Odysseus’ nose twinged at the continued assault from his surroundings. The smell of moisture hung heaviest, hitting his nose, sliding down his windpipe and hanging there so he could taste everything; when he took a breath, there were undercurrents of more pungent scents, harsher and hitting his throat much harder. He coughed and pain bloomed, forcing out a squeak that left him embarrassed at his own weakness.

“Are you okay?” a voice asked, a welcomed distraction.

Odysseus took a deep breath, which opened him to further assault as scents found free entry into him. Another cough touched his throat and again pain sprouted, leading to a louder wince.

Jordan was a large presence behind him, so pressed together that their heartbeats were in sync. Odysseus sat slouched, legs splayed further than they usually would on a horse, close to being uncomfortable; his eyes were closed but he was aware of the horns at either side of him, threatening a stab if the goat turned its head too wildly. Jordan held the reins which forced his arms around Odysseus, keeping him from falling to the sides or forward.

“We’re gonna have to find a hospital or a clinic or something,” said Jordan, his accent thicker — the ‘r’ sound trilled and his words broken apart so each syllable was distinct. There was pain there too, especially when Jordan moved too much, forcing Odysseus to move in turn.

Jordan, Odysseus thought. The Champion.

As pain coursed through him — subtle in some ways, overt and attention wresting in others — he could not help but smile, basking in his own genius. The Fates were great storytellers and history was their narrative; priests were supposed to have awareness of the paths the Fates set for the world of man, but without an understanding of history their insights were clouded.

Odysseus had studied the writings of past historians, seen signs of Champions who were great catalysts of change, and he had acted accordingly. There were times he had feared he was mistaken — Jordan could be stubborn and impudent in ways that would ostracise him at court, simmering with a disrespect that could be grating to be around; but there were moments where he rose above expectation — such as now, where they had survived a hundred story fall without the aid of gravity or air gems because of Jordan.

There was greatness in the Champion, and because of his quick thinking, Odysseus would share in the glory.

If you survive your present circumstances, a scared part of him thought. Odysseus tried to push it away doing his best to put his trust in the Champion. He couldn’t, not fully, for even at his greatest, Jordan was prone to bouts of fear that meant he ran rather than fight. Odysseus could respect it, for he could not understand his sister’s love for danger and combat, but in circumstances such as these a harder stomach and a greater wit were needed.

“What is your plan?” Odysseus asked, keeping his voice low as if it would ease the pain of his body. It did not.

“Clothes,” said Jordan, distracted. He let out a breath, his hands closing tighter around the leather reins. The goat’s hooves were silent as they found ground, something that unsettled Odysseus who was used to the clopping of horse hooves. “We need to fit into this place so we don’t get robbed.”

Odysseus chuckled. “The mountain goat will give us away, will it not?” he asked. Odysseus’ eyes were closed and his head was light. He could feel himself being drawn towards slumber before a jolt travelled through him, bringing him to the waking world once more.

“They don’t know we have a goat,” he said. Jordan moved, leaning closer so his face touched Odysseus’. He pulled back. “Why are your eyes closed? Are you in a lot of pain?”

“Some,” said Odysseus. “Slumber beckons.”

“I’m not a doctor, but I’m going to need you to open your eyes,” he said.

Odysseus felt a shiver run up and down his back. He was the third born child of King Orpheus Mandaron, a prince, one who stood high in the social hierarchy, and yet Jordan presumed to command him. It was irritating that this was not the first time. Odysseus had gone to all the trouble of teaching the Champion how things worked, and yet he did away with it at the first opportunity, ruining both their chances at greatness.

The prince took a deep breath and held it.

Your successes are his, he made himself think. Mother will find you a wife the moment you fail and in that existence lies torment. Ensure that you never reach that point, which means working past Jordan’s own follies.

It would not do if there was distance between himself and Jordan, which was why Odysseus did his best to swallow his irritation. The Champion had a better relationship with Surefoot and that was something Odysseus wanted. There were tales of past Champions and how they had left their allies behind, and Odysseus did not want that to be true for himself.

Which meant he had to grit through the offence of his position being pushed to the wayside.

With a swallow, Odysseus opened his eyes. At once he felt relieved that he did not have to walk on the ground. The street was dark, lit not by luminous gems but candles, torches and glowing flora; there was no road, only muddy earth. There were buildings at either side of them, their faces dark and cracked, some covered with moss or vines, and windows with water-worn shutters.

Below them people, most of whom were barefoot and standing in muck, stood to the sides, looking up with dirtied faces, pale expressions and bodies that were thin and sickly. There was longing in their eyes and Odysseus felt discomforted when some moved, getting close, fearing that they would draw a weapon and free them of their wealth.

I am a prince, he thought, but he was hit by the realisation that such a thing would mean nothing to these people. Cybill — Allycea’s lowborn paramour — had a way of speaking similar to Jordan, showing some disregard for the nobility.

“You should have your weapon in hand,” he said, doing his best to keep the tremors of fear out of his voice, the edge of pain was the perfect cover.

“That’ll escalate things,” said Jordan. “And…” He sighed and swallowed, his expression — much darker in the low light — was set in his usual frown, eyes taking everything in with a scared intensity. They looked close to tears with fear, but there was also anger.

Odysseus swallowed, feeling as though he had missed something. He remembered the last time he had seen such an expression — first it had been moments before Jordan had punched him; then it had been seconds before declaring he would give himself time to reel after a month’s heavy study — in the process spitting on Odysseus’ favour; and finally it had been after his meeting with Baron Owain the Younger.

What have I missed now? he thought. Should I expect another punch, something equally reckless or will he run?

Jordan shifted behind Odysseus and then coins were touched by light as they spun through the air. As if they were squirrels swarming thrown nuts, people ran forward, throwing themselves on the ground and clawing at the mud for a few measly coins.

Disgust wrote itself across Odysseus’ expression.

“You should have not shown them our wealth,” he said, choosing to look away, close his eyes.

“I don’t need it,” Jordan said, his voice a whisper. He spurred the goat on and they moved faster, leaving the street and turning into another. “Desperation is…a tricky thing. Push people far enough and they’ll do bad things, be forced to do bad things to survive.”

“If it is the will of the Fates, then it will always be so,” said Odysseus.

“Mxm.” The sound was like a crackle, sucking air through the teeth. Odysseus did not know what it meant but he felt it all the same, exasperation and dismissal; that it was followed by a huff punctuated the point.

“Do not forget yourself, Champion,” Odysseus said, heat in the words but his voice coming out as a mutter. “You have taken to forgetting titles as of late and though I have ignored it, it was not leave for you to treat me as your equal.”

Jordan let out a long breath and shifted, staying silent.

“It is customary in these circumstances that you apologise for an offence,” he continued.

Jordan let out another long breath before he said, “We’re being followed. If we talk, I’m going to call you OD and you’re not going to be a noble. I hope that whoever’s coming after us is looking for more money and they’ll take us to a doctor, but if not…can you be prepared to make us fast again?”

Do not think I have missed that you have not apologised, Odysseus thought, his breathing harsher, making more pain run through him. After a few deep breaths he chose to let it go. He was in too much pain to dwell. A healer would be a welcomed reprieve, though he feared what would count for one in a place such as this.

Odysseus opened his eyes and looked around. They were in an area that looked reasonably better, the roads were not mud but cracked stone; and the streets were wider and filled with more life. People drove wheelbarrows carrying pails of water, a rare few also had bread, though it looked stale and was carried by dirty hands. Dogs — thin and mangy — moved through the space, out of the way for the most part and looking at food with hungry eyes; more than a few growled as the goat neared — it was not intimidated.

Painful though it was, Odysseus looked around, there were too many people, some stopping and a few moving away. None that he noted were following.

“How do you know we are being followed?” Odysseus asked as his mind worked hard to connect Jordan’s new competence. He had heard more than once that the Champion was blessed with good eyes, but…there was so much that didn’t make sense about the fall, part of which was that Odysseus remembered Jordan manipulating stone with the prowess of an elemental earth mage.

“Paranoia?” Jordan said after a moment. “Maybe genre savviness? It just makes sense that we would be followed, that people would try to screw us over.”

“Yet your weapon is holstered,” said Odysseus. He looked up to see that Jordan’s expression was conflicted, lips pressed together.

“Just because they’re poor, it doesn’t mean any of these people are criminals,” he said. “It doesn’t mean they’re going to try and rob us. But…it goes back to what I was saying before, desperation is tricky.”

Their surroundings lit up as they passed through an archway leading the centre of the neighbourhood. The area was shaped into a circle, a fountain built at the centre, topped by an angular water gem which sprouted water into eight taps that had been carved from the stone; beyond that structure were stands, most of them selling trinkets or old fruits and vegetables as their wares; behind them were shop faces.

The area was busy, but Odysseus ignored it, feeling a bout of relief as he spotted a trio of men standing guard over the fountain. Their armour was dull and their features reflected their surroundings, but those of the city guard were men of honour. They would do as was their duty and lead them back to the upper levels of the city.

The three had turned their gazes upon them on their entrance, waiting and muttering between themselves.

“Champion,” said Odysseus, the words bolstered by his uprising. It was only a name, but the command was clear. “Go speak to the city guard. They will give us aid.”

“I don’t think it’s as simple as you think,” Jordan muttered. “We don’t know who those guys are.”

“They are men of the city guard,” Odysseus said, more insistent and irritated that he had to argue his point. Had he made a mistake in letting the man be familiar? Had he gone too far in trying to ingratiate himself to the Champion? All because he wanted to mirror the relationship between Jordan and Duke Surefoot.

What need is there for you to ingratiate yourself to one such as he at any rate? Odysseus thought. Champion though Jordan was, he was still lowborn, uncivilised in a lot of ways Odysseus was still trying to speak.

But he also saved your life, another part of him thought and he could not help but remember those fleeting moments of consciousness, when he had felt the rush of the wind, known with certainty that his doom approached.

Odysseus took a long and deep breath and then held it in, cooling his irritation and frustration both. It did not work, so he chose instead to direct it towards his surroundings which assaulted his nose, his eyes, his ears and his skin which was still caked in the mud of the place from the fall.

“Even if they are, that doesn’t mean we should trust them,” Jordan whispered.

“If not them, then who? What way is there to get back home? Have them send word to those on the higher levels. No matter what those children said, there is a way to reach Midtown and Hightown.”

Jordan let out a long sigh and shrugged. “I’ve got no better ideas,” he muttered before they closed the distance.

Odysseus had grown up without warriors and he knew when they were on their guard. All three men looked upon Odysseus, Jordan and the goat with reservation, standing straighter and their hands hovering over their swords.

He saved your life, Odysseus thought, tempering the storm of emotions running through him. Perhaps his caution is something to be taken seriously.

As difficult as it was to focus, Odysseus shaped the celestial energy flowing through his body into a shape. At a word it would enchant all three of them to move at greater speed, allowing them to run or fight as the Jordan pleased.

“Greetings, guardsmen,” said Odysseus, the words coming out slurred and drunk. He wanted to be better, but between the pain and how woozy he felt, it was an impossible task. The men’s expressions curled and Odysseus could not help but bristle. He forced himself to sit straighter. “I am Prince Odysseus Mandaron, son of King Orpheus Mandaron and Queen Eleanor Mandaron, and you will assist me.”

“Z’nyanya,” Jordan muttered and again Odysseus bristled. The only times the Champion switched to his own tongue were in moments of wonder or irritation; with nothing to be in wonder of, the word could only mean one thing.

“A prince, huh?” one of the men said. “You don’t look like one.”

“What I look like is not of import,” said Odysseus. “Jordan reached into my pack and pulled out one of the scrolls. It will verify my identity.”

The prince winced at the motion, but a scroll was pulled out and handed to one of the men. They opened and read it, but their expressions only changed to disbelief and hostility.

“You stole this,” the man spat. The other two reached for their swords, taking steps back and levelling them. Odysseus expected the Champion to freeze and was surprised when his pistol came out, pointed at the leader of the group. None of the men reacted with the slightest hint of fear. “I should arrest you for that.”

A crowd had started to draw near.

“Speak louder,” said Jordan.

Your victory against Owain does not make you as adept as you think you are, Odysseus thought bitterly. He was not the best of manipulators but he knew how to play a crowd.

“Arrest me and when Princess Allycea descends into this place in search, you will find yourself brutally executed for the gall,” he said, using his irritation and anger to look down at the men. His voice was projected out, hitting the space and making everyone stop.

“He talks like a nobleman,” one of the men whispered to his companion. He had a tooth missing, a long nose and hair that was thinning though he looked young.

“Anyone can put on a voice,” the leader of the men said, distrust still hanging heavily in his words.

“Haven’t you heard stories about me?” Jordan asked, his voice much softer compared to Odysseus’. “I’m the Champion of Althor. The Dark Champion.”

“There’ve been whispers of it,” said the other, long and tall like Jordan but with more muscle. “We should at least take it to the captain, shouldn’t we?”

A long moment passed before the man hummed and then nodded. “If your story’s true then the captain will have to know about it,” the leader said. Odysseus smiled. “Follow us to the station.”

Odysseus calmed.

“No,” said the Champion.

“No?” Odysseus said as the leader of the guard said, “What?”

Jordan sat taller, mirroring Odysseus in the hardness he took on. “Before you sit Prince Odysseus Mandaron and the Champion of Althor. We will not go to some lowly captain, he will come to us less he faces consequences. You’re free to leave one of your people with us, but we’re not gonna follow you anywhere.”

The man’s expression curled, becoming ugly while his friends bore their shock readily. Odysseus, though, was only confused. Jordan was smart enough that he wouldn’t speak so for no good reason, though, so Odysseus kept his mouth shut.

“Of course, my lords,” the men ground out. “Dan, stay behind. There’s a healer in this area, yeah?”

“Madame Simone,” Dan said with a nod. He was the tall one, his eyes wide and dark, almost soulless.

“Take them there. That’s where we’ll find you. Zach, with me.”

“Follow me, my lords,” Dan said and he led them off.

“What was that about?” Odysseus whispered, trusting the ambient nose to dull his words.

“I don’t trust that guy,” said Jordan. “It’s better if they meet us out in the open. It doesn’t leave them a lot of room to corner us, and hopefully my paranoia will tell us if they try to surround us.”

Odysseus shook his head. “I admit I am confused by you,” he muttered. “To these commoners you show reservations in your distrust, but the guard, men of honour and duty, you are certain in your distrust of them. Why?”

“It’s complicated,” Jordan muttered.

“Do you think me so dumb that I would not be able to understand you?” Odysseus retorted.

Jordan snorted. “Your father said something like that almost verbatim.”

The words were a strike across the face, more painful than the pain that coursed through his body every time he took a breath or shifted. Odysseus tried to find the words, to find a semblance of anger but there was none. He only looked down, unsettled at being compared to the man who saw so little in him.

In silence, they walked on.

***

A chandelier made from snail shells hung on the ceiling, shards turning and shifting shadows in what passed for a healing room of Madame Simone’s clinic. There were bowls of burning herbs spread throughout, producing white smoke that curled in vague shapes, sometimes drifting close to tickle Odysseus’ nose; in the fireplace there sat a large cauldron with bubbling water, the fire was made of wood and some of the smoke came into the room instead drifting up. Even with the light the surroundings were largely dark, stone and wood sucking up the light.

Madame Simone was a large woman, old and grey-haired, wrinkles carved around eyes the colour grass thirsty for water. She had long, knobby hands, and she used those to pull out various herbs from wooden drawers, sometimes she barked out a word and one of her assistants ran to one corner to pick something up.

Odysseus was laid back on an uncomfortable bed, a child of sixteen standing over him, whispering a prayer as she pushed smoke towards him. He didn’t like the mysticism when it came to the healing arts — it was only the unlearned who confused magic and mysticism after all — but since the praying session had begun, his pain had eased and though thinking felt harder, the feeling was no different than the potions he’d drunk from the castle’s healers.

Jordan sat in one corner, his pistol on his lap and his eyes taking everything in. Madame Simone had wanted to heal both of them for the sake of convenience, but the Champion had decided otherwise.

Is this how your mind always works? Odysseus thought. Are you always so paranoid? What does that mean of your time in the castle, then?

He tried to find the answer but as people moved around him he was distracted, losing his mental footing. Madame Simone came close and started to touch him, watching his expression to see where the pain was, then muttering at her assistants who listened avidly, sometimes nodding.

“Madame Simone,” Jordan said, and his voice was loud in this world of whispers. The woman turned, disgusted but not vocalising her thoughts. Jordan pointed. “She’s not working, can I talk to her? I have some questions I’d like answered.”

Questions? Odysseus thought. What knowledge could they impart that a book cannot? What value will you derive from them?

Madame Simone shrugged and continued her prodding.

“Can I get your name?” Jordan asked.

“Isabelle, m’lord,” the girl said, her voice young and quiet.

“Isabelle,” he said, a smile in his voice. Odysseus turned and saw how much softer his expression was, concern written across it. He had seen the expression directed at him a few times — when the Champion had been affronted on Odysseus’ behalf that people found problems with his love of history; and when he’d been explaining his peculiarity of never wanting to be in a relationship.

Odysseus was unsure if that had been manipulation, but he remembered walking away from both conversations much lighter, thinking of the Champion as someone close to a friend. Now that he thought on it, he remembered seeing something similar from Allycea earlier in the day, when they had been dealing with the Eldon matter.

“Is Madame Simone your mother?” Jordan continued.

“No, m’lord,” she said. “Madame Simone is my teacher and caretaker. She takes care of all of us.”

“Where are your parents?”

The girl swallowed. “They died, m’lord,” she said. “Dad worked in the mines and he got the cough. Mum…she left me here. She couldn’t feed me no more. Madame Simone took me in.”

“Are all the people here taken in by Madame Simone?”

“Some. Some are ‘pprentices,” she said, moving her head towards those who were. Odysseus thought they would look better, but they did not.

What are you doing, Champion? Odysseus thought as he looked at the man’s expression. There was something there, a dawning resignation but no surprise. It felt like Jordan already knew the answers, and yet he was still asking the questions. Are you trying to make a point? If so, to whom?

“Do most of the people in Lowtown work in the mines?” Jordan asked.

“I don’t know, m’lord,” the girl said.

“Yes,” one of the girls said. She was older, prettier and she had confidence to her even as she worked. “Apologies for the interruption, my lord, but most of the men do. The women tend to their homes, though a rare few work as caretakers in parts of Midtown.”

“Most of the men work in the mines, the women don’t, mostly. So if a guy dies, the woman is left with the burden of raising children on her own without help,” he said, which wasn’t a question. “Are there any orphanages in this place? Places where children without parents go?”

“No, my lord,” said the confident girl. “Orphans are either on the street, sleeping in abandoned rooms or they get accepted by master craftsmen. There are some lucky orphans that get taken by the mages, especially the disappearing wizards, but that doesn’t happen to many, and some end up back here.”

Odysseus and Jordan’s eyes met. If he could, Odysseus would have crawled back because the expression on the Champion was of utmost loathing, and it was directed at him.

“Wha—” Odysseus managed, his tongue thick in his mouth.

“Nothing,” said Jordan.

Odysseus felt uncomfortable and looked away, looking up. He tried to divine what the Champion could be thinking, but the pieces didn’t connect. Did he feel pity for the people here, people who were on this path as the Fates deemed it? People who had opportunities to better themselves and yet didn’t take them.

He tried to connect the pieces but his mind was slower and his eyelids heavier. Between blinks, people shifted positions, surprising Odysseus.

“Wha—” he groaned and then blinked, his eyes getting used to the low light.

“You fell asleep,” said Jordan. “You missed the captain.”

“How?” Odysseus asked. How did things turn out?

“We have a guard outside,” he said. “The captain promised to send word to the stations closer to the base of the hub, they have a way of communicating to those in Hightown. Word was already starting to spread through the city, people looking for us.”

“Good,” said Odysseus, as he slowly regained control over his body. He let out a long breath of relief. “Are you healed?”

“No. I wanted to be on the lookout. I’m not gonna be comfortable until we’re out of here,” said the Champion.

“Yes,” he said. “I miss the safety of the castle, I will admit. Allycea will be disappointed that she did not get to visit the Arena, but I do not think Father will allow it with everything that has happened.”

Jordan only hummed.

“You did well,” said Odysseus.

The Champion smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes. Odysseus could still see the hint of loathing in his eyes, and it shook him in a way he couldn’t quite put a finger on.