by Ember Lane
“Although her love for her father, and even now for her dead mother—though rumors said she had squandered all—still shone as a candle to covet, even Elisha had come to conclude that she must choose a hand in marriage soon. Such a marriage, one that would surely secure the castle’s future, and indeed, many thought, more to the point, also save her father from the king’s wrath, seemed a heart-wrenching inevitability. That wrath came closer day by day as taxes owed mounted, and reports told the king of his southern stronghold’s continued decline.
“As Elisha scanned the room once more, she noted none from the king’s court had attended nor had the fierce northern lord from Dragnor, and furthermore, that another slight had been dealt by the absence of the courts and markets of Rakesh. Consequently, she seemed doomed to choose from one of the six second-tier lords that now wallowed below and as such consign Horn’s Isle farther to the margins. ‘Keep your posture and smile, goddammit!’ her father hissed at her.
“Elisha put on a false smile and through her now fixed expression retorted, ‘But what of Dragnor and Rakesh? Only Dragnor’s armies or Rakesh’s gold can elevate us. What of them?’”
Sedgewold paused, arching his hands and flexing his jowls. He glared at each of us in turn, sucking our interest to him.
“She was not best amused. Her manner soured as her father told her, ‘They promised they would come. However, with the emptiness of our coffers, I’m afraid only your fabled beauty can save us now.’
“Elisha brooded. ‘We should have secured a marriage with Rakesh, for their gold would have solved all.’
"She tipped her gaze to her scantily clad plate as her father then retorted, ‘No! We should have arranged for you to marry into Dragnor, for one day their armies will take Rakesh’s gold!’ and Willard waved an admonishing leg of grouse at his daughter. He glared around the hall before smiling graciously, no more than a feeble attempt to mask their disquiet. Elisha, too, looked over the hall, catching the furtive glances of her six suitors all posturing like puffed-up gulls.
“Around the hall, and in between the tables, a jester did perform and drew her gaze to his erratic brown hair as he attempted to juggle three blazing torches. She noted that the torches spent more time on the floor than in the air above, and the laughter surrounding him came from his own stomping around as he put out the glow and flicker of the hay as it caught light from the tacky pitch. She leaned into her father. ‘He is truly terrible.’
“Her father snapped. ‘Well, maybe, just maybe, the supposed suitor from Rakesh could pay for a better one!’ Willard reddened and took a deep gulp of wine. Elisha fell silent, her father having clearly neared his limit, and if she goaded him further someone would pay. The jester, meanwhile, happily carried on throwing his torches to the floor, until an outstretched leg tripped him, sending him flying toward the tables opposite. It brought her father’s gaze to the hapless jester. Willard reddened further.
"Elisha grasped his forearm. ‘Leave it be; he will be gone soon. One day, things will change for us. I am sure of that.’
“Willard turned to his daughter, his eyes ablaze and his cheeks the color of his deep-red wine. ‘Change for us? They already turned when your mother squandered our gold in the courts of Striker Bay with her lust-filled dalliances. I swear, if the pox hadn’t got her, then I would have.’
“At this, Elisha felt her own blood boil as well and took to her wine with a new vengeance, for to blame all on her mother and to discount her father’s own sloth and whoring, well, she could not tolerate that. ‘And I suppose you ensured our farms were tended and our boats fished both day and night, or did you, or did you not, spend much of our gold, my dowry, incidentally, across the causeway and up Beatbush Alley?’
“Willard look fit to burst, but at that moment the hapless jester fell once more. Willard’s fists thumped on the table, and he rose, shrouded in red mist. The hall fell silent, all eyes falling upon their lord. Willard hesitated then rounding quickly to save face and rounding, without option, on the unfortunate jester. ‘Jester, come here!’ The jester rose slowly, straw bristling from him, stabbing out of his unruly hair, but he hung his head as he approached his lord. Willard bent forward, scowling. ‘Are you truly a jester? For if so, you are the worst jester in the land!’”
Sedgewold stretched, bringing out a pipe and a pouch of leaf, priming, and lighting it. He stood, walking circles around us. “Two more dour folks have never walked the land. No wonder Willard’s wife ran to Striker Bay.”
I grunted, not sure my sympathies would lie with the sorrowful ghost, or even how I was supposed to help her.
Sedgewold sat back down, puffing on his pipe momentarily before recommencing.
“Where was I?”
“The jester,” Pog said eagerly.
“Ah yes, that shady character. Well, the jester, head still bowed, replied, ‘Then we have something in common, my lord, for we are as one as you are surely the worst lord in all this land.’ Willard, stock still, his mouth agape, couldn’t manage a reply, but Elisha spoke for him.
“‘Jester, you exceed your permissions. How dare you insult my father?’ she countered, enraged and now standing as well. The great hall of Horn’s Isle sat deadly still, and even though the jester said his next words in hushed tones, all did hear.
“‘I merely stated what is upon all your minds, my lady. You only have to look at the shit on the floor and the three-day-old hay that lies among it to see that this lord is done, and as such, so are you.’
“Willard looked at his daughter, who hinted a questioning eyebrow back, before her father glared to his captain, and he turned to his guards, and the guards then all moved in. ‘I should have your tongue for such impudence!’ Willard’s voice eventually boomed around the hall.
“‘Or his hand, and save another court his skills!’ Elisha joined in.
“Willard hesitated, but still the jester kept his head to the flagstone floor. ‘You choose, Jester; your hand or your tongue?’ Elisha continued but then whispered to her father, ‘Whatever he chooses, do the other,’ and then withdrew, her icy stare now fixed on the jester’s still bowed head.
“The jester stayed, head lowered, and all missed the mischief in his wide eyes. ‘I choose my tongue, for that is what has caused the ire, and therefore, needs removal.’
“Willard sat down but paused before commanding, ‘Captain, chop off his hand.’ The sound of a sword being withdrawn from its holder quieted the room further and to hushed stillness. The jester merely held out his hand and waited. The king and his daughter remained seated, their stares drawn to the man kneeling before them. The captain of the guard moved forward and raised his sword. A last glance at his lord, from whom he received a nod, and his descending sword soon whispered through the air. The jester’s hand fell to the floor, and his stump pulsed blood over those hay-strewn flags. Then he flipped back his ranging, chestnut hair. Both father and daughter gasped as blood drained from their faces, for the jester’s eyes shone gold: the color of myth and of Daemon. And the jester smiled even though his blood still pulsed in rhythmic beats, pooling on the floor. He looked defiant but then smiled, and that warmed the room. ‘My tongue would perhaps have been the better option, but Elisha, that was your choice, and now I offer you a riddle and also a further choice.’
“She looked down at him, nerves shattered by his confident, even friendly nature. Without lowering his gaze, he continued, ‘You will walk from here toward the Kyrie, where there is a fork in the road, and there a which will be. There will be a which on one side and a which on the other; which which you choose dictates your future. But remember, there’s which, or a which, and maybe there’s another which.’
“‘And if I choose no witch, then I sit, and you, Jester, merely go.’
“‘That, my lady, is the prerogative of your station, and as such your choice, but for each day you hesitate a plague will eat Horn’s Isle. Now, if I may, can I retrieve my hand and be gone?’
“Elisha then looked to
her father for aid, but he seemed entranced. She huffed. ‘So I choose one witch and then what?’
“The jester smiled through his golden eyes. ‘Well, you live whichever way you choose, and whichever which fulfills your wish will be your fate, and in one year I will return and show you the fruits of another choice. Now really, Elisha, look at my hand—it crawls to you. May I arrest it and calm its anger toward you, for surely it will creep into your chambers this eve, and you will feel its icy fingers curl around your naked, porcelain neck.’
“‘What is your name, Jester?’
“He smiled. ‘You were always correct; my name is Jester.’ His eyes pierced her, and his manner seemingly taunted her. ‘And if you do not free me, your father will never wake.’
“Elisha watched as he took up his hand and placed it back to his bloodied stump. He raised the hand to his face, and watched as its fingers flexed before his eyes. With a golden glint in his eye, he bowed and turned, satisfied. None from her meager entourage barred his way, and so through the gates he trod, down, and away.”
Sedgewold paused for a breath.
I let out a sigh, my task now even harder. As far as I could surmise, Elisha did not have a single decent bone in her body. Horn’s Isle deserved its fate—deserved to get pushed into anonymity.
“She’s plain horrible,” I hissed.
“Perhaps,” said Sedgewold. “Being of fine breeding is only an advantage if that line is strong.”
“What happened?” Pog asked.
“What always happens when lords and ladies don’t get their way. Elisha sulked, retired to her chambers, but her dreams became haunted with the fork in the road and the golden eyes of the one called ‘The Jester,’ and eventually, a new dawn was born. The new day, though, proved no better than the old as her father had become obsessed with the curse. It turned worse when they returned to the hall. The jester's pool of blood had eaten a foot-wide hole in the flags by that very first day. Then within two days, it had grown to a man’s height and width. By the time several suns had eased themselves from their slumber beyond the horizon, and when the central hearth had slid into the chasm, Willard made his own selfish choice, and Elisha was driven from the town by her own father.”
Sedgewold halted again, letting the measure of his words sink in.
“His own daughter,” he repeated.
Joss the Nine called for more ales, set his pipe, and Sedgewold continued.
“And so Elisha left her home and felt a shudder as the gates closed in a final farewell. Clouds billowed, and dust swirled around without need for wind, and the air grew heavy upon her, like still silence that hangs before an approaching storm. Off she then traipsed up a rocky road.
“Eventually, she came to the fork in the road and approached it with trepidation. Childhood tales had told her of only two witches: Lamerell and Melinka. Both were to be feared, but a choice had to be made.”
I gasped at Melinka’s name; once more time failed to add up, Mezzerain’s departure, now this story, all too recent given the supposed history.
“All worshipped Lamerell and knew Melinka to be lost. If Melinka truly stood on one side, then Lamerell must stand sturdily on the other, and being favored she should be the obvious choice. Elisha, though, still could not choose, but when she got to the fork she found two different things altogether.
“Mounted upon a sturdy steed sat a knight, the sun glinting from his suit of armor while his black hair flowed in the breeze. ‘My lady, I am Tobias of Dragnor, and I pledge my armies and fealty, forever and beyond.’ Her knees quivered and trembled before him. She looked to her right, and there sat a man at a dusty desk who looked up, quill in hand.
“‘My lady, I am Tobias of Rakesh, and I pledge you trade and wealth and my fealty, forever and beyond.’ Elisha thought about this with a simple mind, and she dwelled upon Dragnor and its strength, her father’s desire, and then, with a devious whim that took into account a jester's plot, she leaned toward Rakesh. She felt a joy in her heart for the first time in an age. The Jester had given her the choice of her dreams, and surely now Horn’s castle would be saved. Yet she found the deliberation impossible, for to choose one over the other would offer different fates. To choose Dragnor would consign Horn’s Isle to a future of male sweat and ego, to blade and bone, but Rakesh offered trade and politics, gold and feasting, although little in the way of security. But it did offer gold and feasting.”
“So who did she choose?” Pog asked.
Sedgewold smiled. “Is patience in such short supply?” He patted Pog’s knee. “She chose Rakesh.”
“Bad move. Always go with the army,” Pog cried. “With the army, you can take the markets of Rakesh.” He folded his arms and sat puffed and proud.
“We’ll see,” said Sedgewold, and he cleared his throat. “Within five weeks Elisha became married to the lord of Rakesh, and so gold finally moved to the south. On their first night together, when he came to her chambers, love should have moved their lips to fall upon each other in lust. But her lips held an icy coldness as love had never hatched within them. Elisha could think of none but the powerful lord from the north, from Dragnor, and rued her choice. The very next day her crestfallen husband ventured away and hid in his anguish among casks of wine, returning to Rakesh, his heart in tatters and his marriage still barren.
“But the lord of Dragnor had been snubbed, his spurned eyes filled with wrath as he planned revenge both meticulously and callously, unaware of Elisha’s change of heart. Within a year, Dragnor’s wrath, enhanced by the seeds of time, swept from the north and through Rakesh and then onto Horn’s Isle, where his blade fell without thought. Those very same gray flags, still covered in straw, saw muddied boots run through and up a spiral stairway to a door behind which Elisha quivered.
“Her pleas for mercy and love fell upon red-misted eyes, and she gained no quarter from the lord of Dragnor. Now he stood over her, twisting his sword point within her heart. Yet as she took her last gasp, and the last morsel of pain drifted from her, a hand stayed the sword, and golden eyes stared down.
“‘Would you like to see the other way?’ The jester looked unto her, smiling. Her breath now shallow, and with eyes wide in fear, she nodded in hope. A vision erupted in front of her, and the sword disappeared.”
Sedgewold paused. “I suppose the jester was fair in that respect.”
“Does he still live?” I asked, wanting to know if he were one and the same. If he were Flip.
“How would I know?” Sedgewold raised his hands. “A mere storyteller am I, no meddler here. Anyway, back to Elisha and to complete our tale. This was The Jester's other vision—the one if she’d chosen Dragnor over Rakesh.
“She traveled at the front of a vast army, and they conquered and killed all as they closed in on Rakesh. Her marriage to Tobias of Dragnor being everything she desired. Elisha’s devious countenance had contrived this plan, and it would split the land of Kyrie in two. From both Horn’s Isle and Dragnor, they marched to fall upon the walls of Rakesh. Their siege engines took a few weeks to catch up and to close in, and so by the time the catapults rained down merry hell, the sorry bastards within Rakesh should be drinking their own piss. Tobias Dragnor strutted supreme, counting his victory in fingers of time. And they camped close and comfy, both lord and lady, smiling.
“Yet Rakesh refused to crumble, and Dragnor’s supply lines failed to keep stomachs full. Doubt began to spread through Dragnor’s soldiers as whispers led to conspiring eyes, and suspicion rippled discord throughout that now dread camp.
“The first death closed a sorry chapter in a soldier’s life, and that led to a second, and then on. From Rakesh, Tobias shook his head in despair that such a simple plan, full stores, and a vast cistern, had ruined the bonehead from Dragnor. That and the diseased cows the starving soldiers had consumed with such eagerness.
“Elisha looked to her arms as they paled, and the blotches of sickness came. Her fever grew, her plot foiled, and once more, the boatman hailed
her. She looked up as she held her final breath, up at golden eyes once more, anguish and shame washing over her, knowing the sacking of Rakesh had been her undoing. The Jester smiled at her. ‘How would you like to die? Pox or blade?’
“‘Die,’ she replied. ‘Do I die in both outcomes? What trickery is this?’
“But the jester merely shrugged. ‘No trickery. You never thought of the third choice. I set you three questions, but you only chose to look at two.’
“‘What other choice?’ she asked, gasping, as the point of a sword once again pierced her, and shallow breaths came once more from the disease crawling around her heated body.
“‘Surely, you could have turned around and restored your own fortunes?’ The Jester smiled once more.
“'But you only offered me two choices,' she said, barely above a whisper.
“The Jester laughed. ‘Two questions, three choices. Tobias of Dragnor, Tobias of Rakesh, or your own home.’
“‘Three?’ she said in desperation.
“He laughed. ‘Yes, three, but you only saw an easy way, and it took your life as you would have taken my hand or tongue. You never understood the question.’”
Sedgewold brought his hands together and closed his eyes. “And that is why Elisha haunts this once fair city. She chose Rakesh and died by Dragnor’s hand.”
I’ll admit, I was lost. She’d asked me to understand her, but I could see no way that I could. She’d married for money and died by the sword of rejection. Was it some monologue about the perils of taking the easy way out? Did Rakesh represent my mana and Dragnor my shadowmana? Was I missing something?
“Where was she buried?” I asked.
“Her body was never found,” Sedgewold told me. “Her father swung from Horn’s Isle's battlement. Rakesh fell to ruin. Dragnor enjoyed a measure of power for a while, but you can’t rule by fear forever. All three lineages were lost to time, their lands swallowed. Rakesh descended to ruin, and Dragnor was abandoned for a while but then grew again.”
