Curse of Kings

Another voice joined it. “Oland Born! Champion!”

And another. “Champion! Champion!”

“Enough!” roared Villius, raising his head, his eyes wild. “Enough! Enough! Enough!”

He was still gripping Oland’s shoulders. His fingertips were white. As he pulled away, he locked eyes with his young servant.

In that moment, Oland could have sworn he saw, in the eyes of Villius Ren, a spark of fear.

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HAT NIGHT, AT CASTLE DERRINGTON, THE BANQUET had the grim air of a celebration that had persisted in the face of tragedy. The Craven Lodge shifted in their seats as Oland served them, nudging against plates and tankards, making no secret of the fact that they were inviting a transgression. Oland had hoped his earlier strength would stay with him, but the truth was that, amid the hostility, he felt nothing but weakness. He had saved a life, drawn more attention to himself than he could bear, and the only place he wanted to be was alone in The Holdings.

Villius Ren was turned towards Wickham as Oland passed.

Wickham was speaking. “Yes, Villius,” he was saying, “for how long?”

“No more than a week,” said Villius. “I suppose you could call it a commission. I am anticipating the arrival of many dignitaries to Decresian. They will expect after-dinner tales that reflect a more… Envarly view. Settings that go beyond small tales of Decresian.”

Oland could see Wickham’s jaw clench and unclench rapidly.

“We must show these dignitaries that we understand their culture…” said Villius.

Wickham leaned to the side to allow Oland to fill his goblet. “Perhaps, Villius, as an alternative,” he said, “I could speak with the countless soldiers you have taken from all these dignitaries’ homelands… and have them enlighten the dark recesses of my tiny mind.”

Oland’s arm froze between Wickham’s shoulder and Viande’s on the other side. He had never heard Wickham so bold. He glanced at Villius Ren to see his reaction.

At first, Villius was silent. “You may leave immediately,” he said, after a moment. He stood up and walked away. This came as no surprise to Oland. Villius Ren delivered orders, never expecting them to be questioned, so he often left without registering a response. It was, in fact, Wickham’s reaction that surprised Oland: he was sitting motionless, with an expression of utter panic on his face.

As Oland moved on to Viande, Wickham jumped up and fled. Viande had pushed back his chair and positioned himself with one leg bent to the side, the other one straight out in front as if he were poised to trip someone up. He had been throwing Brussels sprouts into the air and catching them in his mouth, and he was now gnawing on a bone, drooling, snorting through his cavernous nostrils. He came to a piece of gristle and he growled, spitting it out with such force that it shot forward, striking Oland’s face, where it hung briefly from his jaw, then fell. Oland’s stomach turned. He rushed from the room, ignoring the familiar discord of The Craven Lodge’s laughter.

Oland scrubbed his face at the kitchen sink and, while he was there, took two plates of leftovers to eat in The Holdings – the second to keep for later that night. The Craven Lodge would not miss him for half an hour, and, certainly, he would not miss them. He took out his tinderbox and lit a small fire. He sat on a stool beside it with a plate on one knee and The Banon Servant open on the other. As he turned to the page where he had left off, something slipped from the play and fell to the floor. He glanced down. It was a teal-coloured envelope, sealed in gold wax stamped with the intricate royal D of Decresian. Teal and gold were the colours of King Micah’s reign. Oland set his plate and the play on the floor, wiped his hand on his napkin and picked up the envelope. He turned it over. He froze. There was a name written across it. And the name was Oland Born.

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LAND LOOKED AROUND THE ROOM AS IF HE WOULD find something or someone to explain how his name could be written on anything, how anything at all could be meant for him. With trembling hands, he opened the envelope and began to read the first letter he had ever been sent.

You live in the ruins of a once-proud kingdom destroyed by greed and misguided ambition. But fear not – Decresian shall be restored. And it falls to you, Oland Born, to do so. On such young shoulders, it will prove astonishing how light this burden will be.

Your quest is to find the Crest of Sabian before The Great Rains fall, lest the mind’s toil of a rightful king be washed away.

In life, a father’s folly may be his son’s reward.

In case this letter were to fall into the wrong hands, to guide you, know this:

Depth and height

From blue to white

What’s left behind

Is yours to find.

Be wise in your choice of companion and, by nightfall, be gone.

In fondness and faith,

King Micah of Decresian

The letter was dated the night King Micah died. Oland reread his name on the envelope. He reread it in the letter. He was utterly bewildered. How could King Micah have ever known the name of a boy who was born after his death? Oland read the king’s words several times more and, each time, new questions arose. Where was Sabian? Why was its crest important to Decresian? Why was he chosen to find it? Oland thought of the homeless man in the village, how only a crazy man believed that The Great Rains would return. A crazy man and a dead king. Whose ‘mind’s toil’ was King Micah speaking of? Who was the rightful king? King Micah and Queen Cossima had had no children; Oland knew that to be the absolute truth. What father, what son was King Micah talking about? Why was he to leave before nightfall? How could King Micah have even known what night he would discover the letter? How could Oland possibly just leave everything to go on a quest?

But what was ‘everything’? thought Oland. For years, he had been praying for release from Castle Derrington, but had always thought it would be linked to his mother. Instead, a dead king had responded to his prayer.

Now, his choice was to trade a world he knew but hated for a world he did not know and feared.

But, thought Oland, is there any place on earth worse than Castle Derrington?

And from that simple question came the simple answer, No. There could be nothing in the wider world that could eclipse the fear he felt, festering, as he was, in the black walls of Castle Derrington. Outside, surely, there could only ever be more light.

Oland folded up the letter and put it back inside the play, sliding it between two other plays on the shelf. Villius would be looking for him in the great hall. Before he could go anywhere, he would have to show his face. But, as he made his way down the spiral staircase, his first surge of excitement was replaced with thoughts of his mother returning to find that no son had awaited her, even though, for fourteen years, he had.

Oland quickened his pace and darted across the courtyard. Most of The Craven Lodge had left the great hall, though it was still an hour to midnight. On the table, he saw the toppled candlesticks, and the rivulets of wax that had bled from them, now hardened. Oland patted his pocket for his knife then remembered he had left it in The Holdings when he had changed clothes after The Games. He grabbed a candlestick from the table, lit it and moved as quickly as he could along the hallway.

As he passed the throne room, he was startled to see a figure clothed in black emerging. He must have been six-and-a-half-feet tall. Only his eyes were exposed; the rest of his face and neck was swathed in layers of fine black gauze that did little to conceal the strange contours of his bones. Oland and he froze, inches from each other.

In a flash, the man reached out and pinched the wick of the candle to quench the flame. In the windowless hallway, the darkness was absolute.

“Oland Born…” whispered the man. When he spoke, the air was filled with the scent of cinderberry. Oland noticed that the gauze was glistening. It must have been soaked in cinderberry salve. This man, whoever he was, had been wounded.

“Who are you?” said Oland. “What do you want?”

“You,” said the man.

They heard footsteps behind them, and, shockingly close, the voice of Villius Ren calling for Wickham.

Before Oland could react, the man in black had dragged him into the throne room and closed the door. Oland thought his heart would explode from his chest. He was in the forbidden room, with an intruder, and Villius Ren was only seconds away.

The room stank of stale breath and rotting meat. Oland had often seen Villius Ren walking towards the throne room with a plate of food, and he wondered if what he was smelling now were his rotting leftovers. After all, even those who cleaned the castle were forbidden to enter the throne room.

“What do you want?” said Oland.

“Shh,” said the man. His left hand was clenching the back of Oland’s neck, pressing his cheek against the cold stone wall.

Outside, Villius Ren’s footsteps were drawing closer. By the jangle of chains, Oland knew that Viande was by his side. The relief was overwhelming; Villius would not be coming in unless he was alone. Oland could feel the intruder’s grip slacken a little, as if he too knew about the sanctity of the room. Oland took the chance to push back hard, breaking the man’s hold. He could feel the same overwhelming sensations he had felt in the arena, a surge of strength and focus. The man grunted, and stumbled backward.

“No!” he hissed. “No!” He reached out to grab Oland, but Oland used his forearm to block his advance. In one motion, he turned, raised his knee to his chest and slammed his boot down on the intruder’s knee, with enough force to drop him to the ground.

Oland pulled open the door, slipped into the dark hallway and ran. He heard the man come out after him; he heard him lock the throne room door. He wondered who he was, and how he could have stolen the key from Villius Ren.