Day 3. Siblings, Sneaks, Spies

Chapter 5.

  Kit opened the door to the king’s chambers, his chambers, and found Valia standing with two people he wished to speak with, but not at that exact moment. 

   “The slayer of kings, Ruiner of Raelle, high king of low men. . .” Hyg trailed off, his face taking on an exaggerated pensive look as his sister stepped forward with a smile. 

   “What do you think of those names, your majesty? Hyg and I have been thinking non stop about what we should call you, what the kingdom should call you, really.” 

   Kit narrowed his eyes. “Kit is fine,” he said. 

   She made a little cat’s claw with her hand and meowed at him. “So rough. I like you, much better than that old sod before you. Did you know, Kit, that he instated a dusk curfew and punished offenders with six months in the citadel gaol? No matter the reason, your wife could be delivering triplets across town and it didn’t matter, if you were caught outside, straight to the dungeons!” 

   Kit nodded and pushed past her, noting an overpowering lemon scent coming from her. He hadn’t noticed it the night before when she fetched him on the terrace. He pushed it from his mind as he stood before Valia. She was at the window he and Eadric had first looked out, realizing that the full moon meant an audience with that strange woman in green, and Kit could still see smoke rising from the streets below, though no screams accompanied them. 

   “Eadric?” he asked quietly. 

   She nodded, not looking at him. “Taken care of. Official sealing will be tomorrow afternoon. They prefer the heat of the day, it seems.” She looked at him then with a small curl of her lip. “Something about the sun’s warmth and regrowth. Nonsense, all of it.”

   “Why are they here?” Kit asked, not as quietly as before. He didn’t mind if the bard twins knew of his distaste for them. He honestly preferred it. 

   “They have a proposition,” Valia said, turning from the window to the room, where the twins were standing close together whispering, likely something clandestine. 

   Hyg, the brother, straightened up as though just seeing Kit and Valia, and gave an exaggerated salute with a stiff hand. It wasn’t even proper military form. “Your lordship, we come to serve.” 

   “To serve?” repeated Kit. “You spread rumors of Godsmar’s death, rumors of my slaying him and the Spokesman, pushing everyone in Raelle, it seems, to believe that I have some divine right to the throne, or the like. What service did that give me?” 

   “It saved your life,” answered the bard. He stepped forward after a glance from his sister. His tone shifted in that instant and he seemed a man with wisdom rather than one actively avoiding it. “What was said last night was all true, my lord. The Spokesmen only care for the unity of the kingdom, knowing that war would not be wise should whatever they protect break free. And from what they’ve let slip, I would much prefer it if it remained sealed away. If we had not been there, had not acted as fast as we did, surely the Spokesmen would have killed you and taken the throne, ruling from a group standpoint and broadening the fear that was already here. Fear does hold power, but not for long. You are perfect examples. You did not like the tyranny and so you did something! Bravo.”

   “I’ve heard this,” Kit said. “You spread my legend in the hopes that I would be a better king and keep the kingdom? That is fine, I can understand that. And perhaps you believe you were protecting the spokesmen from themselves? Fine as well. But what is it that you want? I lived in the outlands for so long, yet your names I always knew. Your’s and King Godsmar. Other dukes and earls came and went, but you two seemed to remain.”

   “Is that a question?” Hyn asked, a soft smile on her lips.

   Kit shrugged. “I would like to know your part in this and what you hope to gain. No one acts without their own interests at heart.” 

   The twins looked at each other, male and female sides of a mirror, blush blond hair, freckles, long pale lashes and that same matching smile. They looked back at Kit and Valia, and Hyn spoke. 

   “We want the story. We are tellers of tales, always have been, as long as there have been two of us.” They both laughed at this, some secret joke between them, and the woman went on. “This is a wonderful tale we happened to fall into. How fortuitous that we were in the throne room of your evil king on the night when he was to be overthrown? How grand that tragedy struck and you, Kit, were thrust into the seat of power? And how grand must it be to take your brother’s memory and travel to the southern lands to restore the fifth line of the Spokesman’s magic?” She spoke this last question to Valia. 

   Valia stepped forward with her hands raised in defense. “I would not go to the Quakeslan for this magic relic,” she said. “We would send another, one with alacrity toward such things.” 

   “There is no such person,” countered the bard. She scratched her chin as if she had an itchy beard, and turned to her brother, deferring to him. 

   “We will go together, of course,” he said, “with at least one of the Spokesmen as guides and protectors, perhaps two of them if they would like. It will be along journey, but–”

   Valia waved her hands back and forth as a cloud formed over her brow. “I am not leaving Kit to run this mess alone.” She looked at Kit, placing her hands on his arms, looking sharp into his face. “I’m not leaving you.” 

   Kit felt her sincerity pour from her as a cup might overflow. But he shook his head. “This is not the place to decide this, not with them.” He took her hands from his arms, gave them back to her, and turned to the twins. What to say? “You seem to think that you are in control of all that happens?” 

   They shrugged in unison. “We’re the authors here,” Hyg said. 

   Kit shook his head. “There are no authors. No story. We are real people, surviving. That is all. You do not make the decisions, and if you attempt to run campaigns of legend and story, contrary to what narrative is true, then you will see a very short life in this kingdom.” 

   Hyn’s eyes glowed and she clapped her hands in front of her, bouncing up and down on her toes, barely an inch of the ground. “So stern,” she applauded. Then, she saluted just as her brother had before. “Yes, sir!” she snapped. 

   Hyg laughed and Hyn’s salute fell away as she joined him.

   “Spread no more lies,” Kit said as they turned to go. 

  They paused and Hyn shook her head. “Have we told a lie? We only spoke the truth, just very quickly.” 

   “How was it so quick?” Kit asked. “You never left the throne room.” 

   They both shook their heads, but Hyg spoke. “An artist never reveals his palette.” Then he winked, and the two hurried from the room, slamming the door behind them as though they were petulant children just punished for filching treats. Giggles could be heard down the hallway as they departed. 

   Kit walked to the bed, Godsmar’s bed, and sat down on the side of it, first resting his hands on his knees, then letting his head fall and resting it in his hands, elbows on knees. 

   How had it all gone so wrong? Eadric was supposed to be here, Eadric was supposed to deal with the court problems, the spreading of information in the kingdom, the direction of curious quests. All of it. Kit might have even been sent on the quest to aid whomever Eadric decided would make the best replacement Spokesmen, one who could find out more of their strange group. And Kit would just be a sword, nothing more. 

   Valia crossed the room and stood before him, letting his head lean against her stomach, putting her hands on his head, her fingers through his short hair. “He still had those terrible lines on his face,” she said in a whisper as tears fell from her eyes and landed on Kit’s neck. “He won’t even die looking as he always did.” 

   “I couldn’t stop him,” Kit muttered from between his hands. “I stepped away from his side, I gave in to the king’s taunt, and in that moment. . .” his voice trailed off as he clamped his eyes shut, forcing away the tears. 

   Valia slid down next to him on the bed and reached around him, hugging him sideways, resting her face on his shoulder. “What do we do?” she asked. 

   Kit didn’t answer for a long while, making sure he could control the shake he felt in his voice before he did. He felt weak and lost, but he knew Valia needed strength. Finally, he raised his shoulders to gently push her off, then looked at her. “We must carry the torch that Eadric lit. We must carry on. I do not know how to run a kingdom or even a city, but I will do what I must. I need your help.”

   “What of the relic quest?” she asked, her large eyes watching him, hanging on each word. 

   He shook his head. “We send the Spokesmen to retrieve it alone. What have they a need to send someone with them? Why do they need our approval?” 

   She shrugged. “Perhaps it cannot be moved. Perhaps they need a certain person.” 

   “The Twins didn’t seem to think so,” Kit said. 

   “They’re nothing and nonsense,” Valia snapped. Then, she burst out laughing until new tears were streaming down her cheeks. “Who’s wearing a pink scarf in the middle of the summer?” she asked. “And they both are, matching ones! I’ve never seen such colors in a fancy woman’s haberdashery, let alone in one for men!” 

   Kit chuckled and felt slightly better. 

   “We should speak with Rogo,” Valia said. “He ran this kingdom before we came along, and surely he will be of some aid.” 

   Kit nodded. “He did not seem so put out by his master’s death. In fact, no one really did.” 

   “People are afraid of tyranny, Kit, but they are not loyal to it. He levied terrible taxes on all goods, subjugated religions and freedoms, made the use of goat meat illegal across the land. There is a massive army in the north, Kit, not at war, not campaigning against any other kingdom, but merely there to protect the herds and fields.” 

   “I know, I know,” Kit said. “I can see why the people would hate him, but his own advisor? His own captains? Why did it take renegades to kill him?” 

   Valia sat quietly for a time, thinking. “Perhaps the solutions can’t always come from within us,” she said finally. Then shrugged with a little smile. “I’m not sure, really, but I assume there is much more at play in this place than what we can see on the surface.”

   Kit took this wisdom and let it wash around him. There were things at play that he couldn’t know, much of it he had never planned to know. Eadric was his closest friend, had been since Kit was adopted by Eadric and Valia’s father Arloth so many years ago, and though they shared much, there was plenty that Eadric kept against his chest. Kit wondered, more than ever, if it was because Eadric found his friend too simple to understand. A sword didn’t need to understand statecraft, and Kit had fed into that his entire life. Believe something enough and it becomes so. 

   “I need a bath, and some food,” Valia said, standing from the bed and running her fingers through her fine hair, scratching her scalp as she did. 

   Kit stood as well and moved away. “You can have these chambers,” he said. “They’re much too large for me. I will send some maids to help you?” 

   She nodded, giving only a smile. 

   Kit smiled back, then turned to go. 

   “Kit?” 

   He turned back, his hand on the door knob. She looked almost like a statue, sunlight spilling in from the windows, casting an aura around her. 

   “If he would have let me come along, if I didn’t have to sneak after you, I would have saved him, wouldn’t I?” 

   It was a large question, one Kit couldn’t begin to unravel. He wasn’t sure he wanted to. “Don’t think on it,” he said. “I don’t think Eadric or I thought you would stay behind anyway. All that happened, did. That’s all there is to it.” He nodded once, firmly, giving her the signal that it was final. Then, he smiled again and left the room. 

Chapter 6. 

   Rogo Half-Herian, former advisor to the former High King Godsmar, watched the rabbits leap about in their cages, some with great energy and some with none at all, each of them plump and ripe, ready for shearing, skinning, or roasting. The possibilities were endless. 

   The rabbit cages were in a secret room of Rogo’s chambers in the citadel, hidden by thick walls of stone and wood, vented so the smells could escape and not slip out so any servants would go poking about. Only one other man knew the secret door to the cage room, and he sat in the center of the female cage, petting a black speckled rabbit and humming a little tune. Humming was the best he could do. 

   He was Rogo’s son, Bur, and had been born with a twisted tongue that made him mute. He could grunt and mutter certain things that Rogo had learned to mean this or that over the years, but no concise word had ever come from Bur’s lips. He was not a half man as his father was, full herian was he, as some might say, though without his tongue he was as good as any of the rabbits in the cage room. 

   “Sometimes I wish I could take a ship across the White Sea and sail and sail until I ran out of food and water and then just lay there, wasting away as the sea took me where it would, watching the stars until the birds plucked my eyes, hearing them scream until my ears were gone, feeling the sea breeze until my skin–” 

   Bur shook his head and groaned protestingly at his father, and the short man sighed heavily, cutting himself off. “You must think of dying all the time, Bur,” said Rogo. “You who are hidden from the world, trapped away like a dirty secret.” 

   The younger man shook his head with a shrug and went on petting the black speckled bunny. Rogo was nearing his sixtieth year, and Bur was close to forty. He was not a boy, not by many years, but Rogo still saw him as such. He wasn’t as cloistered as Rogo made it seem, either, for the boy worked in the citadel stables, cleaning horse manure and shoveling hay. He was a strong boy and seemed to have no sense of smell along with his lack of a proper tongue. 

  “This new regime,” Rogo began, walking through the maze of waist high cages, “drives me to seek higher and higher places with which to throw myself in frustration. They are children, Bur, youths not even two dozen years of age, a skinny tall woman who seems bent on wearing her ceremonial armor at all times, and a brute of a man who isn’t exactly of kingly stature. Godsmar was a fool and a monster, but he at least looked the part.” 

   Bur shrugged again and went on humming, seemingly unwilling to interrupt his father in the man’s rambling. 

   “I must help them, of course,” Rogo went on, “for they would bring us all to ruin should they be left alone. And those cursed Spokesmen! Percho is of a single track mind, that I know, and the others sit in their own heads all day, playing their part and hoping their great treasure remains hidden.” He squinted down at Bur, trying to decide if the younger man was holding the rabbit out of love or hunger. “I haven’t spoken to the Cowl in far too long,” he mused. “Perhaps it is time for a falcon.” 

   Having so said, he left Bur alone with the rabbits and hurried from the room. The cage room was built lower and had steps leading up to it, the top of which had a trapdoor beneath a chair in Rogo’s chambers. A small set of angled mirrors running up a narrow shaft and ending in a little mirror hidden in the baseboard against the wall gave Rogo a view of the room, to make certain no maids were cleaning or butlers preparing anything. Mostly, he let him see if there was anyone snooping about.

   The coast was clear and Rogo turned the wheel on the right side of the stairs, setting off a series of ropes and counterweights hidden in the walls and floor, and the chair spun out of the way and the trap door lifted above him. He climbed the rest of the steps, pushed the trapdoor down, slid the chair in place until it click-locked, and then smiled to himself. There was always something satisfactory about sneaking about, even in his own chambers. 

   He went to his hat rack and removed a wide brimmed travelers hat, a thing he never wore traveling for he never left the citadel, and then marched out of his chambers in pursuit of the roof and the eyre. It had been a long time since he conversed with the Cowl, and there was much new news to share. Governments were not made or broken on silence, after all; there must be communication. Rogo hummed a little tune as he hurried through the halls of the citadel, thinking of the composition of the note he would send, thinking of how he could steer the new royals toward his favor. 

Chapter 7. 

   Word had been sent that morning to the elders of the Knights of Arl, still hidden in the eastern forests, telling of the victory and failure of the night before. Kit hadn’t penned the letter himself, though he oversaw the final product. It would be weeks, perhaps before they would come from their hiding, if they came at all. The band had not always been named after Kit’s adoptive father, and had existed long before even he had been a boy. 

   Kit wished for some of their wisdom, as he sat at meat with The Ox and two of his under captains, men as large and foreboding as The Ox himself. The food was good, some form of cattle with potatoes and fresh cheese, no goma or sild or hef, the three types of elevated goat meat. Hef, the third kind, gave intellectual powers instead of the strength or speed of the other two. There were limits, of course. Kit would never be a grandmaster at oblar, the favorite table game of the elders of the Knights back in the forest. But it would perhaps help him focus while reading a text of history or religion, or something equally as borning. He could use some hef. 

   Still, the beef was good and The Ox was surprisingly not an unpleasant dinner companion. 

   “He killed his brother, did you know?” said the big man, cutting his meat into smaller chunks with a knife the size of Kit’s forearm. “With a fire poker, white hot from the flames. I was there, not much I could do but hear the man scream his last.” 

   He spoke as though discussing gardening or archery, not the death of man right in front of him. 

   “You never thought to overthrow the king?” Kit asked. 

   “Dangerous question,” said the man, nodding toward Kit without looking at him. “If I was keen to gut him, wouldn’t I be keen to gut you?” 

   Kit nodded, acutely aware of his proximity to his broadsword, resting against the bench beside him, as well as his four other guards sitting at a table just a few over from where he sat. They weren’t dining, but playing a game of stones-crows, or at least pretending to. Kit wanted to trust The Ox, but as the man himself said, there was a lot yet to be seen. 

   “Fair point,” Kit admitted. “We saw his tyranny out beyond the city gates, in the fields and rivers where good men lost their livings due to tax and trouble. And through our soft spies we knew what was happening here in Taro Myule. What did you see, from your palace seat?” 

   The big man shrugged, chain mail clinking. It was the second man that day, dressed in black and mail and twice Kit’s size, that he had sat across from. Though he knew Borneld since he was a babe, he felt less threatened by this man. 

   “Maids would disappear, Rogo was constantly hiring new servants. Godsmar spent hours at a time in the dungeons, though I never could find out what he did. Not the gaol, mind you, that’s only a fancy name for a fancy place where miscreants are kept. There are depths to the bluff, young king, depths that should not be traveled by the living.”

   There was a warning in his words that gave Kit a shiver down his spine and a bitter taste in the meat. He popped a potato in his mouth to see if the taste went away, but it didn’t. He realized then, that it was fear. 

   “Why did you work for him?” 

   The Ox laughed, a belly shaking laugh that made the small potatoes roll around the plates as he bumped the table. “A job is a job, isn’t it? I’m a brute, lad, like yourself, just, perhaps, a bit more.” He grinned down at Kit, taking his eye for the second time since they sat down, and then quickly looked away again. “Sure I could send off to one of the lower duchies, find a job hunting after corn thiefs or horse rustlers, or maybe go north to the plains and stand a boring guard over fields of magic beans, but why give up what I have here? I ensure no one gets an idea of overthrow, and make certain all the city watch are keeping citizens in line and enforcing the king’s silly whims. And I’m paid well and fed well in the process, and there’s a warm bed every winter night.” 

   He finished his last bit of meat, thumped his chest but gave no burp, then pointed his fork at Kit. “I’ll serve ye the same as I served Godsmar, mad as he was. I won’t ask for profit gains or more pretty girls, neither. Just let me do what I’ve done, and we’ll be alright.” 

   “Comfort?” Kit asked. “That’s your primary goal?” 

   The man shrugged, stabbing one of his last potatoes. “Consistency,” he said. 

   Kit chewed slowly, thinking. He glanced over at The Ox’s guards, the men on either side of him eating slowly as if to make it last. It didn’t seem as though they lived as well as their captain. He looked at his own guards to see them still playing their game, Ulrig laughing a little as he gathered the black bits of wood that were meant to resemble the crows. 

   “What do you know of spies?” Kit asked, determining that room was safe enough. He had picked his own men and assumed The Ox picked his, and if there was anything to say that should not be said before them, the man would maintain his discretion. 

   Here, The Ox met Kit’s eyes, staring straight at him, unblinking, locked in visual alignment. “Of whom would you wish to know? The Green Church? Scaland? The Southern Eyes? Midcharia?” He grinned, not breaking eye contact, the blue orbs holding Kit with the strength of a vice. “I could go on, young king, I could go well on.” 

   Kit nodded, unable to look away, and when the man finally did after what felt like far too long, he found a bead of sweat running down the length of his nose. “What kind of Kingdom is this?” he asked. 

   The Ox, not looking at Kit again but swallowing the last of his potato, stood and tapped his men on their shoulders. “The kind on the brink of a secret war,” he answered. “You’ve come at just the right time.”