in those days—now he didn’t possess one at all.

  “It will pass,” Uriah would lie to him, told him it was probably from stress over desiring a worthy heir or a dalliance in one of the far-off lands they’d conquered.

  Then and now, Torsten’s most important job was to keep the King safe and alive. It wouldn’t be long before his failure was complete. He sighed, turning his attention from Liam before it drowned him in sorrow.

  The Grand Hall was filled to near capacity, the whole of the Yarrington court there to celebrate the King’s fiftieth year—although he looked a hundred. Lords and Ladies pranced around, their faces covered by masks. Torsten thought it was a perfect picture of the kingdom’s most noble houses. Glass faces for a Glass Kingdom.

  They were schemers and sycophants. Half of them came from kingdoms forced to bend the knee at the tip of a sword. Others did so preemptively before Liam brought the wrath of Iam to their doorsteps. In those days, when he arrived at a kingdom’s wall, the Vigilant Eye of Iam painted on his shield, it was either kneel or have your entire history erased.

  He wasn’t sure what would happen when King Liam passed and the crown passed to Pi. He was too young and distracted to rule effectively, meaning Oleander would be the true power in Yarrington. Would those conquered peoples remain loyal to the Glass or would they renounce the grace of Iam? Would the Shesaitju, or the Panping, or whoever else return to their heathenistic ways?

  Every morning Torsten woke he could feel Pantego growing smaller. He could taste the coming battle on his tongue like blood after being on the wrong end of a hard punch. Everyone knew the age of Liam the Conqueror was coming to an end, even if they wouldn’t say it. It was said that he could do more by accident than any living man could do on purpose, a true King. A great King, carrying out the will of Holy Iam. Now, he was reduced to a drooling wretch who looked twice his age.

  Torsten took a brief reprieve from scanning the crowd for possible traitors to check Liam’s face. There was sadness there, and by order of the Queen, this would not be an evening for tears. She reached out from her throne and adjusted his Glass Crown, which had drooped at some point along with his face.

  Arriving musicians tuned their instruments on a makeshift stage in the center of the hall. Above it, hung a great, glass chandelier adorned with hundreds of little flames, their light being cleverly magnified and spread throughout the room using the glass and mirrors.

  Servants scurried like ants. Watching them was almost like watching a dance performance in one of the city's finest of playhouses. They weaved in and out between the guests, stopping to offer drinks or rich foods.

  Torsten had often fantasized about being one of those nameless servants. An anonymous face in the crowd, only noticed if performing poorly. How could one perform such a mundane task poorly? He wanted desperately, at times like this, to be able to wake in the morning, put on servant’s attire like he was destined to before King Liam rescued him, then clean, bake, or sew without a worry for anything but coin.

  The thought shamed him. Was he not eternally grateful to Liam?

  He was just tired. Tired of lying awake at night, fearing for the fate of The Glass Kingdom. Wondering what would happen when it no longer had a King.

  Queen Oleander may have ensnared the masses with her looks, but she made decisions rashly and based upon emotion, not rationale. It was the savage Drav Cra blood in her. She’d all but
disbanded the kingdom’s small council since Liam lost his ability to communicate, and she hadn't even been crowned Queen Regent.

  Taxes had gone up to finance extravagant parties like this, designed to pretend all was right with the King. A drought, unlike any Torsten could remember, had food stores lower than ever. And, in light of rumors that the Shesaitju had refused full payment on the year’s taxes, the army was restless. Oleander didn’t seem to notice any of it. All she concerned herself with was a stupid doll.

  Growing frustration had Torsten’s mind racing, making it difficult to concentrate but the soft flow of music starting up soothed him a bit.

  Couples circled one another, eyes locked and chests inflated like birds flashing their colors for potential mates. A lute played melodious and fast. Cymbals crashed, a crescendo.

  He watched one couple in particular as they moved with the music. It always amazed Torsten how much a good dance mimicked battle. She advanced, he retreated, then switched roles. Never breaking eye-contact; always mindful of footing. Torsten was no dancer, but you’d have to sail across the Torrential Sea to find anyone who hadn’t heard of his skill with a sword.

  His eyes wandered around the Grand Hall to all the other nobles. No one was acting as if this was a night for the King, least of all Queen Oleander. She sat quietly, her many ringed fingers tapping in time with the music.

  Her gaze momentarily drifted to Liam. Torsten saw something in her eyes but couldn’t place it. Pity? Sorrow? Relief? In public, she played the role of adoring wife to the man who stole her from her homeland and forced her to marry him, but in private they argued often. Especially after she took so long to produce an heir.

  Whatever it was, Torsten knew that it was time for him to find his place near her side. If he’d waited any longer he would risk falling out of her good graces, and if there was anywhere in the world he needed to be, it was there.

  For the good of the Glass.

  Torsten made eye contact with his men posted around the hall. After receiving a nod from each, he strode across the room, his heavy armor clanging with every step. The crowd parted. He hardly knew the difference between fear and respect and didn’t care which of the two he received. Both served the same purpose: order.

  Wardric, the King’s Shieldmen posted closest to the entrance, raised his left arm in a purposeful gesture meant for Torsten. Torsten knew the signals; he’d developed them. Torsten responded by scratching the stubble on his chin. Another noble with violent history with the Kingdom had arrived. That made Iam knows how many. Of course, there hadn’t been open war in a decade. Another testament to the King’s prowess.

  With Liam’s condition, these types of events were nerve-wracking. So many within an arm’s length of mead and striking distance of the King and Queen, and all of them in disguise.

  Torsten sighed.

  He lifted his foot onto the first step of the royal dais. Three more and he’d be only a meter away from Queen Oleander. He could already smell her perfume and it was intoxicating.

  “My Queen,” he said, bowing low.

  “Torsten, come,” she said. “Stand with me and keep me company.”

  Torsten covered the paces remaining and found his place between the thrones.

  “If only he could still keep me company,” she said, throwing a woeful glance at the King.

  She laughed.

  An awful time to be laughing, Torsten thought. However, he wouldn’t dare counsel her out loud at a time like this.

  “If only you were upon that throne,” she said, flirtatiously touching Torsten's forearm with her finger, letting it graze down to his hand.

  Torsten knew better than to react. Uriah had taught him well before he left. The Queen could be cruel in her mocking. He had good reason to believe she knew how he looked at her when he thought she wasn’t paying attention—everyone did. He wished he could help it. She found delight in coaxing him on, and a weaker man may have given in. But she was married to his King, and that was a sacred vow made under the Eye of Iam. One which he’d never break.

  “Oh come now,” she said. “Don’t be such an uptight prude.”

  “I’m sorry, Your Grace,” was his only retort.

  She rolled her eyes. “Oh, look, the real entertainment has arrived.”

  The head of a troupe entered to a chorus of fanfare. He strutted up to the dais and bowed low, his loose, frilly sleeves nearly brushing the floor.

  “Your Highnesses,” he said, annunciating each word like he was in a coliseum. “On this most auspicious day, the Westvale Troupe are pleased to present to you a recreation of one of the King’s most remarkable conquests. The siege of Latiapur!”

  He extended an arm back toward the entrance and his group flooded the Grand Hall with the over-the-top kind of flourish only an acting troupe could. A line of actors dressed in the blue and white of the Glass and tan and black of Shesaitju’s Black Sands soldiers followed closely behind. Torsten eyed a few of the Shesaitju nobles present, their mouths showing signs of scowls growing beneath their masks. He trusted them the least.

  Their disdain only lasted until they thought better of it and joined the rest in applause. There was barely a noble present whose people hadn’t faced Liam’s judgment, and they were all of them better off under the grace and prosperity of Iam’s chosen kingdom.

  The Queen let out a soft giggle and slapped Torsten on the arm. “I do believe that one is supposed to be Uriah,” she said, pointing to a man wearing a white helmet. He’d been Wearer of White during that war.

  Torsten was appalled. The man was excessively fat. He waddled around the dance floor like a buffoon. The whole court stifled laughter until the Queen burst out in applause. Those attending followed her lead.

  “He looked nothing like that,” he said under his breath.

  “It’s just a show,” the Queen said, shushing him.

  That was easy for her to say. She was portrayed by a young lady almost equally breathtaking as she was—almost. The troupe clearly scoured the land in search of someone beautiful enough to not offend Her Royal Highness.

  When the actor playing Liam arrived, the racket was deafening. The man had a chin like an anvil and feathered black hair, same as Liam used to. He took several bows and was met by whistles and cheers. Torsten looked at the Queen with the corner of his eye. Her brow furrowed, but only for a moment. She cleared her throat, smiled humorlessly, and joined in with the same gentle applause.

  The night carried on, the troupe depicting more epochs from the King’s grand life. Although he’d accomplished far more than could be covered in a single night, they did a wonderful job honoring him. From bringing the scheming Panping mystics to justice after they poisoned his father, to the first and only Shesaitju War. They ended the evening with the siring of his heir—they, of course, graciously withheld the more private portions of the event.

  The Queen's expression soured at the sight of the babe playing Pi. Torsten found himself doing the same.

  Even knowing who he spoke of in the cover of darkness, Torsten loved the boy and couldn’t believe that he wasn’t present on the evening the Kingdom paid, what might be, their final respects to his father. Had he really been that obsessed? Tormented? Could he not snap out of his spell long enough to eat, drink and be merry?

  Torsten shook his head.

  “Will the Prince not be joining us again?” he asked the Queen, leaning in just enough that his cheek brushed her golden hair. “He should be here for his father.”

  She snapped around sharply.

  “You know better than to ask of my precious boy!” She bolted upright and stormed off the dais. Several attendees took notice but returned to their food and drinks when Torsten’s scowl found them.

  “My Queen,” Torsten said. He took a step to follow, then thought better of it, standing his ground beside the King. After all, he was the head of the King’s Shield, the Wearer of White, and his King was still alive… for now.

  VII

  The Thi
ef

  THE DUNGEON was still dank. The smell of rotting flesh and excrement never lifted. It was no wonder since there was a steaming pile of shog just sitting in the corner of the old man’s cell.

  Whitney sighed loudly.

  “Would ye rather me hold it in, yer royal highness?” the old man asked, followed by a cackle and a hack.

  Whitney ignored him.

  Clora and Loutis, Pantego’s twin moons, peeked through the high barred window, offset against the star-speckled sky. There was some legend about them being Iam’s first followers. Clora, the follower who stayed true, was the larger of the two, bright and golden. Her counterpart, Loutis was said to have turned his back on Iam, thus cursed to be pale and gray like a haggard skull. Like anything to do with gods and curses, Whitney thought it was a pile of horse shog.

  Their appearances told Whitney the time was near.

  He stuck his nose between the bars, ignoring the stench, pointed and said, “It appears that staircase over there is unguarded.”

  “Goes to the kitchens where they make that yig they call food.”

  It was true. Whitney’s first, and hopefully only meal in this pit, was awful. It was a paste—like something a potter would wipe from his hands at the end of a long day of molding clay.

  Whitney smiled, happy the old man was finally speaking. He’d begun to fear the man had finally bit the dust in his sleep, which would undermine his entire escape plan. A series of creaks and groans echoed as the haggard old man dragged himself to the spot where the guards left his food. Half of it had spilled onto the stone when they dropped it.

  “Disgusting,” the man said, which didn’t stop him from shoveling the slop into his mouth.

  “Are you going to tell me your name?” Whitney asked. “Or should I just continue thinking of you as ‘that haggard old man?’”

  “Reese Gladsby,” he answered between mouthfuls. “The finest house ye ain’t heard of.”

  “Ah, Reese,” Whitney said as if he’d just discovered the secret to immortality. “How about why you are imprisoned?”