Adrift

by Travis Smith

  The Stranger turned to look back in the direction from whence he’d come. The cave’s passageway behind him had changed. While no identifiable features existed within the monotony of the cavern, it had obviously morphed before The Stranger’s very eyes. He turned back to the dead-end wall that had just appeared, placed a hand on it to ensure himself of its reality, and turned around to continue plodding back towards where he’d started.

  Chapter 10:

  The Throne Room

  1

  Antonio Staig awoke in his luxurious chambers where he had once frequented to deliver messages to the king’s grandson on behalf of his friend Bernard. He alone had been given the right to live within the grounds of the White Kingdom, whose colloquial name had remained the same despite the complete reversal of power.

  He approached the window overlooking the sea, smiled to himself, and poured a cup of morning tea. Mounds of food from the evening before littered the once spotless dining hall table. Most of the meats and vegetables had spoiled overnight, but much of the fruit was still viable. He took a banana and bit into it without peeling. Antonio led a largely solitary life, but he enjoyed the company of the stray female every now and again. Women loved men in power, and now that he was exactly that, he could all but take his pick. If someone refused his company, a little coercion and a few threats of starvation would certainly turn the tide. The previous evening he had laid out a feast for twenty men. He shared his table with four women, who later shared his bed. His only instructions were to be gone by morning and to abstain from stealing anything of value from his new home. If he found anything to be missing or out of place, he would easily find and kill each and every one of them.

  His greasy hair fell into his face as he sat down at the cluttered table. He pushed it back and dipped his fingers in the hot beverage to run over his head and keep the hairs in place.

  Someone knocked on his door and interrupted his breakfast solitude. His eyes shot toward the sound. “Who the fuck’s rappin’ at me door so early in the morn’?” he demanded, standing up and rushing angrily to the door.

  “G’day, sir,” the man said as Antonio opened the door.

  “Jules! What in the sweet fuck’re ya doin’ ’ere this time o’ day?”

  “Err,” Julian stammered, “’tis nearly midday, me boss!”

  “Bollocks!” Antonio replied.

  “Nay, sir! Sun’s been peekin’ fer quite a time now.”

  Antonio grumbled and rolled his eyes. “Ne’ermin’,” he growled. “I needed t’ speak wiv ya anyhow, Julian, come on inside. An’ shut that ruddy door behind ye.”

  Julian did as he was bid. Closing the door and following Antonio back to the table—from which a mildly unpleasant odor was emanating—he said, “Word be they got a coupla more ’eretics over in Mitten. I figgered me ’n’ me boys’d sail over ’n’ round a few up fer the docks. Ain’t seen much fish these days.”

  “Nay, Julian, we ’ave some good men on that already. I need ye t’ take yer crew out t’ the elder’s isle.”

  “The old man’s island?” Julian exclaimed.

  “Aye, boy, as I said it!”

  “Apologies, sir, no disrespec’. I jus’ don’ see what could be of use out there.”

  “’T ain’t much!” Antonio agreed. “But we got word of a runaway, done showed up in a stole slaver ship. Damn near wrecked ’er t’ bits.”

  “Ooh, I sees,” Julian grinned. “Ye wanna bring yer retr’bution down on ’im, make ’im a proper example.”

  “Very ’stute ye are, Jules, very ’stute indeed. ’Tis why I fancy ye one o’ me best mates. Now do this little necess’ry fer us, ’n’ do me one more solid fer a personal favor, would ya?”

  “Anythin’, sir.”

  “Take that simperin’ fool ye rub elbows wit’, ’n’ sail ’im off on a skiff to Fordar.”

  Julian looked momentarily taken aback. “Y’ mean Skuttler? He don’ mean nobody no harm, sir!”

  “Aye, I know he don’, but he’s a nuisance ’n’ a problem waitin’ to ’appen!”

  “Sir,” Julian laughed, “he means well, ’n’ he be loyal as they come!”

  “Loyal to the winnin’ horse!” Antonio exclaimed. “Now who’s the superior ’ere?”

  “You be, sir.”

  “Right, ’n’ y’ gonna do as I ask of ye, or should I find some’n’ else I c’n trust?” Antonio asked.

  “As y’ wish, Sir! I always do righ’ by ye.” Julian saluted.

  “Indeed ye do,” Antonio agreed, clapping Captain Julian on the shoulder, “now get yer crew ready t’ leave as soon’s ye can.”

  2

  Bernard paced the halls of the King’s Castle—now contemptuously referred to by dissenters as the “Baron’s Building”—in his usual foul temper. He’d been nigh impossible to be around since returning from his pursuit of the royal family. His heavy footsteps echoed throughout the vacant manor, distracting him from his current endeavor.

  “It’s too fucking quiet in here to even think!” he muttered to the empty castle. To anyone else—aside from his right-hand man Antonio Staig—the solitude would have been unsettling.

  He stopped in front of the giant double door to the Throne Room and stared at it menacingly, as if it would bend beneath his very will, as would the citizens of Reprise and now the rest of the nations.

  “Why won’t you open?” he pleaded quietly.

  Bernard approached the massive marble structure. He ran his finger over the hardly visible crack in the fortification where the two great doors came together. There was no handle, no knob, no object to grab and tug on and attempt to force the door open until he fell to his knees panting and sobbing in frustration, so Bernard was forced to slap the smooth marble and pound his fists impotently until they turned purple. The ancient symbols all over the door mocked his powerlessness.

  “Why?” he repeated.

  He personally had sailed for days and days, had crossed entire nations in the pursuit of the royal family. He had killed them all and put up with the screaming little shitbag and its mother on the long journey home, only to find that the door still wouldn’t open. He’d taken the crying child straight from the ship up to the castle and placed his hand upon the enchanted marble.

  “Open it,” he had said to the infant, speaking over the child’s wails. “Do it now! Open the door!” He’d smacked the baby’s palm sharply against the door and elicited even louder wails of trepidation.

  “Leave my William alone!” Laura had screamed. Three men had stood behind her, weapons drawn, holding her bound hands behind her back.

  “How do you open it?” he’d asked her. “Make your boy open it, and I will leave you both be!”

  “I don’t know!” Laura had shouted. “I swear!”

  Bernard had given up that day and taken his new Baroness and her son to their living quarters. He’d since deliberated long and hard as to the meaning of this hiccup. Could the white magic know of his aims and keep him out? Surely the ancient spells weren’t so strong …

  He turned and closed his eyes, taking long, slow, deep breaths in an attempt to steady himself and prevent an outburst, but he could feel another one coming on. A vein in his forehead throbbed and pulsated. He could feel the back of his head beginning to ache dangerously. He knew it would do no good, but how else to vent his frustration?

  “I am your king now! You will open to me!” he screamed at the unmoving door.

  He slammed his fists upon the marble and called out in the pain it caused.

  “Open! Open! Open! Open yourself and let me have what is rightfully mine!” he screamed, storming down the empty hall.

  He grabbed a wooden chair from the nearby council room and rushed back to the door, chair raised high above his head.

  Slamming the chair against the marble, shattering it into a hundred pieces, Bernard screamed once more: “Open, you cursed fucking door! Just tell me how to open you, please!”

  He fell to his knees and began to weep at
the base of the door to the Throne Room, not for the first time.

  “What do I do?” he begged. “I’ve come all this way …”

  His thick, once handsome hair stuck out in clumps all over. Unrestrained tears flowed from his dark eyes and ran into his kempt beard. He sobbed like a madman at the foot of the door, nursing his swollen, painful fists.

  Suddenly Bernard had an epiphany.

  3

  The Royal Sword.

  It had been stolen when the family made their escape after the king lay slain. Bernard had retrieved it from his stolen slave ship before setting fire to the sails, and now it stood disdainfully against the wall in his sleeping quarters.

  Bernard rushed to his chambers and picked up the sword. As he lifted it in his hands, he imagined that the blade illuminated with a quick, white flash of light, but as he held it, he felt nothing. No hum, no thrumming of magic within, no indication that this blade more than any other would help in his attempts to penetrate the Throne Room. Nevertheless, his resolve did not falter.

  He marched back down the great halls to the towering marble doors and held up the sword. To his dismay, nothing happened. There was no flash of light from the tip of the sword, no changes in the ancient symbols engraved upon the door, still no vibrating deep within the thick blade.

  He moved the sword a bit closer. Still nothing.

  At last he touched the ancient metal to the marble façade and held his breath.

  Nothing at all.

  Bernard began to shriek. If his screams before were ear-piercing, these were deafening. They rose in pitch until his throat was fit to rupture. He slammed the hefty sword furiously against the doors. It rebounded with impossible weight.

  “Why the fuck won’t you open for me?”

  He wedged the tip of the sword into the crack between the double doors and leaned into it with every ounce of his weight, bellowing his rage and frustration. He tried bending the sword left and right, attempting to wedge it deeper into the crack and use it as a lever to force the gargantuan doors apart. Where a normal blade would have bent or chipped, the White Sword only stood solidly. Finally it slipped out of the crack beneath Bernard’s weight and sent him stumbling headfirst into the wall. He wailed in pain as his forehead hit the marble and sent a new dull throb throughout his skull.

  “Fucking filthy useless cunt of a king! What have you done to my Throne Room! What have you done to this fucking door!”

  Bernard screamed once more and threw the heavy sword as hard as he could against the door. The power he was able to put into it was decidedly unsatisfying, and the blade merely fell to the ground with a final loud, mocking clang.

  4

  Shortly thereafter, Bernard walked the long hall and descended a set of stairs to the more humble but still luxurious guest’s quarters, which he had fortified and locked off to keep in Laura and William. He’d provided her with everything she needed to stay alive and healthy, and yet she seemed entirely ungrateful. Most prisoners had no washroom, no comfy beds to choose from, no fresh clothes to change into each day, no barred windows overlooking the sea, and no smorgasbord of fresh vittles delivered to them each night. And yet still she complained.

  Laura was sitting upon the bed rocking her son to sleep when Bernard unlocked the door and stormed inside.

  The insufferable infant began whimpering at once.

  “Bernard,” Laura began.

  “Spare me, wench!” Bernard interrupted. “If I’m dangerous on a good day, I’m positively murderous today!”

  “You’re scaring William. Please stop shouting.”

  “Bollocks to his fears! They’ll do him better than that pandering, prissy life of royalty he was promised by you and yours!” Bernard reached out to take the baby from Laura’s arms. She instinctively pulled away.

  “Please,” she begged.

  He raised a hand as if to slap her across the face but somehow managed to hold back. “What did I just say?” he asked, chest heaving angrily. “Give him to me.”

  “Please don’t hurt my son.”

  “Why would you think such?” he demanded. “I only want him to open the door for me, and I will leave you be! What good are either of you to me if you refuse to love me and he refuses to open my door?”

  Laura stared in silent response.

  “Were you faithful to your husband?” Bernard asked.

  Her face quivered as she attempted to hold back the tears. Somehow the sight of it settled Bernard’s nerves.

  “Did you lie with another?” he asked, lowering his voice and leaning in closer.

  “Bernard,” Laura wept, “I won’t—”

  “You will as I damn well say!” he snapped. “And that is not what I am asking.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “I want you to stop fighting this. You are the wife of The Baron now. My Baroness. I want to know if you were unfaithful to your would-be king. I want your fucking son to open my door for me. Why won’t it work if the blood of the kings truly courses through his veins?” Bernard seized the back of her head by the hair and pulled it taut, lifting her glistening face to his own. As he leaned in for a kiss, she worked her mouth closed and sobbed, her breathing heavy through her nose. He kissed the corner of her closed mouth and left his lips upon hers for a moment for added comfort. As he stood, Bernard let go of Laura’s hair and snatched William from her shaking arms. The child immediately began to holler.

  “William!” she screamed.

  “You’ll make me want you more if you pant so every time I kiss your lips.”

  Laura shuddered visibly and repeated, “Please don’t hurt my son. Take me with you.”

  “No!” Bernard wheeled on her and pointed a finger, commanding her to stay seated on her bed. “You sit right here and think of ways to make yourself love me. This will all be much easier when you’ve embraced it. In the meantime, I don’t need you whispering secrets to your son. I don’t need you telling him not to open my door. In fact,” Bernard continued, holding William in outstretched arms toward his mother, “tell him to open it now. Tell him.”

  “Bernard,” Laura begged, tears streaming from her lovely eyes now.

  “Tell him to open the door!” he shrieked, shaking William in the air and making him cry even louder.

  “Please! I don’t know what you want from me. I don’t know how to get the door open!” she sobbed.

  “If you won’t cooperate, I have no use for either of you. I will throw the child against the marble door until it breaks or he does.” Bernard spoke slowly and threateningly through gritted teeth. “Tell him to open the door.”

  “William,” she obliged immediately in her most reassuring weepy tones, “please open the door for mommy. If you can do it, just open the door, baby.”

  William only screamed in incomprehension, but Bernard felt as satisfied as he would get this day. He turned, baby in arms, and walked out of Laura’s quarters.

  5

  Bernard marched William back to the Throne Room door. His desperation mounting, he thought one more try with the petulant little shit wouldn’t hurt. He approached the marble engravings and gently took the baby’s hand in his own.

  “Come now,” he spoke as reassuringly as he could, “I mean you no harm. Can’t you just quiet for a moment and listen?”

  William’s only response was continued squealing.

  Bernard placed the boy’s palm against the door. When nothing happened, he ignored the screaming and squirming and moved his hand to another place on the door. Still nothing happened. Bernard moved the baby’s hand to directly over the crack between the two doors, he placed it upon one of the strange markings, he tried as high up as he could reach and as low down as he could hunker. Nothing would elicit a response.

  “Won’t you just open the door for Bernard?” he pleaded. “Can you understand me? Please stop crying if you can understand.”

  William never stopped crying.

  Bernard held the baby up in front of his face.
“Will you stop?” he asked.

  No response.

  “Please, stop crying and work with me here. Why can’t we just work together?”

  More squalling.

  Bernard was trying his very best, but his reservoir of patience was running thin with the brat. “Just shut the fuck up for a moment and help me!”

  William only cried harder.

  Bernard’s arms were shaking with fury and exhaustion. He took William’s hand once more and slapped it to the door. “Open!” he shouted, startling the baby even more.

  When nothing happened, he plopped the child unceremoniously down on the ground and began pacing again in an attempt to calm himself. “The very heir to the throne cannot open his own door. The fucking magic of the King’s Sword won’t open the door. Nothing will open the door! What use are you?” he yelled.

  William cried and cried.

  Bernard dropped to his hands and knees in front of the baby. “I will slaughter your mother and bathe you in her blood if you don’t obey me!” he growled. “Now open my fucking door!”

  Of course the child didn’t understand and didn’t respond if he did.

  Bernard stood again, furious tears stinging his eyes, and slammed his sore fists again and again into the marble stone. He had begged and cursed and pleaded himself hoarse, and nothing was working. Was it possible that this room existed but could never be entered? For eternity would the marble doors stand solid?

  After a moment of silence, Bernard was able to lower his voice. “I understand you hate me and you do not wish to aid me, but can’t you realize that you have no other option?” he pleaded.

  At once the child stopped screaming and looked at Bernard’s face with glistening, curious eyes.

  “Do you understand?” Bernard asked, rushing to his knees in front of William. “Will you open the door so that we may stop this silly game?”

  William let out a soft moan that slowly grew into an all-out shriek. This impudent trick sent Bernard into another crazed tantrum. It took every bit of his will not to throw the cretinous wretch out the window and into the sea.

  6

  Later in the day, after Bernard had moodily returned the little brat to his wretched mother, The Baron wandered out of his spacious castle and descended the towering stone steps to the slightly less extravagant manor below.