by Osku Alanen
“Aye. He’ll answer for the things he’s done,” Ronan said, slapping his cheeks to stop the world from spinning. Aye, he would meet with Raven. And should he refuse to speak—or lie—well, Ronan would be prepared for that, too.
***
The briefness of Arin’s captivity in the dungeons did nothing to ease his mind as he walked back in; the dread he felt was overpowering. Warning bells rang in his mind, but he ignored them. There was something he simply had to do. A duty.
The castle halls were all but abandoned with only a handful of guards patrolling the hallways. Avoiding them proved simple, and Arin had no doubt he could overcome them with ease should they spot him. Interestingly, guards were the only ones he saw—along with a few maids hurrying to and from what he surmised had to be the kitchen. But the nobility, they were all gone. Still, whatever the reason for their absence, it made his task that much easier. He turned from corridor to corridor, the hallways now familiar to him. This was the way the guards had dragged them out. Had it truly been only a few short hours ago? It felt like a lifetime to him.
Arin reached the stairs leading down to the dungeons. If he was to face guards, this was where he would find them. He steading his grip around the pommel of his sword—the very same one he had to thrust through his closest friend. He tried pushing away the memory but found he couldn’t.
Nijakim….
His death seemed like a sick joke, a nightmare. Arin hoped he would wake up at any moment, but he knew it was a fool’s hope. He was gone. Forever. Nothing could change that.
The sound of footsteps brought Arin back to present, his muscles tensing, reminded by the memory of his training. He had been careless, lost in the turmoil raging in his mind. Arin bit his lip, it would be only moments before the footsteps were upon him. He couldn’t risk letting the guards shout a warning; a preemptive strike was all that was left for him.
Two guards bearing a torch turned the corner, stopping in their tracks as they saw the prisoner standing in front him, armed. Arin’s eyes widened in surprise as he realized he knew the men; it was the two guards that had treated him and his friend with such contempt—the very same ones that had sent them to their doom.
Before they had time to react, Arin leaped at them, blade thirsty for blood. He was fast and swift like lightning; he couldn’t risk them alerting more guards. Surprise was his only advantage. Blood sprouted from the guard’s neck as the cold steel slit through the man’s tender throat, a crimson shower soaking his partner all over.
“P-please,” the second guard whimpered. He dropped the torch, the brilliant fire slowly hissing away on the damp floor. Arin looked at the man who had wet his trousers with pity. This was the man that had tormented him? What a sad, pathetic excuse of a warrior. He almost felt the need to let him go.
Almost.
Silently, Arin thrusted his sharp blade through the man’s heart. The man groaned slightly, as he watched a puddle of blood staining his shirt red. Seeing something so alien protrude from his chest seemed baffling; whenever death comes knocking, it is always a surprise. Arin looked at the man topping atop his partner with dull eyes. He felt no remorse for them; death was a small price to pay for their part in his torment.
Arin took they keychain the first guard was carrying, fingers trembling as he realized he likely held the keys to the castle itself—not just the dungeons. Should he, perhaps, pay a visit to the King himself? If he wanted revenge, now he could extract it. No. Too much blood had already been shed, needlessly. Only one more man needs to die today. Wordlessly, Arin opened the heavy doors the dungeons, the last obstacles in his way far beyond the death’s door.
“Old man?”
There was no answer.
It proved difficult to see clearly in this cold, forgotten dungeon, the only light shining through the door now standing ajar. Slowly, he walked past the cages and cells as his eyes adjusted to the darkness.
“I’m here to set you free, Eldon,” Arin whispered through the bars.
Arin could feel his heart skip a beat as he saw the body of the man through the bars, unmoving. Not only he had lost his only friend, but now the old man, too? Arin breathed a sigh of relief as he saw the man turn his face towards his, eyes unbelieving.
“Grandson,” Eldon gasped, “Is it truly you? You survived. You survived the trial!”
Arin nodded. “I did.”
Eldon looked around, frowning. “But your friend. Is he…?”
Arin looked away, biting the inside of his mouth to stop his mouth from quivering. The feeling of failure was too much to bear.
“I see,” the man replied grimly. “Oh, my boy, I am so very sorry. This is not what the boy deserved. This is not what you deserve.”
“It’s not time for grief yet, Eldon. And for now, I think we best leave. At once,” Arin said with a breaking voice. He dangled the keys he had taken in front of Eldon’s eyes. The keys clattered happily as metal met metal. Eldon watched them with his mouth open.
“You would do that for me?”
“I made a promise, didn’t I?”
“Yes. Yes, you did,” the man said with a grin, coughing with the effort as he lifted himself up and dragged himself out of his captivity.
Arin frowned as he saw a trail of dried blood covering his chin, along with his clothes. How ill was the old man truly? “Come, now. It’s high time you get out of this place.”
They left the dungeons the way Arin had come in. The old man hesitated when he saw the two bloodied guards lying there, but he walked past them, nonetheless. They walked with slow, careful steps, but no guards surprised them; the castle was abandoned. How lucky for them. Still, he hadn’t thought this far ahead, had he? Sooner or later, they were bound to run into more guards. What would he do then? And how was he to get the old man out of the Royal Plateau?
The death of Nijakim had numbed his mind thoroughly, completely. His thoughts were fragmented; it was hard to think clearly. Could they just walk out of the place? Arin inspected his palms; they were still stained red. What he needed was a brief respite—to make himself and the old man look more presentable. Perhaps then the guards might mistake them for a servant and his old, ailing father or grandfather? It was close enough for the truth, after all. And maybe, just maybe, he might catch a lucky break for once.
Arin pushed open the front gates of the castle, opening them a way to the inner courtyard. He fully expected to find a squadron of guards stationed there, swords drawn. But no guards came. He could feel the chilly air atop the plateau send shivers down his spine; the old man shivered terribly as well. If they were to flee this kingdom, would he survive in the wilderness? The thought was troubling, but it was not the time for fear.
The bright moonlight filled the courtyard with cold, white light. A large fountain laid in the middle of it all, the rushing water the only source of sound. They were alone, here—or so Arin thought.
A lone man walked into their sight, face covered by a hood and arms hidden behind his back.
“What is it?” Eldon asked. He squinted, trying to see what had made Arin pause. Now, in the moonlight, Arin could for the first time see the old man’s grey, almost sightless eyes. What could possess a brother to imprison a brother for as long as this, to treat him with such content, such malice?
“Stay here, Eldon. There’s someone there, waiting.”
Arin helped Eldon sit by the stone steps. He started walking towards the mysterious man, who was evidently waiting for him. “What do you want?” he said sternly as he approached the marble fountain, fingers curling around the pommel of his sword.
“We meet again, young Arin.”
That voice… Arin knew the voice. But how could it be? “Impossible,” Arin gasped, walking to the man he knew well.
“I have been expecting you for quite some time,” Master Nazek replied, smiling.
***
“You,” a guard with a crooked nose said through clenched teeth, as he saw the familiar northerner approaching the
gates of the Royal Plateau.
Ronan felt winded by the climb leading there, courtesy of him wallowing in self-pity for the last several days, drowning his feelings in a bathtub’s worth of ale. Whose idea was it to build a castle atop a plateau? Still, strategically it made sense; it was easier to defend the part of the city that mattered the most against foreign invaders. But why did it have to be the same guard Ronan had broken the nose of when he had chased Ivy? Back then, Ronan had not thought of the consequences his actions could bring; his only thought was his son. Thinking back, somewhere deep inside of him, Ronan had always known he was dead. This journey had been but a fool’s hope.
“Aye,” Ronan replied grimly.
“You’ve got balls, Northman, showing your face here again.” The guard placed his hand on the pommel of his sword, showing Ronan that he was prepared to draw his blade should he make any sudden moves.
“We’re here to see a friend of ours. You’ve heard of him, no doubt. He saved the princess and all that,” Rust replied, stepping between the two men.
The guard with the broken nose groaned. “Aye. I know that, Lieutenant. But know this: Should your friend do anything funny, or even look at anyone funny, I will personally make sure his head ends up on the chopping block.”
“Fair enough,” Rust replied, sharing an understanding nod with Ronan.
The guards let them all pass without an issue. Without Rust, they would have likely turned him away, or at worst, thrown him in the dungeon, throwing away the key. Lieutenant Rust—it all sounded so strange to him still. It was difficult to comprehend that this unfamiliar city had been a home for him once. He knew it must be tough for him to be back here. Gods, Rust had gone through a lot, hadn’t he? Ronan may have lost his son, but Rust had lost his homeland, his sister, and his mother. Strangely enough, A part of him envied the man. How does a man who has lost so much remain so strong, still?
That’s why you turned to me, warrior, to make you strong, the voice in Ronan’s head reminded.
Ronan ignored the voice.
The plateau stood silent as the last of the day’s light ushered away into the night. They passed right through the Queen’s Gardens. It was the second time he came through here, but the vibrant colors of the plants here were stunning, still. Variety like this simply didn’t exist anywhere Ronan had been before. And there it was, the castle, shining brightly under the moonlight.
Rust stopped, pressing his hand against Ronan’s chest. “You didn’t answer my question before.”
Ronan raised his eyebrow. “Aye? Well, I reckon you should repeat it, then.”
Rust frowned. “You know damn well what I’m talking about, Ronan. What do you plan to do once you see him? You promised you would let him explain himself first.”
“Truthfully,” Ronan said, scratching his beard, “I didn’t think that far ahead.”
“You made a promise,” Rose interrupted, grabbing Ronan’s thick furs from behind. Even when accounting their difference in height and build, Rose didn’t seem one bit intimidated by him.
“Aye, I did,” Ronan nodded, “I will let him speak.”
Rose didn’t let go of his back. Instead, her eyes narrowed further. “I can feel them, hidden beneath that ridiculous fur. You brought your hatchets with you, didn’t you?”
Rust’s look darkened. “Is this true, Ronan?”
“You think I would come unarmed?” Ronan answered, not bothering to mask the disgust in his voice. “To see a man who likely murdered my son? Well, if you think I’d do that, I reckon you don’t know me at all. I gave you my word to let him explain himself, and I am a man of my word. But when he confesses, I will be the one to avenge my boy. You can count on that.”
Rose lowered her gaze, letting go of Ronan with reluctance. Ronan knew none of them liked to believe the man they considered their friend and leader could murder a small boy. It simply wasn’t what Raven would do, like Rust had said. He was a man of principle. A just man. Not a murderer. Had it all truly been a mask, to pretend to be his friend? For what possible reason?
Still, Ronan had to admit, it was Ivy’s word against Raven’s. If she was telling the truth, his son’s lifeless body lied back where they started. His throat tightened at the thought—his son’s body being eaten by wild animals. It wasn’t what his son deserved. Not at all. But they were right, Ronan realized knew, these friends of his. He owed it to them to hear Raven out.
***
Alessia frowned as she walked through the eerily quiet halls of her home. She knew the halls should be empty, for whenever his father feasted with the nobility, the staff had their own feast down in the kitchen. But was it normal for the halls to be this quiet? Inquisitor Markaltis had witnessed the same—and he had heard a disturbance coming from the throne room.
The doors to the throne room were closed shut. There were no guards stationed here, which she found odd. At least Perceval should have been standing there, ready to announce any late arrivals. She tried forcing the doors open, but they didn’t budge. Had they been barred from the inside? Alessia beat the door with her fist, the bones in her fingers aching with the effort, but no one came.
Alessia groaned with frustration, massaging her temples with her fingers. She knew there were spyholes everywhere in the castle, as she had searched for them in her youth. But where? She held her breath, pressing her ear on the door, hoping to hear something—shouts, laughing, whispers.
Then, the door opened.
Two armed guards watched Alessia with a dull expression. They bowed and moved aside, making way for her. They closed the door behind them.
The throne room was packed with people. Three enormous tables had been carried inside—enough to house a hundred guests. Men and women sat by the tables, silent, watching. She noticed not even one of them was eating. Instead, all watched her father—and the man at his feet in a puddle of blood. The man was dead. Alessia recognized him immediately.
Raven.
The King saw Alessia enter. He stood up, smiling. “Ah, my daughter! How good of you to join us. I am glad.”
Alessia made haste to his father, heart racing. The guests at the tables stared at her, quietly sharing whispers with the men and women sitting by them.
“Father? What has happened? This is Raven, isn’t it?” Alessia kneeled, feeling the dead man’s neck. It was useless—there was no pulse. Raven was dead.
King Robert sneered, watching the man with revulsion. “Don’t touch the man, my daughter. He is the worst there is. I thought the man trustworthy, but he as it turned out, he was anything but. He was a spy, Alessia. A mercenary hired by the Nubian Empire to assassinate me. Nothing more.”
“That’s not possible,” Alessia whispered. This was all too much for her. Had she judged the man’s intentions so wrong? This was not how things were supposed to turn out. Why would Raven do this?
“Alas, it is.” His father sighed, sitting back down. He looked drained, exhausted and… different, somehow? Alessia couldn’t place the feeling, but she felt something was different.
“Did he try to do something to you father?” Alessia found herself saying.
“No, no. Nothing like that, Alessia. Luckily the new captain of my guard saw the attack coming. I must tell you, Alessia, this new Captain Arilyn makes a fine substitute for Captain Severis. Indeed, he does!”
“Severan.”
“I’m sorry?”
“His name was Severan, father,” Alessia muttered. Severan’s death pained her greatly still. For someone to die because of her recklessness… it was unbearable. Thankfully, his murderer was now paying the price. Alessia had to suppress a smile thinking about what he was going through right now with Inquisitor Markaltis.
“Oh, yes. Severan. Of course. How could I forget? Forgive me, Alessia. I fear I’m still a bit out of it. It was all so sudden you see. But enough of all that. Join me at my side, daughter. This is a feast in your name, after all. Who knows how long it will be until the next time should the army surround
our walls.”
The King motioned for the servants to bring another chair by his side. Food and wine was brought, too, and Alessia could feel her mouth water as the smell surrounded her. When had she last eaten? She couldn’t even remember. She felt a distant shout of alarm in her mind. Should they be dining when a dead man laid on the ground, smearing blood all over the marble floor? But after each bite, the feeling grew more distant, numb, and she quickly found she no longer cared.
The guests joined her and the mood in the throne room quickly brightened. Soon, laughter and conversation filled the air almost as if nothing bad had happened here tonight. Interestingly, she found herself smiling and laughing with them. She watched the guests her father had invited, trying to see if she could recognize them. There was High Inquisitor Everny himself, sitting at the table far from her. The man shared a wicked, knowing smile with Alessia, causing her to blush. She quickly turned her face towards the other guests. What would the people here think if they knew what she had been doing only moments before? Thankfully, she had seen the wisdom of looking at the mirror before investigating the source of the disturbance Markaltis had heard. A splash of water and a simple black dress was all it took for her to look respectable enough. She was plain-looking compared to the other guests, but this would have to do.
Even the old, aging General Devalt vas Eridian had attended the feast. She scoured her mind, thinking a feast he might have been in, but she couldn’t think of a single occasion. It had been years—at least. She recognized most of the men and women here. She had, at one point, shared at least a word or two with each of them. Then her eyes saw a stranger, eating in silence. He seemed different from the rest. This man did not laugh, gossip, smile. He sat there, frowning. There was something peculiar about the man, but Alessia was sure she had never seen this face in her life.
“Father, who is that man over there?” Alessia pointed at the stranger.
“Who? Oh, him. He’s an… emissary. Oh, yes. An emissary from Galadia. What a time to visit us, eh?”
