Realdra was dark. The moons that rose over the realm gleamed pink and red, bleeding into the black of the sky. Rustling and falling, the leaves of the trees gathered on the supple grass below and the wind scattered them into the clearing where the castle stood.
The castle loomed over the trees that surrounded it. In the dark, it was just a shadow, but in the light, each stone gleamed silver. There were three high towers topped with watching decks on which the guards slept. No one had threatened the castle in over two hundred years, until now.
The giant, double oak doors to the castle creaked open and a short silhouette stepped out, pulling hair out of a loose ponytail and tucking a knife back into a boot. The shadow hopped quietly over the dead guards on the stone walkway—murdered by skilled archery--and headed into the forest, careful not to crunch leaves underfoot.
At daybreak, Adelyn knelt by the river, her knife-blade in the water, the blood running off it and into the curling whirlpools by the rocks. The water was quiet, the grass still, as Adelyn watched the blood mix with the current. Certain it was clean, she lifted the knife from the water, the sun catching and glinting off the silver steel. The reflection of the sun in the blade blinded her. Taught never to be caught off guard, Adelyn gasped when she heard the knocking of an arrow in a bow behind her, the creak of the bow’s string tautening.
Adelyn did not freeze, but turned on the spot and raised her leg in the air, intending to kick her attacker in the temple and render him unconscious, but a strong hand grabbed it out of the air and twisted before she could land her blow. She felt the muscles in her ankle strain and was sure her bone would snap, but her attacker stopped twisting just before the break. He pulled hard and Adelyn lost her balance. Knowing not to catch herself by her arms or hands at the risk of breaking them, she angled her back toward the ground and put both hands behind her neck to keep from slamming her head. She landed with a dull thud, her back aching immediately. Before she could stand and defend herself again, she heard a familiar, drawling voice above her.
“Always be on your guard,” Lord Tavish said, kneeling down to stare into Adelyn’s silver-blue eyes. His own deep brown eyes met hers and he smelled of fire and iron, his black robes cascading to the grass beside her head. She pushed herself into sitting position and grabbed her ankle, which had already begun to swell. It throbbed, shooting pain up her leg and into her lower abdomen. Where his hand had been, her skin was red and quickly turning purple. “Silly girl,” he muttered under his breath, eyeing the clean knife she had dropped. “Is it done?”
“Yes master,” Adelyn replied between gritted teeth.
“Good,” Lord Tavish replied. “If only I had a more competent apprentice.” He spat on the grass beside Adelyn. “Get up.” Adelyn knew a command when she heard one and dared not disobey, however hard the task might prove. Pushing herself off the ground and shifting all of her weight to her good foot, she stood, her twisted ankle touching the grass lightly as possible. Tavish’s dark eyes searched hers as he took a step forward, grabbing her chin and bringing his face so close to hers that she fought tears from his hot breath. “Now do something about that ankle. You’ll need to be ready for your next mark in a fortnight.” She nodded, and Tavish looked her over once more before releasing her face, leaving red scratches on her cheeks where his fingernails dug into her skin. Adelyn watched as a black cloud engulfed him, and he was gone.
As soon as he disappeared, Adelyn fell to the ground in agony, relieving her injured ankle from any pressure she had put on it. She dared not scream, though. She was still too close to the castle, and the guards would come looking for her soon enough. The reach of the king’s arm was long and they would stop at nothing to apprehend his murderer. His assassin. Resolving to crawl as long as she could and then wrap the ankle when she was far enough away, Adelyn headed further into the forest.
* * * * *
Inside the castle was bright, lit once again by the early morning sun as it streamed through the trees’ branches. The lanterns had been recently extinguished, leaving trails of smoke rising to the high ceilings. Prince Jareth noticed none of this—not the sun rising nor the smell of the sea coasting in through the open windows. Instead, Jareth sat in the hallway, his head in his hands and his shoulder blades pressed against the wall. All around him, people were rushing in and out of his father’s bedchamber, making notes and drawings of the room. He felt dizzy and weak, his head heavy in his hands.
The smell of blood like copper lingered near the door to his father’s room and people were still moving in and out, slower now. He had gathered most of his information from the people talking around him—it had been a murder, a carefully premeditated murder, at that. The killer had left no traces: no footprints or even the tip of the arrow in his father’s muscle. Jareth wondered who could have committed such a crime and left him with no family but his older brother. His father had been loved, too. He was not feared, for he was just in his decisions and caring in his actions. Everyone in his kingdom knew of his kindness. Jareth was left to wonder who would want to kill him. In the commotion, Jareth heard a familiar voice talking in whispers to who he guessed was someone in the guard, then recognized the heavy footfalls of his brother approaching.
“Jareth,” Traygrad offered his hand to his younger brother. Jareth lifted his head from his hands and wearily allowed his brother to pull him to his feet. Standing next to his older brother, Jareth suddenly felt very young. Traygrad was twice his age at fifty, yet still young in the eyes of the Realdra elders, who were over two hundred years old. Traygrad was easily half a foot taller than Jareth, and his dirty blonde hair longer and falling in front of his chocolate eyes. He was handsome. Jareth was leaner than Traygrad, and faster on his feet, though Traygrad’s guard-trained eyes were quicker to pick up movement far away. Jareth and Traygrad had not always been very close, with their age difference so pronounced. However, they became closer after their mother died from a disease that made her nauseous and feverish. Now they had lost their last family member. They only had each other.
“Mourners have arrived in the foyer,” Traygrad said, his gravelly voice solemn. “They have come to offer condolences, and we have to offer them hope in return. If you want me to handle it…” Traygrad started, but Jareth interrupted.
“No, I can come with you,” he replied.
“Thank you, Jareth. Also, we will have to meet with the council to decide when it would be best to hold the Crowning Ceremony,” Traygrad continued. Jareth had not even considered the idea of his brother being king—it had not occurred to him yet, but he knew as well as Traygrad that the Realdrians needed a king. He wondered briefly how Traygrad could think of all these things when their father had just been murdered, but remembered that someone had to. “We will find out who did this, little brother,” Traygrad said, “and we will return the favor.”
*****
Days passed without Jareth’s notice. On this particular day, he sat in his father’s study, his cheek resting against the cool wood of the desk. In front of him lay maps of the Realdrian Forest—numerous thick, creaking trees that surrounded the heart of Realdra, including the castle and the outlying city, made up of tree houses and markets. There were black X’s hastily drawn over large sections of the forest.
A knock came at the door, and without waiting for an answer, an eager guard named Gage stuck his head into the study, his body quickly following.
“Prince Jareth,” he said rapidly, as if wanting to give the news and leave before Jareth could react. “So far, still no telling footprints have been found. We just searched the Eastern Quadrant of the forest, but there was no sign of anything suspicious,” Gage finished, wiping his brow with the sleeve of his shirt.
Jareth raised his head from the desk and looked up at Gage lazily. He was not surprised. The guards were looking for footprints in all the quadrants because it was rare that anyone left the city and its outliers. Footprints in any of the outer quadrants would at least tell them where to begin. But all the other quadrants came back clear all the way to the Vraygar Mountains. Why should the Eastern Quadrant be any different?
“Thank you, Gage,” he responded under his breath, waving a hand and looking back down at the maps. The uneasy guard quickly disappeared behind the door. Jareth picked up a quill, dipped it in black ink, and drew another X over the Eastern Quadrant. That was the last section of the forest that needed to be swept. Jareth swore and threw the quill across the room, wishing it had been heavy enough to do some damage to the opposite wall, but it floated sluggishly to the ground. There was no trace of his father’s murderer, no answers as to why he was killed or who could have done it. Whoever it was, Jareth knew they were skilled at what they did. Very skilled, if they left no indication of their existence in the soft ground of the Realdrian Forest.
* * * * *
Adelyn had been soaking her foot in the cool river every night for a week, and the swelling had gone down drastically. The bruising, however, had gotten worse. Its menacing purple, red, and yellowish shades haunted her skin. It did not help that she had to climb trees to find fruits to eat, or that she slept in the thicker, larger branches so as not to be caught on the ground. She examined her injury now, at the edge of Realdrian City. The purple and red-tinged area was in the perfect shape of a hand. Angry again that her lord had disabled her before her next mark, Adelyn stuck her foot carefully back into her boot before rearing back and punching a nearby tree. Its bark cracked underneath the force, splitting like shattered glass before falling to the ground at her feet. She did not feel an answer in her knuckles. Her strength did not baffle her. She did not understand how sturdy the trees that grew for thousands of years were, and the tough old bark giving way to her knuckles so easily was not new to her, though to anyone else’s eyes it would have been nothing less than a feat fit for gods.
As Adelyn surveyed without interest the damage she had done to the tree, her thoughts strayed to her past. The King was not her first murder, but he was the first one who had mattered. Everyone before that had been for training purposes only. She had killed people in villages all the way from Gitral, five thousand miles away, now to Realdra. Lord Tavish had wanted her to train on real people, so she had. Their deaths were nothing but shooting starts to her—beautiful, eerie, almost going without notice, so deep was she under Tavish’s command. She had been under Tavish’s command as long as she could remember. There was nothing before him except darkness.
All she remembered was opening her eyes and seeing his own brown ones hovering over hers, his long fingernails in her hair. She remembered that he murmured a spell under his breath and she could see only him and smoke and dull lights overhead. The only sound was water dripping and his words. She felt clammy and sick as she awoke, and after a while, she felt better. That was all she remembered. There was nothing before Lord Tavish, his murmured words in the dark, the smoke, and the dripping of water. Everything was new to her after that. From then on, she was Tavish’s servant. She learned everything from him—what trees were and how they could speak. He taught her the lay of the land, where each country ended and another began. He taught her every speck of the earth, from the pebbles under their feet to the peaks of the highest, snow-capped mountains. He also taught her that the world was against them and that they alone deserved power and that, with her help, they would get it. He explained to her that his power was to be concealed until the right time, so she would have to dispose of those in his way until he could release his magic upon the world.
Shaking off the vivid memories of the first days of her life, Adelyn went over the story in her head and picked her game off the ground. She had felled ten pheasants, and six hung now by their feet across a tree branch she carried on her shoulders. The others she had cooked over a fire and eaten. She decided that she could give the people her real name, for it meant nothing to anyone in Realdra. She would tell them she was a traveler on her way to the realm of Helderon, and she was hunting in the wood for a few days before selling her game on the market. She needed the money to buy more supplies to last across the Falarac Desert. It was a simple enough story, for it was hunting season, and the guards would have come across many people hunting in the wood while they searched for the assassin; they would not suspected these hunters, for who in their right mind would kill the king and stick around to be hunted by his army? She also rather doubted that they suspected a woman had done it; only men were allowed training in Realdra, so it became an assumption that only men were allowed training anywhere else, which was mostly true anyway.
Adelyn walked with a small but detectable limp, making her way to the city and closer to her next target.
* * * *
The Fall Festival was underway. In Realdra, they celebrated the coming of fall every year with an elaborate festival where the people could mingle with the members of the castle, eat, drink, and dance. Tents were being set up and torches hung, tables set out with plates of food piled taller than the people carrying them. There was beef, pork, chicken, peafowl, fish, different cheeses, onions, baked tarts, custards, plums, apples, dates, potatoes, corn, and lots of wine. Jareth watched the bustle from his open window, sucking his lip into his mouth and drumming his fingers on the windowsill. He could not believe that in two short days, his brother had been crowned King of Realdra and life had kept going on. In the shock of his father’s assassination, Jareth had forgotten all about the plans for the Fall Festival, but Traygrad had assured his people that they would carry on and show the former king’s attacker that Realdra would not crumble, would not bow its head in defeat.
A soft knock came at his door and Jareth turned from his musings to open it. A messenger named Aeron was standing in the doorway, rocking back and forth on his feet. He was short with pointed ears and a mouth that looked like it was about to explode with his voice like the end of a whistle when suddenly blown. Jareth raised an eyebrow at him.
“Prince Jareth, your Highness, I hope this isn’t a bad time Your Highness,” Aeron said, blinking furiously.
“Give your message, Aeron,” Jareth replied.
“King Traygrad sent me, Your Highness. To fetch you. He wants your help decorating for the Festival.” Jareth heaved a sigh before nodding briefly to Aeron and following him down the hallway. His feet felt heavy on the carpet. His head even felt heavy, but he imagined it was because he was so exhausted. He had not slept much since his father’s death. He could not imagine how Traygrad could pull this Festival together so fast, even after pouring over their father’s plans.
Jareth climbed down the stone stairwell behind Aeron, following him all the way to the foyer and out the double oak doors. Traygrad was standing next to a group of men giving orders and pointing at tents being set up and tables still waiting to be placed.
“Ah, little brother,” Traygrad said, holding out a hand in greeting. Jareth shook it.
“You called for me?” Jareth said, a smile playing on his lips. The men around Traygrad bowed to Jareth, saluted, and went together to the tables.
“I just wanted to check on you,” Traygrad said. “You know you have to be at the Festival, but I will not blame you if you take off early.”
“I will be there,” Jareth said.
“Have you asked any of the court ladies to join you?” Traygrad asked, grinning. His grin reminded Jareth of the same smile Traygrad would give him when he played tricks on him, like pouring water on his face when he was sleeping or putting spiders in his hair. Jareth shook his head.
“None yet,” he said, smiling back.
“You know, there are plenty of ladies who would love to be in your favor.” Traygrad nudged Jareth in the ribs.
“I have other things on my mind.”
“Leave the other things to me, Jareth. You are young. Find a lady to bring to the party and have fun! There is no shame in that. Father would want that for you.”
“He always did,” Jareth replied.
“Meanwhile, you should help set up for the Festival. It will keep your mind off everything.”
* * * * *
Adelyn emerged from the forest’s edge, trying to disguise her limp as she did. All around her, people were carrying trays of food. Tents were being erected and men were hauling large wooden tables under the tents and covering them with cloth. Other people were milling about, watching the set-up. A man about her age with long, brown hair and green eyes came up to her.
“Are these your contribution to the feast?” he asked, indicating the pheasants she carried on her back.
“Oh, yes,” Adelyn said, unsure but determined not to seem that way.
“My name is Lafathnin. Let me help you carry those to the cooks,” he said. She obliged, handing them over. “I brought a couple of chickens to them earlier. I wanted to help out the new king as well as I could, what with King Reithar’s assassination. King Traygrad will be very grateful.”
Lafathnin smiled, and Adelyn returned his smile. He led her toward the castle.
In the daylight, Adelyn glanced at the castle she had been inside not very long ago. At the entrance stood four guards, each with a stern look in his eyes. They nodded at Lafathnin and gave her a wary look, but let her through. She wondered why security seemed to be so lax, but did not complain as Lafathnin pushed open the heavy front doors.
Even the foyer looked different to her during the day, with the sun streaming through the magnificent floor-to-ceiling windows. The floor was marble and glittered in the sunlight. A distant echo of children laughing floated to her ears and she turned to look for them, but saw nothing. Lafathnin seemed not to have heard as he continued to lead her down a hallway toward a large banquet room.
“I have not seen you around here before,” he said suddenly. Adelyn tried not to be startled.
“No, I’m just passing through on the way to Helderon. To be honest, I was going to sell those pheasants at the market, but they are much better suited going to the new king for his Festival,” she said smoothly. “I’m Adelyn.”
“We are always very pleased to have visitors, especially during the Fall Festival!” Lafathnin led her toward the kitchens, chatting all the way there. Adelyn nodded at the right times. She had perfected the ability to seem like she was listening when her mind was elsewhere. If Lafathnin broke conversation for a moment, she would nod, smile, or even say a word or two to encourage him to go on. She had been trained to hear only what was important, so unless he mentioned her next mark, she was uninterested.
Instead, Adelyn surveyed the castle in the light. As they moved further down the hall toward the banquet room, the light dimmed for a while. When they reached the banquet room, though, it was like opening her eyes for the first time—the dim, shadowy hallway gave way to the biggest room Adelyn had ever seen. The length of half the forest, the banquet room was grand. People were milling about and there was a lean man with a heavy jaw barking orders.
“You, there! Take those dates out to tent number five. You, with the chicken—please try not to drop the bird on your way out! A-ha!” he exclaimed as his eyes fell on Lafathnin and Adelyn. “Pheasants! Not cooked, I see. So be it. Nëath, take these pheasants from this man and bring them down to the kitchen! See that they’re cooked immediately!” The frail, black-haired boy named Nëath did as he was told immediately, and Lafathnin transferred the pheasants to Nëath’s back. The boy hurried, hobbling, toward the door on the far side of the banquet room and disappeared into the hallway.
Adelyn stood, waiting on some sort of further instruction, but Lafathnin put his arm around her shoulder and steered her back down the same hallway they had just walked. “I know you’re new around here, Adelyn, but when Faird starts giving orders, it’s best to just get out of the way as quickly as possible,” he laughed. Adelyn was not used to laughter and the sound of it so close to her ear, his breath tickling her shoulder, sent chills down her arms and legs. It was a happy noise, one that Adelyn was not prone to hearing. She turned to look up at Lafathnin and noticed for the first time that he was handsome. His long brown hair fell pleasantly around his shoulders, with pieces braided back behind his pointed ears. He wore a deep brown tunic that fell to his knees and forest green hosen underneath. Around his waist was a leather belt that housed a knife on each side, their handles gleaming gold. The trim on the collar of his tunic was silver, and embroidered into the fabric were beautiful silver swirls. The fabric clung to his chest, allowing an eyeful of muscles to ripple underneath. He was smiling down at her, his dark green eyes dancing to her silver blues. Adelyn caught her breath and looked toward the floor again, sending her own black hair back over her shoulder, caressing Lafathnin’s hand. He squeezed her arm.
“So, you can’t wear this old thing to the Fall Festival!” he joked and she felt her cheeks redden, though Lafathnin did not notice. “Let’s get you to Brea, she’ll have something you can wear.”
No comments:
Post a Comment