CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

*~~~**~~~*

King

*~~~**~~~*

20th of Decepter, 935 PC

King bounced and swayed miserably with the rumble of the covered wagon. As he watched the boxes and bags bounce and slide minimally, he grumbled to himself about his lack of sleep and prolonged discomfort as he adjusted the wool mask he made for himself before the trip. His eyebrows always itched from the fabric. As did his upper lip. But neither bothered him near as much as the knives that now blew with the wind everywhere he went. Is it that difficult to provide a dying man a comfortable ride oh wise Creator? Irritability seemed a permanent fixture in his personality now. A front for the paralyzing fear of death that he felt every waking moment now that reality had set in. Or perhaps it was the soul-crushing guilt of letting his bloodline die that grew with each passing day. The last King. Not quite as significant as it would be if it were said about a real king, but means plenty to me. It didn’t really matter either way. The outcome was the same and he was pissy about it. He erupted in a flurry of violent coughs. A hint of blood landed on the wagon’s wooden bed.

“Dammit,” he muttered weakly when he finally could. His eyes were watering, his throat raw. Each breath felt like work. And not some casual gardening. Real, hard labor. Like he had done as a boy when he helped build the cabins in Steppe. Just give up. Die here. I’m worthless now. I’ve failed my family.

He toppled over as the wagon came to a sudden stop, catching himself with his forearm, cursing in pain as the bones in his arm punished him for such a foolish choice. Through the hole at the front of the canvas cover he could see the merchant waving him out of the wagon. He turned to look out the back just as the rain picked up, creating a glassy-looking wall of water that blurred the nature behind it. Sure to be as painful as I imagine. The merchant yelled back now, growing impatient with King’s reluctance to wander into the downpour. He waved to the man and cursed under his breath before finally gathering his bag and crawling to the back of the wagon.

The first raindrops hit the back of his head as he lowered himself carefully and slowly. They felt like the bird-bone needles his mother used to poke him with if he misbehaved. Only hundreds at a time and slightly duller. The merchant remained on his bench and met King with a look on his face that would have been screwed up and twisted whether it was being bombarded with rain or not.

King yelled over the rain as he took the man’s hand. “Thank you, good sir.” Yelling never quite sounded peaceful or polite, but this particular instance felt worse than usual. “Your blessing!” Their greed upon payment for the ride along the main route through Resk. He pulled a glove off his hand, holding back the intense agony the rain brought. The hooded man on the bench looked at him blankly, clearly unsure what to do. Hurry, you imbecile.

“Your hand!” King anxiously gestured. He opened the man’s palm and placed his fingertips directly in the center. A warmth filled his chest, then spread through his body slowly. He basked in the relief his magic was providing his sore throat.

When he was done he said, “Blessed be you, good sir.” He stepped away from the wagon. “Use it wisely.”

As the wagon rumbled down the road he shook his head. As if I’m going to give him some of my precious magic for a ride in his smelly cart. He turned and looked at the muddy path into Thronerock. The setting sun could not be seen behind the gray clouds, but its rays still managed to provide enough light for him to feel just better than in danger while walking into the lawless town. Is it ever good to be in this place of sin? He started his trek to The Black Boar Inn knowing the answer to his own question.

*~~~**~~~*

Thronerock was an example of what happens when crime overtakes a town and the authorities of said town are not courageous enough to fight it, when people with bad intentions, that are motivated by greed, collapse under the pressure of corruption and bribery. The buildings were rundown, the roads were littered with waste, and the people looked as though they had been wearing the same clothes for years. Luckily, the journey from Steppe had ruined his cloak. It was almost as muddy and ragged as the clothes his onlookers wore. And the ugly mask on his face was a particularly effective deterrent. But he knew if they saw the vestment beneath the cloak they’d be on him in seconds, begging for help, or simply taking what they wanted. A small but haunting audience sat silently beneath a rickety wooden structure along the side of the road and watched him intently, dangerously curious eyes stared through broken windows and open doors of homes and establishments. None daring to step into the harsh rain. But all seemed to know he was an outsider. And in his experience with Thronerock, outsiders were not welcome with open arms. Suppose the harsh rain is a bit of luck. He held the straps of his backpack tight and spit blood into the slosh at his feet as he walked.

His condition had worsened considerably since setting off for Thronerock. The horrible symptoms of his disease were seizing a little more of him each day. His skin was becoming more sensitive, especially to the cold. He coughed up blood regularly, though not much. Yet. And every breath felt like he was swallowing glass. He assumed he would lose his voice before too long. A fit of coughs struck him just as he approached his turn. It bent him over at the waist. Little red droplets of spittle and blood flew through the air. Each cough made him wince in pain until his hands were on his knees, keeping him from collapsing. He remained like that, bent over and miserable, as he thought about his situation. Why did I take all my medicine so quickly? And for what? Nothing. I worsen each day. Suffer every second.

The sound of horses pulling a cart down the road stirred him. An uncovered wagon passed. Several less than admirable looking men were sitting in the back, no doubt heading to some sort of mischief based on the crossbows on their laps. He gave the least threatening one an emotionless nod to let them know he approved. Whether he did or not. The man in the cart lifted his crossbow and pointed it at him. King stopped. Filled with fear and panic. But the man lowered the weapon and grinned as the cart rumbled away.

*~~~**~~~*

Eventually, he found himself standing in front of the seedy looking inn that was his destination. It was certainly nothing special to look at, built from wood that had turned gray over the years and stood just two stories tall. Something that was becoming less common throughout the empire. Many buildings now featured three and four stories. Boards were warping, leaving cracks in the walls, and too many windows to count were broken and boarded up. There was one enjoyable characteristic though; a delicious aroma accompanied the smoke that was billowing from the inn’s chimney. The structure of a staircase that led directly to the rooms upstairs stood off to the right of the building but the actual stairs were missing. Alaric’s paranoia has grown. He stepped onto the covered porch that led to the front door and pulled off his mask. The wind bit at his skin. The buzz of a raucous group of criminals in the inn’s pub could be heard even before he opened the door, and once he did, a wave of curse words and threats flooded over him. Not directed at him, of course. No one even noticed him enter the room. There were men pushing one another so viciously he believed a brawl could break out any second. The waitresses were dressed scandalously and carrying excessive amounts of mugs in their hands. Just as I remember it.

The delicious aroma from outside was even more potent and mouth-watering inside the walls of the dangerous inn. Directly in the center of the room was a large bar shaped like a horseshoe, in the middle, a fire pit. The pig was being roasted in its center, waiters were tending to the patrons frantically. Smoke was tumbling through a hole in the ceiling above. Salutations first, then the delicious hog.

Crossing the room without bumping into broad shoulders and stumbling drunks was a near impossibility. Angry faces cursed him, seductive ones blew kisses, some sneered at his wet, dirty attire, others rubbed up against it purposely. He watched those individuals closely. His destination was the corner booth, the one permanently reserved for a man he was both grateful and somewhat ashamed to call a friend. Along the way he managed to swipe a mug of ale from a table, a handful of Leos from a pocket, and a small glass trinket straight out of a groggy looking woman’s hand. The coins and trinket found their way into one of the many pockets beneath his vestment and the empty mug was left with a mistakenly thankful drunk. He had sworn off theft more than once in his life, but somehow the thrill of it always wiggled back into his desires. Especially in Thronerock.

He approached the end of the corner booth and stared at a classy looking man leaning against the back wall, eyes closed, legs stretched out along the bench. If he didn’t know better Alaric’s glasses may have convinced him he was sophisticated, maybe even academic. There were hints of gray in his otherwise black hair, brought upon by stress more than age by King’s estimation. He let his magic flow through him to hide his cough from his already stressed friend.

This man is going to let his hatred for her consume him. “Sampson!” The man’s eyes shot open but relaxed quickly when he saw King smiling at him. King tossed his backpack on the opposite bench then took off his cloak and covered it. He was wearing a dark green robe with a wide yellow stripe down the middle that allowed easy access to the numerous pockets he had sewn into the interior. The robe was held together loosely by an alchemical called angel’s touch. A thin string was tied to his collar. It wrapped around three bones that hung down his chest. “You look as though the world itself has asked you a difficult question.” He straightened out his dark green robe and opened his arms wide.

“Yes, I’m afraid it feels as though it has.” Alaric slid out of the booth and hugged the dark skinned man. “How are you, King?” He withdrew. “Who am I kidding… a Prosperist like you… blessed, I’m sure.” Alaric stared over King’s shoulder toward the door. His body is here, but his mind wanders. Good. Less likely to pick up on my struggles.

“The Creator shines on me, yes. You, not so much it seems. Or you’ve chosen to conceal yourself in the shadows.” He peered at his friend intently, studied his demeanor. “What troubles you?”

“Many things. Too many,” Alaric said. The men took their seats opposite one another. “Right now, a Yilan. I suppose she doesn’t trouble me as much as I’ve troubled her. But either way I’m relying on her in a major way.”

“A Yilan… Not for many years have I spoken with one of those warriors.”

“This one would impress you. Even more than others. Brilliant mind, incredible strategist.”

“I must meet her then,” said King as he dug under his cloak for his backpack.

Alaric sat a small box on the table that had been in his pocket. “I could do you one better.”

“Is that right? How so?”

“You could join her on her trip to DuVale. To stop the Lotus Queen.”

King placed a dark brown box made of walnut wood on the table and stared at his friend. “Stop the Lotus Queen, you say… Tell me more.”

“First our gifts.” Alaric slid the small box in front of himself to King.

King refrained from giving his gift to Alaric.

“What else bothers you, my friend?”

Alaric nodded his head and put his elbows on the booth. “I’d say Urman Gant is at the top of a long list.”

“Ah, yes. Is any other common man so cunning?” King asked. Alaric shook his head annoyedly. “What business do you have with Mr. Gant?”

“He betrayed your people and I believe he disappeared into the heart of the emerald. Not many other places to go in Tevron.”

“No, there’s not. But it’s been several moons since Urman has been in Steppe. And when he was there he was most helpful. Delivered the Marsallas safely, just as he said he would.”

“I know it to be true,” Alaric said.

This changed King’s demeanor. He had never had any cause to doubt Urman Gant. Even with the horrible stories that surrounded the commoner. “How? Has someone told you of Urman’s involvement?”

“Aye. A boy. A reliable one.” He paused, looking at King with heavy eyes. “It pains me to think both have been captured when they were so very close to a solution.” He exhaled deeply. Yilans. Strange children. Stopping the Lotus Queen. What does he have planned?

He slid the walnut box across the table. “To our gifts, no?!” The wide sleeves of King’s dark green robe flapped as he clapped his hands. He rubbed them together excitedly. The short string of bones hanging from his collar danced wildly. “You first! Maybe it will pull you from those shadows, old friend. Something tells me it will.” His long, slender finger pointed at the box in front of Alaric. “Open it. Enjoy.”

“Your thoughtfulness is appreciated but when is this tradition going to end?” Alaric asked. King waved the man off with both hands.

“Never. Your time is invaluable. Especially now, while things are so desperate. To spend it with me… that is worth a gift.”

“If you want to give me a real gift, join my fight.” Alaric lifted the lid unenthusiastically, but when his eyes fell upon the contents he smiled. “How did you manage this?”

“A man of many blessings can do anything.” King sat his cross on the table and coughed violently.

Alaric pulled a cigar from the box and handed it to King, then grabbed a second for himself. They touched the tips gently.

“All the way from Botahana Bay?” Alaric asked.

“No others are worth such an occasion,” King replied. He put the cigar in his mouth and inhaled. Held. Then blew smoke into the air. “Not all alchemy has proven to be so terrible… No flame required, endless tobacco from the finest fields in Morne.” He smiled. “Perfection.”

“I must say, this is a nice surprise. Better than that shit you gave me last time,” Alaric said. The earthy scent of tobacco filled their little corner of the tavern.

“Yes, not my finest gift, but not your finest work either.” They laughed together. For a moment the horrors of the world around them faded away. “Let’s see what you have for me.” King lowered his eyes to the height of the lid and peered into the growing gap. He whipped the box open and sat up straight, admiring the contents happily. “You.” He laughed like an excited child.

“Yes, yes. Do whatever it is you do with them,” Alaric said.

“This means more to me than you could ever know, Sampson.” King reached into the box and revealed one of Nathaniel Ames’ severed fingers. He observed it in the dim light of the tavern thoroughly. A menacing grin on his face.

“King.”

King continued looking at the finger.

“I need you. I need you to help me stop her… Think of how proud your ancestors would be if they knew you helped Purists live on. That you helped stop the purge of pure magic.”

This brought King’s eyes to Alaric’s. When one door closes. It may not be quite the same, but it will have to do. “Of course I’ll help you.”