The halls of the castle fall silent in the following days. In the morn, the king, naked and sweating, stands woefully near the open window of his room, feeling the desert breeze cool his skin. Facing the south, he sees the ocean wavering in the heat on the horizon. The ships, now his own, creep to and from the docks. On the sails, he can make out the blurry crown snake, coiled around itself.
There were few times in which he was brought to the salty waters. He remembers the earthy smell of fish and kelp, barnacles growing into the massive hulls of the wooden ships, and the slippery wood beneath his feet. Every man there smelled of sweat. Their hands were worn and scaly from the water, their skin a deep brown from the sun. His father had shaken hands with each of them.
A small knock on his bedroom door announces the arrival of the Grand Chamberlain.
“My king,” comes the familiar pitch.
An exhale falls gently from Taeg’s nose and lands at his bare feet. The wood planks below them are cool and dry, serving small respite from the heat pouring in from the window. He reaches for his trousers, slipping them on and padding to the door. Atop a shelf near the door sits his new crown. He regards it for as long as it takes for the disgust to settle in, and jerks open the door. Cool air rushes in from the hallways. The Chamberlain is dressed in a purple doublet, standing musingly on the other side of the door. He greets the king with a terse bow and regards his naked upper half with chagrin.
“I’m sorry to have disturbed you so early, my king, but your mother requests a word.” He takes a breath and rambles on, following Taeg into the room as he retreats to his bed. “She seems a bit upset about the knighting of our new Guard members. With their backgrounds being as they are, she wishes to discuss an alternative option, perhaps?”
Taeg pulls a white tunic from his chest and shuffles it over his torso. Tousling the messy black hair around his head, he spits the next words out. “I gather she received the news this morning? I thought we were keeping this out of her ears, Chamberlain. You know how she gets.” He regards the pudgy man with discontent. The Chamberlain squirms under his gaze, rubbing the knuckles of his left hand.
“I am sworn to the crown family,” he swallows, “not just to the king. It is my duty to ensure that the royal family is cared for and informed of their country’s affairs.”
“And where is the loophole between your duty to the king and your duty to the family, might I ask? For future reference,” Taeg raises an eyebrow. He sits upon the bed and ties on his familiar pair of leather boots, tugging his pants over the ankles. His dark hair flops over his eyes as he leans forward.
“I apologize, my king, if I was not to inform the queen mother of this.”
The Chamberlain pulls his shoulders back. Under his mustache, his large pale lips form a defiant line. He is quick to change the subject.
“I would also like to inform you that breakfast will be waiting as soon as you have seen the queen mother. I’ve had the kitchen bring up your cream, but I am afraid we are nearing the end of our winter melon stock. We will have to ship them in from Tauris if you desire.” He watches Taeg’s face with dismay, hastily flitting into the next point. “However, I have had oatcakes and honeyed pears prepared, with a bit of pork jowl on the side, if you wish to partake.”
The king pulls his wrist bangles on as the fat man speaks, feeling sweat drip down his back. The heat burns away his thoughtful mood. “Tell Mother I will be in to see her shortly. Who is on watch this morning?”
“Anarah, my king.”
Taeg turns to the door to make his way out. “Thank you, Chamberlain. Please make sure that Lark and Drair know they are receiving their Mark today.”
The Chamberlain furrows his brow but holds himself from speaking. He bows again, sidling out the doorway.
Taeg sighs, shaking off the aversion to his new title, before stepping out into the hallway. Anarah is down the hall, in full armor, her long hair pulled into a sleek bun at the back of her head.
“Good morning, scribe,” he says, grinning. “How does our kingdom look today?”
“Good morning, my king,” Anarah speaks softy. Taeg winces at the title again. “I hope you slept well after the celebrations last night. I believe the Grand Master is sending General Tygoh out this morn to visit the nobles, to hear what they may say concerning the scouts. And I understand Lark and Drair are to receive their Marks this morning as well.”
Taeg looks down the upper hall, contemplating his mother’s door.
“You are correct,” he says.
He hesitates, playing with a button on his tunic. “How is Nathis? Does he know that I am aware of his illness?”
He moves down the hall toward the waiting door, his boots plodding. Anarah follows. She is silent for some time, and all Taeg hears are their footsteps echoing through the courtyard.
“Yes, he knows,” she says finally. “He is somewhat perturbed about seeing the physicians for treatment, but I cannot say that I blame him.”
“How is Lark coming in the smithy? I hear her screaming at that poor boy on the daily.” He chuckles, not moving his eyes from his mother’s door.
“Well, I believe Nathis has taken it upon himself to moderate her treatment of the young boy, but Lark knows how she was taught. If her apprenticeship was beneficial, I don’t suppose I can comment on the matter.”
A soft declaration of agreement emanates from the king’s throat and he nods, his gaze drifting. The two come to a stop at the end of the hallway. He looks blankly at his mother’s door, speaking softly.
“There are fearful things waiting for me behind this door that I must attend to.” He nods his head to his guard. “M’lady.”
Anarah stations herself outside the Queen Mother’s room as he knocks, knuckles barely touching the wood. At his mother’s request, he slips into the room, smiling as best he can at the woman who had been his mother, closing the door behind him.
“Taeg Kerrich,” the Queen Mother says as he enters, the full force of her facing his direction. Taeg’s chest heaves. “Please tell me why we are appointing mercenaries and smiths as our guardsmen.”
Today, she is standing at the window, gowned in blue and green damask. A silken scarf is wrapped over her arms and around her back. Her long graying hair falls down her spine, freshly combed. This morning, she wears the crown of the Queen Mother. The small, bejeweled brass piece sits high upon her head. She does not look for him as he enters. Her bed is made and her books stacked neatly by her bedside. Her room smells of powder and ash.
“Are we above following the requirements I expect of my guardsmen?” she spouts, unmoving.
Gently, Taeg steps around her question. “Mother, our guards meet our expectations in skill. I find them as trustworthy as any.”
“This is not the question, my boy.”
“No, it is not,” Taeg says. “How are you, Mother?”
“Do not distract from the point,” she snaps. “Are we above the requirements I expect of guardsmen? Are these the people who will sacrifice themselves for the life of their king? These are those you wish to carry your body when you age and die?”
“Yes.”
“A mercenary, Taeg? You know better.” She turns abruptly to face him and he notices her face is done up as it once had been. She looks like the mother that raised him, the woman beside the king. “They must be interviewed by the council before final decisions can be made. This is how our court works. You cannot bypass these guidelines, as they are in place for your protection as well as the country’s. Surely the Chamberlain is overseeing your schooling?” She tilts her head, raising her eyebrows in expectation.
He sees the depth of her gaze and the stance in her shoulders, and it is as if the Queen stands before him. Taeg feels his eyes burn. He could picture his father sitting in the drawing room on the floor below, himself as a child running through the halls. She looked at him as a mother would, scolding her small child for stealing from the kitchens. She had combed her hair in the style befitting of a queen. She wore the Queen’s ring, and the many bangles his father had gifted her, the same bangles that hung from his wrist. The last several months of her fraying at the seams are a dream, and for a moment, he is compelled to live with her fantasy, to acquiesce to her damaged mind.
“Yes, Mother. I’m sorry,” he says clearly.
She softens.
“Please tell your father I will be down to break my fast after I have met with the Treasurer. He brings troubling news.” She turns away, gazing back out the window.
“I will, Mother.” Taeg stands watching his mother’s back. He feels a sense of dread he had hoped would not come. His father would have known what to do. Taeg was the spitting image of the king before him, dark of hair and lean of build, yet he held none of his father’s stewardship. He felt lost in a role he’d been groomed for all his life.
He turns slowly and exits, pacing down the hall past Anarah. He hears her follow behind him unquestioningly as he descends the stairs and enters the mess hall for breakfast. One long oaken table lies in the center of the room, evidence of the night before vanished. The fireplace is dead this morning, its soot carrying up the walls. The table has been laid with several dripping candles and two wooden plates at the far end.
The king makes his way to the end and takes his seat, locking eyes with Anarah as she positions herself just inside the doors of the hall. His hands drop to his lap. He smiles amiably at the cup bearer that brings him a mug of cold cream from the cellars and disappears through the doors again, leaving the hall cold and empty.
A rushing of grief fills his insides. He leans forward on one elbow, landing atop the silverware, and covers his eyes with a hand. He feels the Crown ring upon his finger, pressing painfully into the skin of his forehead. Though the ring is simply made, it carries with it a weight Taeg had never been prepared to carry.
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The servers bring the small round oatcakes and the honeyed pears promised by the Chamberlain. A plate of jowl is set beside him and he watches through his hair as the stewards disappear one by one, sniffing at the plate.
His sorrow is interrupted by a great hollow bang as the Grand Master bursts through the side doors, his commander's cape whipping about his tree trunk legs. “My king!” he shouts cordially. His voice ruptures any time for thoughts.
Taeg stands up to shake the hand of the burly man, holding back a wince as Argos’s meaty hand pulls dangerously at the tendons in his wrist. The alcohol that had fueled the Grand Master’s splendor the night before seemed not to stifle his enthusiasm this morning.
“I have news, Your Majesty. Good news.”
Taeg pulls his chair about and seats himself again, waving a hand for Argos to join him, speaking as jovially as he can muster. “So it was you who requested the pork jowl,” he grins.
“Of course,” the older man grunts. “Meat is the greatest fuel of the greatest soldiers. Or so my mother always told us...” He drifts off, serving himself several strips of jowl and two honeyed pears. He looks dismissively over the oatcakes, instead crowing for the young cup bearer, who enters nervously, nodding his head and scurrying away as the Grand Master spits in his direction.
“Mead, boy”.
Taeg watches for a moment, his hand perched under his chin, blinking. “What is this ‘good news’ you bring to my table?” he asks.
Argos chops into his pears, lifting a chunk to his mouth. He pauses, pear in mid air, honey dripping from his spoon and onto the table. He beams, great mustache stretching across his wide lips.
“We spotted a ship. A Denand ship.” He shoves the chunk of pear in his mouth and chews. “On Tauris waters,” he says through a mouthful.
Taeg waits, listening to the candles crackle and the smack of soft pear against the commander’s cheeks.
Argos swallows. “A trading ship. My scout stuck around a while, to see what they were trading. Let me tell you, they aren’t trading winter melons, my king. They’re trading people.”
Taeg nods. He nips an oatcake from the plate in front of him and nibbles at it. “What kind of people?” he asks.
“Tan-skinned folk. They’re rough. Boy, they’re rough. It's not the first time we’ve seen their ships in Tauris.” He takes a swig from his mead. “Now I can’t confirm or deny, but we think they’re Xelinites. Stragglers, o’ course. They’re being sold to Tauris …or what’s left of ‘em.”
The king washes his oatcake down with cold cream and moves his plate aside gently to place his arms on the table. “And why would Tauris want the Xelinites?” he hums.
A serving boy enters from the hall doorway to deposit a second mug of mead next to Argos. Taeg smiles at him as he leaves. The Grand Master, now cutting fiercely at his pork jowl with a ruby-handled dagger, doesn’t look up as he answers.
“We’re not sure. A deal, perhaps. I’ve got scouts boarding ships, for cunt’s sake. I’m running out of ‘em. Most of them are sick as dogs before they’ve even stepped on the bow. Your grandfather would have had me throw them overboard before he let such lots on a scouting venture. Granted he let me do anything...” The Grand Master trails off, stuffing pieces of jowl between his teeth.
The king preceding Taeg’s father had died before he was brought into this world. Roen Kerrich’s father was an unceremonious man, shaped by the times in which he had been so unfortunately reared. The softness in Roen was a constant discomfiture for his father, the same softness that seemed to plague Taeg tenfold, and he did not see his grandfather’s acerbic nature in himself. The lords spoke in favor of the old monarch, always with a shake of the head, as if they’d never see the likes of such a king again. The elder lords perceived Taeg’s forgiving constitution as a grievous shortcoming, whereas those who favored his father looked to him with promise. You can’t please everyone, my love, his mother had said.
“Many men are not made for the sea,” Taeg murmurs, moving his hair from his forehead. He ignores the feeling of inferiority welling inside him.
“Aye, that’s true. They are militiamen for a reason.”
Taeg looks uncomfortably about his surroundings, eyeing the many candles lining the table and the ashen fireplace to the far end of the mess hall. He sees Anarah standing near the hall entryway. He had heard no word from his mother, having hoped that she would occupy the plate next to his. He stops himself and looks the Grand Master in the eyes.
“I will inform Drair that she is to be sent with your scouts. She is more than qualified for the task. Silon has an agreement with Tauris. While we’ve never had any disputes with the south, I don’t condone the sale of people, be they ours or another’s. If these slaves are truly Xelinites, their power strikes a chord of fear in this country that I have yet to understand. Perhaps it is my turn.”
The Grand Master swallows heavily. “Your turn for what, my king?”
There is a crashing sound as the exterior doors to the hall burst open. Against the second set of doors, Taeg sees Anarah flinch. The Grand Master stands abruptly, his meaty hands grasping the sword at his side. From the doors, General Tygoh steps in through a shattering light. His crimson cape follows, dark brow furrowed over his black eyes. His footsteps pound upon the wooden floor as he comes to a quick halt at the table’s edge.
“My king, I apologize for the intrusion. We have captured the dead boy that the madam spoke of. This is truly a creature of horror. Craven. Hysterical.” He shakes his head at the ground before standing before the young king. “We have locked him in the antechamber.”
Taeg remains seated, gazing at the back wall, entertaining a blank mind if only for a moment. Then his hand flutters to his mouth, fingers running over his lips, eyes refocusing to the general’s wearied face. “My mother was telling the truth,” he whispers. “I thought she had truly lost her mind.”
He stands, shaking. “Take me to him.”
—---------
The cellar steps are wet with condensation as the king, escorted by Anarah, Tygoh, and the Grand Master, descends into the cells. Argos carries a torch in his left hand, his right tightened around the pomace of his blade. Taeg can feel the air change as they step lower, air ripping through his lungs as the musty scent of mold and the acridity of rusting steel enter his nose. The oaken door is opened slowly by the strong arm of the Grand Master, and he holds it agape for the king to enter. Taeg’s eyes adjust to the darkness and he makes out several cells lining the cool hallway. To his left is a sickly looking red-headed scout, sitting upon the floor, his hair hanging limply about his pale face. He looks up at the king as he enters.
“My king, please,” he begs, standing clumsily and gripping his thin hands around the bars of the cell. “Please let me go. I’m of no use to you, nor your good men ‘ere. I’ve got t’get home. I mean ya no harm.”
General Tygoh growls under his breath. “Shut your mouth, rat.” He shields the scout from Taeg’s view, ushering him by to a cell further down the hall. “The boy is down here, Your Majesty. I wish to warn you in advance, as this may come as a shock. This is no ordinary human.”
A sick feeling grows in Taeg’s gut as he steps along the earthen floor to a cell in the far corner, following the torch’s light, the footsteps of his companions echoing before and behind him. As the Grand Master strides closer to the end of the hall, his torch illuminates a flickering silhouette seated in the dirt. First a black cloak, ripped and dirty. Then a head of hair so sparse, he mistakes it for the head of an elderly man. The body’s skin is parchment white, flaking in places about the hairline, torn above an eye.
The Grand Master moves to allow the general to unlock the pen, firelight flickering dimly upon the beast in the cell. His eyes are black. Taeg feels a rushing emptiness build in his chest, crawling up his throat. The sick feeling becomes nausea as he takes in what his mother believes to be his brother. A gaping hole resides where a nose should have been. As the creature looks up at him, Taeg can see the hysteria in the boy’s eyes, his face that of a teenager. The years don’t add up. His brother would have been at least a year older than him.
The general grabs a bony arm and drags the boy upwards, locking chains about his wrists and fastening them to the cell bars. The creature does not resist, does not speak. Shaking, Taeg steps forward, motioning for the others to step away. The Grand Master begins to protest, but Taeg shoots him a simmering look that sends him stepping backwards.
“I am Taeg Kerrich, King of Larynth. Do you have a name?” He swallows hard.
The thing before him looks up again, his great black eyes searching the face of the king. The prisoner clears his throat, almost comically, and speaks with a cracking voice.
“Kelo.”
Taeg tilts his head.
“Kelo. Do you have a family name?” he says.
“I have not, Your Majesty.”
The hallway becomes uncomfortably cold and Taeg suppresses a shudder.
“Do you know your family, where you’re from?”
Kelo looks puzzled at this. He shakes his head weakly. His forehead wrinkles, accentuating the dying skin on his hairline. “I left my mother in Tauris.”
Taeg feels a sinking disappointment run through his chest and almost chuckles at the surprise. He shakes it off.
“What are your intentions in this country?”
The prisoner looks at the ground, his thin, dark hair falling around his ears. A moment of silence passes. Taeg can hear Tygoh’s impatient sigh.
“The King has asked you a question. You will answer it.” The general’s dark voice rises through the cell.
Kelo’s eyes squint, bracing against the force.
“I...” he falters. “I’m not...I cannot tell you this.”
The Grand Master presses around the king, ignoring his weak protest, and swings a heavily-armored fist at the prisoner’s jawline. A crunching noise erupts from the impact, leaving a dislocated jaw in its wake. Kelo whimpers, but does not flinch. The Grand Master stands over his victim, heaving. He bellows into the decrepit ear of the young man below him.
“You’ll answer the damned question, or our time here will be a great deal longer than even I wish it to be. Your king asked a question. You of all creatures are not in the position to refuse compliance.” He raises his fist again.
“Argos,” Taeg says calmly. “I ask you to step away from the prisoner.”
The Grand Master falters at the use of his name, sidling slowly out of the cell and reclaiming his torch before standing silently at the back of the group. Taeg surveys the damage, shaking his head in dismay.
“Kelo, I don’t believe you have intentions to harm us. However, I sense that you have gotten yourself into a situation that does not allow you to betray your motives.” He pauses, looking at the floor. “You are the first of…your kind...that we have come across. Forgive us for our mistrust.”
Kelo shakes a bony wrist absentmindedly, shackles jangling, his other hand moving to his jaw. A loud click is heard, and the boy continues, staring up. The others stand wide-eyed in the flicker of the torch.
“I apologize, my king. My life is in danger, you are correct. I hail from Tauris, but I reside in the Pfeist Mountains, by choice. Your land is unfamiliar to me, as are your residents. I...” he stammers, and his great black eyes close. “I... understand that I am not your normal patron and that my...figure can bring alarm.
“I was hired. Or, really, threatened.” He waves a hand, his black pupils dropping to the ground, head cocked. “I had no choice in the matter, my lord– Your Majesty.”
He looks up quickly at Taeg, eyes pleading for his mistake. When he meets Taeg’s impassive gaze, he softens, continuing.
“I was to locate a certain individual. A dark-skinned woman with a tattoo above her eye. She was said to cooperate with the castle at Erah, and I just followed the signs. That is all I was instructed to do, Your Grace.”
Tygoh interrupts from the rear, chomping at the bit. “Do you think he speaks of the assassin?”
Anarah, having kept quiet throughout the interrogation, speaks softly. “Her skin is no darker than yours, Tygoh. I do not believe our comrade has committed any treachery. Nathis selects the royal Guard under the stipulations set by the royal family.”
“Nathis is not infallible,” Tygoh spits.
Taeg feels a palpable tension in the hall, interjecting to save himself.
“Kelo, I believe you, and I thank you for your cooperation.”
He hears the jowls of the Grand Master open and close in protest. Tygoh scoffs loudly. Taeg continues.
“I have further questions for you, but I am sure my company would rather we continue this investigation in private. I apologize for your accommodations. You are, however, a prisoner of Larynth and must remain here until we can confirm your account.”
Kelo’s reply is a whisper. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”
Taeg turns to his cavalry general. “General Tygoh, please unshackle this prisoner and bring him anything he requires.” He moves out of the doorway, making his way back up the hallway. “And release the scout. His employer has replaced him. Let him be with his family.”
Anarah follows the king dutifully, snatching the torch from the dumbfounded hands of the Grand Master. From the dark of the hall comes the clang of the cell door as Tygoh fumbles to close it, his mouth already moving. “Taeg, the scout is still of use to-”
“Release the scout, General.”
So who's the bigger asshole?
