Day 14. Kit’s In Trouble
Chapter 33.
There was a room that overlooked the Citadel banquet hall, only accessed by a narrow and low winding stairwell and that was only accessed by a secret doorway in the kitchens below. As far as he knew, Rogo was the only one who knew of the secret, and he intended to keep it that way.
After giving Kit the warning about the wine he hurried to the kitchens, watching for an opening the bustle there, and then slipped behind the tapestry and into the small chamber, then behind the moving shelf and up the winding stair that would lead him to the small overlook room. The double secret entrances helped Rogo feel secure about his privacy.
The room at the top was small, nothing more than a closet with a few narrow slits in the brick for which to look out, all at different heights. He knew, a fact perhaps only a few others in the entire kingdom knew, that the room had been built and hidden to be used as an assassin’s chamber, a place where a skilled crossbow man or a man with a blowdart gun could fire a poisoned needle into an enemy of the king and remain entirely hidden. Rogo was using it not to make an assassination, but to watch one.
And it all had gone horribly wrong.
He sat sweating as the hired dancers left the room and the herald came on, a pompous drunk Rogo had hired from a theater in the Easter Quarter, and watched as the lords and ladies came dancing onto the floor as well. He couldn’t see the the high table from any of the slits in the wall, and Rogo wondered if the room hadn’t been set up differently in the past, but he could see the man in green bend low over his lap and then come up with a paper wrapped object in his hand, an object Rogo hoped would be a mask.
But then, the wine began to work and the patrons were falling and sleeping right as they were, and then the worst thing of all, the thing Rogo could not have foreseen, walked through the door at the far end of the hall bearing a war hammer and deflection shield, and a darkness that was nearly palpable.
Then the assassin was killing Emram Ishon, the head of the Northern Plains Alliance, the group who had decided they were a sovereign state and no longer under the rule of Raelle, they just hadn’t told Kit that yet, and Borneld was marching toward the head table.
Rogo watched until Borneld was out of view, though he heard the smashing of the head table, heard some amount of fighting, and through Borneld’s shouting could distinctly hear the sound of glass being shattered.
The advisor slumped to the floor in the small room, for once not caring that he would cover his clothes in dust and the husks of dead bugs, and tried to calm his beat chest and the pressure swelling in his head. He needed water or wine, or perhaps a long vacation in which he returned an old man who no longer cared for the welfare of the state.
But his thoughts were turning and the panic left him as he began to picture a map of the citadel to plot the exact place where he was and the exact place where the rear passageway of the banquet hall went to. There were two options, he figured: one, was that Kit had escaped and fought whatevers soldiers Borneld had brought with him, though Rogo found this unlikely even as acclaimed as the young king was supposed to be with a sword. The second option was that the breaking glass sound meant that the young man leaped from the window, likely powered by goma. How he did not faint from the wine as the others did, Rogo could not know. Perhaps the king hadn’t had any, perhaps he listened to his advisor for once.
“To save you again,” Rogo muttered, climbing to his feet and dusting off his rear end. He crept through the passage and the uneven stairs till he reached the double set of hidden doors and exited into the kitchen, fully abandoned.
“Good help,” muttered the man, and he hurried away from the banquet hall to a servant’s passage that would bring him out to one of the larger rooftop gardens that overlooked the courtyard. He didn’t have much time, he knew that, but he hoped he could see some of what was taking place.
There was shouting and the sound of fighting in other halls as he hurried along, but he didn’t divert his path at all. As he jogged he removed his cap and robes, dressing down to a plain long tunic that ended above his knees. He looked a fool, he knew that, but he would rather be passed as a short servant in his undergarments than caught as the advisor to the king and held for ransom or killed outright.
Rogo reached the garden and looked out to see figures fighting in the evening glow, dark shapes that could have belonged to either side. Rogo realized that he wasn’t even sure which side were which and filed that thought away for another, safer time. He ran to the edge of the garden and looked over the wall to the courtyard below.
A carriage lay smashed and destroyed as though a stone fell from the sky and crushed it, and colored glass lay all around, reflecting pretty light from the courtyard lamps. The lamps reflected off another shiny thing, this one a whir of motion in the hands of the young king.
Rogo was not a fighter. He never had been and never cared much for anything of a physical nature, but still thought he had an eye for a warrior. Kit seemed to be more than a warrior. He was a thing of legend.
The Queen of Midcharia stood at his right hip, crouched low so she could move with Kit as he did. They were surrounded by a circle of soldiers armed with swords and spears, and a larger circle of dead or wounded lay on the ground, darkening the courtyard with their bodies and blood. Kit whirled this way and that, faster than a man could move, blocking swords and spear shafts and cutting down soldiers when he had the chance. All the while he protected Queen Ynar, never letting his back stay exposed for long. His massive sword worked like a scythe, cutting down dry stalks of wheat at the end of summer.
“What a beautiful man,” breathed a voice beside Rogo, and he nearly screamed out for such was the shock of being snuck up on.
Of course, the voice could only belong to one person, and Hyn stood there towering over him with a dreamy look of lost love on her face so visible it made Rogo blush. She wore her ivory dress from the banquet but held no harp in her hand, instead holding a small glass vial with pink water inside and two yellow flowers, their petals wide and bright as they drooped from their stems.
Rogo looked back at Kit and the Queen as the king’s sword swept through the enemy. He looked up at the bard. “You didn’t faint,” he said.
“You don’t seem so sleepy yourself,” she said with a wry smile, still blushing and watching Kit.
“I was busy, away from the banquet, making sure things were in order,” said Rogo quickly, covering his lie.
“Mhmm,” said the woman distantly.
In truth, Rogo knew of the wine, knew of the sleep it would cause, and was hoping that he would save everyone by inducing a fainting spell and keeping a war from starting. If the Northern Alliance leader was killed it would fulfill the Cowl’s goals, but if no one saw it happen then there would be no outcry and no sudden war. For surely Raelle would be thrown into a position of defense as it would appear as though it was Kit who commanded the murder.
There! Kit had cut a path out of the soldiers and the pair were sprinting away, faster than normal humans should have run and instantly Rogo felt a stir of panic in his chest. The King fought with so much strength that he could only be enhanced from goma, but to run as they did meant sild as well.
“Oh no,” he whispered, unable to keep the words in.”
“Madness,” whispered the bard, and Rogo looked up to see tears had spilled down her cheeks. They were no longer flushed with romance but they looked pale with fear.
She was an odd one for certain. Did she really love the King?
Rogo put the thought aside and watched the King and Queen race across the courtyard and into the far wings of the castle where the throne room lay as well as Kit’s personal chambers. They disappeared inside and Rogo turned to face Hyn.
“Is this the end of our kingdom?” he asked her.
The woman, still crying silent tears, bent down and handed Rogo her vase of flowers. He took it reluctantly, finding the smell a bit annoying even if they were meant to be pleasantly fragrant.
“Borneld is a brute who thinks no more than two meals ahead of where he currently is. The team he has around him are disgruntled loyalists to the former king and to some other version of the Knights of Arl leaders, perhaps Eadric himself or at least the memory of him, but because they come from different camps there will be infighting. Your Kit has strong men around him, and if he allies with Queen Ynar, he will have one of the strongest cavalry in the whole continent. I don’t see your northern tribes making an attack, they will only defend their farmland and raise the price of meat, but even with Ishon dead, they will not declare war.” She said all this with a composed air despite the tears on her face and the flush of pale fear on her neck. “Do not fear the end of the kingdom,” she continued. “Fear only a moment of instability.”
Rogo turned back and watched the courtyard for a moment, seeing the stream of soldiers rushing after Kit and Queen Ynar. He shook his head and turned away from the bard, leaving her to mourn her beloved, or do whatever it was she was doing.
There were secret ways to most of the important places in the citadel, Rogo would just have to be careful. As long as he could meet with Kit he would be safe. Surely the King’s personal guard, Ulrig, was gathering forces to stop the fighting.
It was so strange, Rogo thought as he wove through the garden toward a small caretaker’s shed where a trap door was hidden, that I am fearing violence and an overthrow when only a few weeks ago I was thankful that the boys killed Godsmar and started a new order. It was curious how things change.
Chapter 34.
“How long will that hold?” she asked.
Kit shook his head, spitting blood and trying his best to ignore the arrows stuck in his back. There were at least two, he had felt both of them, but when he turned his head he sometimes thought he caught a glimpse of three fletchings over his shoulder. Perhaps it was the madness starting already.
They had reached the royal wing of the citadel and Kit barred the outside doors with the heavy ceiling beam as well as lowering the iron gate. It was all hidden until needed, and the royal wing effectively acted as the keep of the entire place, should the bluff not prove a strong enough deterrent.
He turned from the door as shouting rose outside and hammers and fists pounded on the door, and actually lost his balance and tottered sideways into a pillar. He lost his grip of Bloodswill and slid down to his knees, then toppled to his side.
The Queen was at his side in a moment, keeping his head from hitting the floor. She had some blood on her but Kit knew it was only from him or other soldiers, for he had made sure to keep any weapons away from her. The arrows might have gotten her but he saw the bowmen at the final second and was able to take them. Her dress was mostly undamaged and her hair hadn’t gone in a mess of sweat and blood as Kit’s had, and he marveled still at her beauty.
“Don’t look at me that way,” she snapped. “I’m not interested in your romance.”
Kit blinked sharply against her words and found a little more clarity flood him. He had hit the pillar with what felt like the weight of a year without sleeping, but the understanding in what she said pulled that back a little.
“I thought you wanted us to–” he broke off in pain and lack of continuation to his words.
She shook her head and smoothed a hand across his forehead as he struggled for strength. He found the two motions rather contradictory. “Not so eloquent in the heat of battle, are we?”
Kit laughed a little, coughing some blood onto her arms. “It’s all an act,” he admitted.
“Shame,” she said.
The door thudded outside and Kit pushed himself away from the Queen, gritting his teeth against the pain. It was strange, but he felt both the goma and sild fading away from his system. In that fading he felt the sleep from the poisoned wine clawing for a hold.
“How did you not sleep?” he asked, leaning against the pillar and on his sword to help pull himself to his feet.
“I didn’t drink the wine,” she said.
“Why not?” he asked. “It was good wine.”
“Perhaps a bit too good,” she said with a smile. Then her face sobered. “I am Veclian, we do not consume any aged or fermented drink. It is forbidden for us.”
This took Kit a moment to process. “Veclian? The Veclian church? There are adherents in Midcharia?”
She gave him a crooked look. “Most of my kingdom follows the Veclian faith, we are hopeful servants all.”
“You’ve seen our cathedrals?” Kit asked. “They’re empty.”
The Queen nodded, a sad look on her face. “You have traded the truth of the spiritual way of the Allending for the natural way of druids. You serve what you can see and touch more than what you can feel within.” She touched her chest for emphasis.
There was more thudding on the door and Kit took a deep breath and raised his sword. He felt little to no strength.
“We cannot stand them if they break in,” said the Queen. “Have you no weapons in this place? I could be much more than a thing to protect.”
Kit eyed her, not doubting her claim. “Without an army within these walls to aid us, we are the last line of our own defense. There is an armory. We can find a sword for you there, but it is less defended than here.”
“And there is no escape?” she asked.
“We could find a high window and make the final escape,” Kit joked.
“Are there ropes? Could we not repel down the wall to the courtyard?”
Kit shook his head. “The windows and terraces overlook the edge of the bluff on this side of the citadel. The slope is the steepest. The goal is for this section to remain untouched.”
Splinters of wood flew as an axe broke a sliver of light through the heavy door.
“Oh,” said the Queen, and Kit fell to one knee, barely stopping his full downward fall by pressing his sword to the stone and holding onto it with all his might.
More chips of wood flew and Kit found his vision swimming. “Might have well been poisoned,” he muttered.
“It’s a myth,” said the Queen from somewhere far away. “Madness is not the result of mixing meats. It is the result of–” but her words trailed away and a low ringing fell into Kit’s ears as he slumped to his other knee.
His hands remained on the sword handle and he looked like a man holding the edge of a cliff, hanging onto the last hope before falling. In many ways, he was.
Chapter 35.
They reached the pirate fort as the moon was reaching her highest place in the sky, and the energy among all the soldiers was so low not one of them seemed happy that they reached some place of shelter.
Valia wondered if it was due to the state of the place.
There was a vague sense that it had been a church at one point, the walls were tall and the beams that supported the roof were sloped to a point above, those that remained, that was. It was a crumbling mess of stone and wood, much of the latter swollen and rotten, and the whole place smelled of mildew. It was vacant, there was at least that, and though much of the roof was gone it wasn’t raining, and Valia thought there should be some cause for thankfulness.
Captain Oren sectioned the men off into groups, some to tend the horses and some to make a fire, while two were sent off to see if there were any animals available for hunting and cooking, aquatic or otherwise.
Valia left Alett to tend to her saddle and went to find Luc.
The man was sitting alone on a pile of wood that might have been a chair or bench at one point, his eyes were closed and his hands lay folded in his lap. Faint light from the building fire flickered on his face, showing serene calm.
“Tell me the truth,” Valia said. She didn’t mind that she was breaking his calm.
“Leave me,” he said without opening his eyes.
“I won’t,” she persisted. “Not until you explain what we’re in for.”
The calm furrowed to annoyance and finally he sighed and opened his eyes. They were dark and captivating, and held Valia hostage in their glare. “What can you possibly ask me that would be important enough to disrupt my duties?”
Valia narrowed her eyes and put her hands on her hips. “What duties? You are sitting alone in silence while the rest of the group prepares for the night. We just lost a soldier, does that not mean anything to you?”
He shook his head. “We’ll lose the world if we don’t reach the valley,” he said. “I won’t rest for one foolish soldier.”
Valia bit her tongue to keep from snapping at the man. Something in his words gave her a secret, a thing she wondered at but hadn’t had any confirmation of. “You don’t care about any of us,” she said. “You only wish to reach your precious relic and if we all perish along the way you won’t lose a minute of sleep.”
“We don’t sleep,” he said, low and threatening. “We’re ants, princess. Ants doing our best to hold back a hurricane. And you are an ant without legs.”
The words struck her with brutal force and she stepped back, nearly tripping over some broken stones. “I am not dead weight,” she said, feeling a terrible need to justify herself, a feeling that she hated in herself even as she spoke. “If you came with no one you would not make it to the end. You need at least one of us to carry part of this relic home.”
He stared at her, looking as though she were the dullest person alive. “It is not a thing to be carried home,” he said, adjusting his voice slightly to mock her words. “We would need one hundred times the amount of men here to even think of moving it. It is not the relic itself that we seek, but what the relic holds.” He sucked in a large exhale and pinched his eyes in what looked like anger. “Leave me be,” he said sharply through tight lips. “I have duties.”
Valia opened her mouth to say more, to fight, to hold onto some dignity, and realized in that moment that dignity was walking away. She did so, returning to the fire and helping the men with the evening stew.
The food was good and with a song from Hyg’s harp the mood lightened in the camp. They ate, and Meino sat with them, and when the meal was over and Hyg was playing a song with lyrics that were perhaps not even a language at all, Valia went and sat next to the red haired Spokesman. She may have been done with Luc, but she was determined to find some answers.
“Luc said you are ants, and we are ants without legs,” she said as she sat down, catching his eye.
He chewed a bit of hard baked bread and nodded slowly. “He said you were an ant without legs.”
Valia’s jaw fell, she couldn’t help herself and stared at the man until he smiled.
“Only a joke,” he said. “Yes, Luc sees the world in a bitter way. He has taken our burden to the final destination of thought, of what it might mean, and he cannot move beyond that. If we survive and hold the gate, perhaps we are not ants, but if we do not and the world ends, then I don’t think it matters if Luc is right or if you are right.”
It was an interesting way of thinking of things, even if Valia didn’t fully understand what it all meant. She told the man so.
He shrugged and took another bite of the stiff bread. “There are no words to describe what is there in the valley, what is trapped now but is seeking a way out. Words do not mean much. We can hardly hold the image in our minds and the only thing that maintains our sanity is the collective pressure we hold on the gate. There must be five, for there were five of us at the start. That is as simple as we understand it.”
“Do you care if we all die?”
Meino looked at her and she thought that he was really looking at her for the first time since she sat down. “I do not wish for your deaths,” he said finally.
“That is not the same thing,” she pointed out.
Meino shrugged, sighed, looked at the fire, and then looked back at Valia. “If we are not ants we are slightly bigger insects, and all insects perish; time will take all of you.”
“And not you?” she asked.
He began shaking his head but then stopped and an odd look came over his face. Here, Valia could see, he was hiding something.
“Time will not take you?” she repeated.
“It is,” he paused, “not so easy to say.”
A weird feeling slipped over Valia, like she was stepping beneath a shower of oil. “When did you come here? The first time, I mean? How long ago was it?”
Meino stared at the fire and his lips moved though no sound came out at first. When he did speak, his words were low and hollow. “I do not remember. Decades? Centuries? No, not that long. I don’t think.” He turned and caught her eyes. “You have no idea the burden, not just of the magic, but of the years. They weigh as much as the world itself.”
