Another new day had fallen upon Blackthorn, but there was no sun to greet them. Thick dark grey clouds covered the sky; so thick that not even a patch of blue could be seen. It was if Arceus was mourning the passing of Prince Benga. The peasants wore black to show respect for the dead. Even Clair herself had dressed all in black to mourn her husband's unfortunate early end.
But she didn't have time to grieve. Her grandfather was still in bed trying to recover from his strength, but his condition had worsened since they had last talked. Now he couldn't even get out of bed without assistance. Food had to be brought to him and she could only look at him in pity waiting for the day he'd take his last breath. The guards had yet to be informed. All they knew was that the man was sick but recovering well.
She stepped outside to address the people who had gathered in the courtyard. The Unovan guards were standing around their prince's pyre, lit torches in their hand ready to set fire to the corpse at her command. The castle servants had cleaned him up to look at least respectable. Her knights, the royal guard, carried black pieces of cloth around their wrists to show their respect towards the fallen.
There was no sign of Lance in the crowd. It appeared he had been serious about leaving Blackthorn after all. She had assumed her cousin had been bluffing. It wasn't as if he had anywhere else to call home so why leave Blackthorn? Where else could he possibly go? What kind of a life would he live? Would he become a mercenary? Would he try to claim Blackthorn as his own? The men respected him. They didn't respect her. So many questions yet she had no answers.
She raised her hands calling for silence then cleared her throat before addressing the crowd. "The good people of Blackthorn, I stand before you today to mourn the passing of a beloved and respected prince who became victim to a cowardly assassination. Poison was used to take his life from me, and I assure you the guilty will be found and punished accordingly. You can pay your respects to the fallen prince. The guards will call you to come forward in small groups."
She wondered how many people would even care about a fallen foreign prince. The man had only been here for a few days. It wasn't as if the Blackthorn people had formed a close connection to him, but she supposed some people would feel the need to pay their respects out of fear of something bad happening if they didn't. Pulling herself out of her thoughts, she addressed the people again.
"On this day we officially remember the fallen. I encourage you to wear a band of black cloth around your wrists to show your respect for those we have loved and lost. This is the time to mourn the lost." Several people bowed their heads in prayer. Others looked around watching other people's actions. Clair took the opportunity to leave as the guards motioned for people to start standing in a line to visit the funeral pyre up close. She returned to the castle interior escorted by Siebold and three other guards.
The sinners had to be punished. Lyra could not be found so she had to shift her blame on someone else. Someone had to take the blame for Benga's fall and it certainly wasn't going to be herself. How Lyra managed to escape the city was beyond her – one of the guards must've allowed her to escape, but none of the guards knew about the secret passageway. The only people who were aware of it were her grandfather, Lance, and herself.
Lance. But why would he allow Lyra to escape? She was just a slave girl. Why would he even care about her well-being? Although he never mistreated the servants, he didn't have much to do with them either. She rarely saw him conversing with the servants and if he was it was only because he needed something done. But he saw something in Lyra worth saving. Had he become attached to her over the past few weeks? The girl had only been here for just a little over a month.
"My lady," Siebold said, kneeling before her. He bowed his head then looked up. "The men have rounded up the guilty. They await your judgement now in the dungeon." She gestured for him to rise to his feet.
"Excellent. How many do we have?"
"We have three guilty of storing poison in their households. Erika, Clemont and Ilima. Erika owns a farm on this land, but Clemont and Ilima are from other places, namely Kalos and Melemele Island. They've come to our city to make a new life for themselves. Each of them was found to have poison in their households," Siebold explained. "Being a direct local supplier, Erika had contact with the castle servants. The castle servant probably didn't even know they were delivering poison to Prince Benga. Clemont is from Kalos – my birth town. Perhaps he was a hater of the future king. An assassin in disguise."
She would rather pin the blame on Lyra, but the slave had escaped thanks to Lance's treachery. Why would he want to save a slave? Slaves had no importance. Why did it matter if they lived or died? "Excellent. I will deal with them accordingly. They will be punished for their crimes. What of Lance? Have you seen him?"
Siebold shook his head. "I thought he'd be here with you at your side."
"No, he's not here. If you find him bring him to the dungeon."
He bowed. "Of course. What are you planning if I may ask? What is his crime?"
Lance had abandoned her in a time she needed him the most. He had helped Lyra escape. Lyra had been the guilty one. She had brewed the potion. She had escaped justice and now Clair had to lay the blame on someone else to appease the mob or they would become suspicious of their queen. The peasants would probably connect her to the king's ill health and the city would revolt against her rule. Her jaw tightened. "Lance left me. He swore on oath to serve until death, but he's broken that oath and therefore should be punished for it. When you find him, bring him here unharmed. I'll deal with him myself." That bastard.
"He's your cousin."
"And he betrayed his oath," she spat then recollected herself. In a controlled tone, she added, "An oath grandfather asked him to swear upon. He can't be trusted." She folded her arms across her chest, hoping Siebold would understand she didn't want to discuss the matter of her cousin further. "We're going to deal with these criminals, and they will pay for endangering the lives of this kingdom with their own lives. My husband died. I think it's only fair these guilty criminals also pay. Take me down to the dungeon."
He nodded. "Of course." He turned his back and started heading downs towards the dungeons.
Clair had only visited the dungeons once when she had begged Lance to take her down. Her grandfather hadn't wanted her to be exposed to a dark and bloody area, but Clair wasn't squeamish. She had a warrior's heart according to Lance. If she were a man, she would be the one to lead. She followed him down a winding staircase, descending into darkness. The only source of light came from the torch Siebold had picked up before entering the stairwell. Clair had grabbed the other torch.
The descent down to the dungeons was longer than she had remembered. She counted at least a hundred steps before they entered a dimly lit damp room. The stench of blood was overpowering; it was enough to make one's head spin. But she did not falter; rather she smiled at the scent. There were six cells in the room and three were currently preoccupied by the criminals. Their desperate pleas filled the room, but Clair ignored them. She walked over to one of the cells holding Erika taking note of a few skeletal remains in the north eastern corner. Turning to Siebold, she said, "Why have these bones not been removed?" The girl, Erika, grabbed onto the bars and looked up at her with pleading dark eyes.
"They're left behind to remind the victims of the fate that awaits them," Siebold said.
Aside from the skeletal remains, she noticed blood stains on the floor. Clearly, no one had bothered to clean up the cell. She sniffed the air again, her nose scrunching up in disgust. Urine. Had Erika pissed herself from fear? Why hadn't the guards taken her out to relieve herself? The guards could've at least let her die with some dignity intact. Now it caused the entire room to smell. "Clemont will be the first victim. Release him from his cell. He won't be returning."
Siebold frowned. "Execution?"
She nodded. "A royal prince died. I'm sure the Unovans would demand justice in the same way I demand it. It won't bring him back, but at least he will be avenged. Not only that but we cleanse this city of criminals who dare threaten our safety. These people do not want to abide by our laws? They will be dealt with permanently. I do not want to be a weak ruler because I am a woman." Edward would give the criminals a second chance. A chance to redeem themselves. She was not as merciful.
Siebold bowed his head and motioned for the guards to open the first cell. The first victim was Clemont - a young adult male with light blond curls and big blue eyes. The guards grabbed his arms and dragged him across the floor bringing him towards Clair. They released their grip and the boy fell to his knees his eyes filled with fear. "Please… show mercy…" he whimpered.
Clair drew back her hand and brought it hard against his face. He toppled over sideways. "You understand why you are here, correct? You were found with poison in your household. The Unovan prince was poisoned. You may not have done the deed directly, but the people will expect an answer. As you were one of the three found with poison then you will be guilty." She brought a hand to his chin and lifted it up. "You are going to die today, but I will not end your life before a mob."
At the mention of death penalty, Clemont's eyes widened, and he lunged forward, grabbing Clair's feet. "Have mercy!"
Clair kicked him away. "You deserve death for your crime," she said through clenched teeth. She then turned to Siebold. "Bring the stake," she ordered. Their ancestors had stored a variety of tools down below reserved for extracting confessions from criminals, but he hadn't had to use them. Clair didn't want those tools to go to waste. Siebold nodded and entered another room then returned moments later with a long stake. "Strip him of his clothes," she said, turning to the guards.
Two unnamed guards grabbed Clemont's shoulders tightly. One guard pulled out a dagger and started to slice through his clothes while the other held him in place. Once Clemont's clothes were removed, the guard with the dagger pushed Clemont's face down on the ground.
Siebold stepped forward and took the dagger, placing it at the perineum and making a deep incision. Clemont screamed and tried to free himself, but he was firmly held down. Siebold placed the pole at the incision then inserted the blunt end first. He pushed the pole further in causing more pain to erupt within Clemont.
The man screamed, shouted, and cried, but still he continued to push. The blunt end of the pole pushed internal organs in its path to the side creating agony. Clemont's fingernails scraped the floor while tears flowed down his cheeks.
"Lift him up now," Clair ordered.
Holding the pole vertically caused Clemont to slide further down the pole, until the blunt end burst through the top of his sternum, silencing his screams. One of the prisoners screamed. The other broke down in sobs. Two of the guards looked unsettled, but Clair did not wince. Her hard gaze lingered on Clemont, fascinated.
"Where do you want him?" Siebold said.
"We ought to make an example of the man. Put him on display outside the main city gates," Clair answered. Clemont would serve as a warning to anyone thinking about committing a crime – anyone caught would be punished with death. Simple yet effective. "The birds will have something to feast upon. Erika and Ilima will join him. Release the next prisoner."
Siebold released his grip on the pole and stepped beside Clair, letting the two guards hold Clemont upright. "We'll deal with Ilima next. Guards!" He snapped his fingers and tilted his head towards Ilima's cell.
The boy was sitting in the corner, his knees brought to his chest, his pale pink bangs covering his eyes. He rose to his feet when the guards approached his cell and Clair could see tears on his cheeks. The door of his cell was opened, and the guards entered, grabbing Ilima's arms, and dragging him out. He tried to fight, but he was easily overpowered. "You think this is justice?" Ilima spat at her feet. "You'll meet your end one day!"
"Not before yours, I assure you," Clair replied.
"What you are doing is wrong! I didn't do anything!"
She wagged a finger in his face. "You were found with poison in your household. You might be innocent, but the people will demand an answer. Evidence of poison makes you guilty to the crime of murdering a royal prince. That poison could've claimed more lives. So, you must understand the point I am making here – you are a threat to the kingdom, and I won't risk it. Siebold. You may choose the next fitting punishment." There were a lot of devices in the room next door used for extracting confessions. She was eager to see what the other devices did. Perhaps in the future she'd have a chance to try them all out.
"With pleasure, my lady."
Siebold nodded and exited the room once again and returned moments later with a metal device shaped for a head. Ilima's grey eyes fell on the device and he fidgeted, trying to free himself from the guards restraining him. She didn't even know why they bothered to fight. They weren't going to escape. "Keep him still whilst I place this on his head," Siebold said.
Ilima could not fight back as his arms and legs were held down by the guards, but he still tried to struggle. What a waste of energy. Clair held his shoulders with an iron tight grip prohibiting his movement as Siebold lowered the metal device on Ilima's head. A plate sat below his jaw which was connected by a frame to the head cap. He placed her hand on the screw and started to turn it, pressing the bar against the cap. "No... no!" Ilima screamed, as his head started to be slowly compressed.
An ear-splitting scream erupted from the depths of his throat as his teeth were the first to shatter. Blood gushed out spilling down his clothes dying it a permanent shade of red. Siebold continued to turn the screw as Ilima's agonizing screams pierced the air. He held out his hands in front of Ilima's eyes as they were slowly squeezed from his sockets. They fell onto his hands. "An old device developed in Kalos centuries ago," Siebold said, dropping the eyeballs onto the ground. "We call it the head crusher. Obvious reasons why."
Once the head was completely crushed, Siebold removed the device and let Ilima's body fall to the floor. Clair had the feeling the man had used it before back in his region of Kalos. "Yes, very self-explanatory. Effective but messy. I want his body impaled and placed next to Clemont. I want their faces to be permanently imprinted into the minds of the people here. They must know fear. Now, bring the last victim."
Erika. The farmer girl who lived locally. Her only crime was simply being a suitable replacement for Lyra; someone who could take the blame for the death of Benga. She was one of the main suppliers and her family was one of the longest serving names. The girl was freed from her cell and brought to Clair. She was forced to kneel. "I would never poison anyone," the girl pleaded. "My family have served your grandfather for decades!"
"Then explain the poison that was found in your home?"
"Rats. We used poison to kill rats."
"Some of this poison clearly made it into the castle and my husband is now dead because of it," Clair reminded girl, giving her a scathing look. "Do you dare deny it when the evidence is strong?"
"Does your grandfather know about this?" Erika replied, glaring up at her with dark round eyes. For a person who was about to die, she certainly seemed quite bold. "He wouldn't approve of this. This is unnecessary violence that doesn't prove anything!"
"You don't get to tell me what my grandfather would do and would not do. You don't know the man or the secrets that he keeps so I would advise you to keep your mouth shut. Siebold, please, put the girl out of her misery. She can join her ancestors." Unlike the others, Erika didn't try to fight. Instead, she gave Clair a defiant stare. "You speak of killing rats with poison. The same poison that claimed Benga's life. None of that brew remains, but that poison in your house does. You will rot behind bars. A slow but painful death."
Siebold looked at Clair. "Is that it?"
Clair nodded. "Yes. She'll suffer slowly."
"May Arceus strike you down!" Erika exclaimed as the guards brought her back to her cell. Clair would have Siebold deliver the poison, but she didn't want to stay down here in the cells and watch the girl die. The dungeon had a foul stench, and the air was damp. Not an environment she wanted to stay in for too long.
"I'll leave you to give the poison. I have other matters to attend to." She grabbed Siebold's torch and headed towards the exit.
"I'll find Lance, I promise."
"Good." Stopping just short of the doorway, she glanced over her shoulder and said, "Tell him he has to answer to the queen."
She didn't know what she was going to do just yet, but she knew something had to be done. But what? Prevent him from ever returning to the kingdom? Strip him of his title? She didn't want to kill him – he was still her family and all she had left – but he had to be punished for abandoning her. Without saying another word, she left the dungeon and returned to her room.
.
His head throbbed. His head felt heavy, as if he were carrying a great weight in his head. It was like waking up after a heavy night of drinking strong ale. Gary opened his eyes and forced himself upright, the world around him a blur. The world spun, but after a few moments, his vision began to clear, and he could make sense of where he was.
"…What happened," Gary murmured, picking himself up from the ground. He moved a hand to his head, feeling a slight bump on the left side. It was tender to his touch. He rubbed it gently. Right. He had been punched in the face. A blond male. Morty. The sceptre. The events of yesterday returned to him. He walked over to the drawer and opened it, digging his hands inside searching for the sceptre. But nothing.
"Dammit," he cursed, kicking the drawer, earning himself a sharp pain in his right foot. Groaning again, he kept his hand pressed against his head, and headed downstairs to find answers. Maybe Tracey had seen something. Someone had to be informed about Morty. "Tracey!" he called out. No response. Perhaps the man had gone down to the cellars.
He walked down the stairs. No sign of Tracey, but there was shattered a mug on the floor, and spilled ale in a puddle. But no Tracey. "Tracey!" he called out. Again, there was no response. Were had the boy gone? He walked over to the counter and grabbed himself a mug, then poured some water out of a keg, filling it to the brim.
Rather than search for the boy, Gary sat down at the table. If the boy had gone down to the cellars, then he'd soon return. He laid his head down on the table and shut his eyes for a moment, as if that would somehow make the pain go away. Every movement ached.
"Gary?"
Gary lifted his head. "Tracey?" He climbed to his feet and pushed his stool in then walked towards the voice coming from the kitchen. His stomach muscles coiled, and he remained tight-lipped, uncertain. He entered the room. His mouth dropped open. "Shit, Tracey!"
The boy was resting against the leg of the table, both hands on his stomach, blood spilling out between the cracks. His hands were coated in blood. His own blood. "…You're alive," he murmured.
Gary rushed to his side and kneeled next to him. "This is all my fault," he said.
"Not your fault," Tracey said, his face pale, and voice hoarse. "He just… attacked me."
Rising to his feet once more, Gary headed to one of the drawers and opened it, searching through for something that could stop the blood flow. All he had was a bit of wine and honey to help cleanse the gash. He couldn't tell if it was fatal yet, but he was hurting. Before returning to Tracey, he also grabbed a clean cloth from the drawer. "Move your hands. This might hurt a bit, but we need to clean it."
Tracey obeyed, slowly moving his hands away. The wound didn't look too bad – it didn't look deep. More of a scare tactic and to prevent the boy from running away to warn someone, but still bad enough that it hurt to move. "…I just… He warned me to stay back and stay silent… Then he pulled a knife on me," he murmured.
"He's not one of us, Tracey."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Gary poured some wine on the wound then cleaned up the area around it with the cloth before applying honey on the gash. "He had other motives for joining Blackthorn's army. I need to tell someone." But who would listen? The guards hadn't found anything, but he didn't want to confront Clair during this difficult time. Would Chuck listen? Who would listen to a tavern boy? Lance perhaps.
Tracey groaned. "…Arceus save us…"
Gary wrapped a cloth around Tracey's stomach. "It doesn't look deep. Not fatal anyway. But you're going to be quite sore. Try not to move around too much. Just take it easy." He stood up once more, and grabbed a bucket from beneath the kitchen counter, then filled it with water to wash his hands in, removing Tracey's blood off him. Once done, he found a mug and filled it with water.
"…Who is he?"
"Some mage I think. He knew another mage." And he knew about the sceptre.
Tracey's eyes widened. "A mage? Here? Someone must be told…"
"I want to tell everyone, but who is going to believe a tavern boy?" And if he started talking about the sceptre, then people would assume the worst.
"Your grandfather."
"And what's my grandfather going to do? Nothing. He'll just say it was my fault." His fault for opening the tomb door and taking the sceptre. His fault for believing Bugsy just so the boy would leave him alone. His fault for not being strong enough to protect the sceptre. "I should've tried harder," he murmured.
Tracey placed a hand on the cloth bandage. "You have to report him."
"But no one is going to listen."
"We're proof that we were attacked. He could be the culprit behind the poisoning."
Gary wished Tracey were right, but Morty had probably already left the city. He didn't know how long he had been unconscious for. An hour. Maybe even more. Maybe less. "And he's probably already gone."
Tracey grimaced. "What did he want anyway?"
"Some item I bought from the markets awhile back," Gary lied.
Leaning his head against the hard wooden leg of the table, Tracey added, "… That's odd."
"You should drink something." Gary handed Tracey the mug of water. "Save your strength. You're lucky he didn't kill you. You don't have to work for the rest of the week… Don't worry about coin and all. I'll cover you."
Tracey raised an eyebrow. "You would do that?"
"He was here because of me. I'll get you something comfortable to lie on." Expecting Tracey to stand up and walk upstairs to the bedroom would be asking for too much. He needed rest, and something comfortable to lie on that wasn't a hard wooden floor. "I don't have much, but I can get you a bunch of pillows to sleep on."
"That will be fine," Tracey replied, closing his eyes, not daring to move his limbs. At least the bleeding had stopped. "I'll have to change your cloth later and clean around the area again. Can't risk it getting infected because I don't anything could save you then." Except magic perhaps.
"What are you going to do?"
"Find some cushions for you."
"After that."
He didn't know. What was there to do? He couldn't just leave Tracey behind alone. What if the boy fainted? No. He had to stay. "Maybe someone else will come. Another soldier. I'm sure some of them will be wanting something to drink. But I'm not leaving you here alone. I'll be back." Not like the man could go anywhere go anyway. Without saying another word, Gary walked away and returned to his room to grab some cushions.
.
Edward Blackthorn's strength was fading. The man could hardly eat his food without the help of one of the servants. Clair didn't speak with the man; just the mere presence of him made her feel sick. Would he be this ill if it hadn't been for the passing of Prince Benga? Had she sentenced him to an earlier death? Her grandfather wasn't her only concern. Lance hadn't been sighted since their last conversation. The guards had been looking for him, but they had failed.
Useless. The whole lot of them. Her fingers wrapped around the amulet as if holding it firmly brought her comfort. The voice had stopped talking to her; it was as if she had been abandoned too and by an amulet of all things. Still, she felt vulnerable without it. She was alone. Karen hadn't contacted her since their visit to the slave pits. Her grandfather struggled to form a coherent sentence. Lance was absent. Her personal servant was gone. She didn't have anyone else to turn to.
Even the guards seemed hesitant to approach her, as if they did not know what words to speak. Would they even listen to her? Life was supposed to be better now. She was no longer married to Prince Benga. Her grandfather couldn't control her anymore. No one could tell her how to act. But she was more alone now than ever before. She glanced down at the amulet between her fingers. It had been her undoing. A cursed object. It had filled her head with false futures, and she had acted to erase those fears.
Stepping out onto the balcony, she placed her hands on the railings and looked beyond the city's walls towards the horizon. Dark thick grey clouds covered the sky; not a single patch of blue could be seen. No light. No hope. A dark day for all. Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. Confused, Clair pulled away from the balcony and walked over to the door. She peered through the keyhole trying to catch a glimpse of the person on the other side.
She had hoped to see Lance, but instead she saw Siebold. Disappointment surged through her, but she placed a handle and pulled it downwards, opening the door for the soldier. In Lance's absence, the man had taken it upon himself to become the leader of the guards. The man wasn't even a knight, yet he acted like one. His posture straightened, and he greeted her with a smile. "My queen," he said, kneeling before her. She held out her hand. He pressed his lips against her skin then looked up. "I'm here to serve. Whatever you need."
Clair withdrew her hand. "We need to guard the castle."
"You fear an attack from the Unovans?"
She shook her head. "No. Lance. He'll try to retake the castle because he's a good man." A better person than she was. He never would've been tempted by a fancy object just to prove to other people how much wealth he had. She never should've bought the stupid amulet. Prince Benga would still be alive. Her grandfather would be healthier than he was now, and Lance would still be here. But she couldn't change course now. Blackthorns didn't beg for forgiveness.
"He won't have an army to attack with."
"He won't need an army," Clair said, shifting her gaze from Siebold. "This castle has many secrets. Lance told me once there was a secret passageway created for the purpose of having an escape route should the city fall under attack. I don't know where it is – only Lance and my grandfather know, and he won't share it with me. It wasn't for women to know in case we tried to escape." She crossed her arms over her chest and stared into the distance.
"Then I will stand outside the castle and ensure no one comes inside. I'll have guards patrolling the courtyard. He's one man. He can't possibly take us all on," Siebold stated, confident. "He's not a true Blackthorn like you are – you would never abandon the city."
"He's my cousin, Siebold. Choose your words wisely." Even though Lance had left, they were still bonded by blood. She turned to Siebold again, an eyebrow raised. The man was trying hard to win her favour. Did he expect an official promotion to declare himself the captain of the knights? The man hadn't even been officially knighted and yet he acted as if he had. Still, she couldn't make enemies within the kingdom. She needed every helping hand.
Siebold bowed. "Of course, forgive me. I am only concerned about you, that is all. The murderer of Prince Benga is still out there, and I believe he will strike again. Lance returning to the city to claim the throne is the distraction this assassin needs. You must be careful, my queen. These are troublesome times."
She didn't need a foreigner to tell her their future was looking grim. She was aware of the fact. "I'm surprised you're so loyal. You weren't even born here."
"My king didn't see value in me. He overlooked my skills and sent me away. I came to this region and sought out the king because I had heard stories about him," Siebold explained, his hand dropping on his sword. "He gave me a purpose I didn't have before."
Clair nodded. That is what people wanted. A purpose in their life. To know what they were fighting for and why. Siebold saw purpose in Edward Blackthorn. He would expect the same from her. But why Edward Blackthorn? Surely there were other kings he could seek out. She didn't trust the man - she would be a fool to trust any man. But she needed his protection. "Then I have glad you are here. I have need of a good blade, but what do you want in return?" Everyone wanted something. No knight would place their life at risk for nothing. "Is it gold? A promotion? Speak so that I may grant you what you want."
He shook his head. "I have all that I need. Your king has been kind to me. I should return the favour and do my best to protect you from harm." He cleared his throat and raked a hand through his blond hair. "The murder of Prince Benga was no accident. His body was checked for signs of poison, but we found something else when we cleaned him up for the service." He lowered his voice as if fearing he would be overhead. "Signs of blood magic. Necromancy. And I fear you may have been the intended target."
Benga had mentioned necromancy before. She hadn't had the chance to question him further. At least he didn't suspect her of murdering Prince Benga. She wondered if they would even be having this conversation if he suspected. "Blood magic," she repeated.
Clair relaxed. Slightly. "What did you find?"
"His eyes were blood red. We couldn't even see the pupils no more. He was crying blood even in death. I have seen this before, Clair. There were traced of necromancy recorded in the books in Kalos from our scribe, Sycamore. I believe this assassin wanted to kill you, but Prince Benga took the drink instead. Your life is in danger, but I swear I will defend you with my life as I pledged to your grandfather." He kneeled before her and bowed then climbed to his feet once more.
Her fingers wrapped around the amulet. "Then us let prepare for the incoming storm."
.
A dark cloud hung above the city of Blackthorn. A dreary atmosphere, but it was just the beginning. In a matter of days, the once populated lively city would become a graveyard. The streets would be covered in blood, and his people would reclaim what was lost – their freedom. Naoko and N would lead them to victory, and he was the key to their success.
The streets were still quiet. Peasants were still hesitant to roam the city knowing the streets were more guarded than usual. Getting out of Blackthorn would be no easy task, but no one suspected him of anything yet. He planned to leave as soon as possible, but he needed the amulet Clair wore around her neck, and what better way to obtain it by giving her the golden sword.
Confident, Morty strode up the castle. The castle courtyard was guarded by a single knight. He carried a shield in his left hand and a longsword in the other. Short blond bangs covered his righteye, but the man pushed them away with his hand. Morty strode towards him.
The blond man stepped towards him, his shoulders pinned back, and chest thrust out to make himself appear bigger and more important. "Turn away from the castle keep and return to the barracks, soldier.," the man said, giving him a dismissive wave.
"I need to speak with the king."
"The king is gravely ill."
Morty held his ground. "I need to speak with the person in charge then. The prince."
"Has been declared a traitor to the crown. The princess has become queen."
Even better. She had the final relic. "I have something she will be interested in."
The man lifted a brow. "And what could a soldier possibly offer?"
"A sword reclaimed from Henry Blackthorn's grave in an abandoned ruin outside the city." Morty pulled out the sword and held it out before the knight.
He scoffed. "I do not believe it. That place is haunted. No one has been able to find the man's possessions." Morty moved his head to the side slightly. Through the steel bars, he spotted a woman with long blue hair approaching them. Clair. "Seems like the queen has a different opinion."
"Siebold, what is happening?" Clair called out.
He turned around and bowed. "This soldier claims to have found Henry Blackthorn's treasured sword, but do not concern yourself with him. He is but a commoner."
Clair moved past Siebold. Her eyes narrowed. "Oh. I remember you. You were with that boy, Falkner. The quiet one. I allowed you to borrow some weapons that day."
He noticed the black bags beneath her eyes. A side effect of wearing the amulet combined with restless nights. "And you asked us to find you something beautiful." He tilted his head at the sword. "This is the sword I present you with. A suitable weapon for someone as beautiful as you. It's a true king's weapon. Much better than that amulet you wear around your neck," he added, appealing to her vanity.
Clair's hands moved to the amulet. She looked down at it. "You think it's ugly."
"A sword makes you look powerful, but that amulet is just jewellery. Meaningless."
She moved her hands away. "You insult your queen?"
"Jewellery makes you look beautiful, but a sword gives you strength."
Siebold frowned. "Clair purchased the amulet. You're insulting her preference."
Morty shook his head. "Not at all. You're a queen. Not a princess."
"Can I hold it?"
Morty nodded. "Of course." He handed the sword over. "It's light."
Clair took the blade with two hands. She almost dropped the weapon. Clearly, the woman had never picked up a sword before. "Henry Blackthorn's sword. How can you be so sure?" she said.
"I obtained from the Ruins of Old Blackthorn. You mentioned it to me."
Clair shifted her attention to him. "It's said no one has ever been able to reclaim my great grandfather's possessions. It was as if Arceus himself had blessed the ground to protect it from graverobbers. How were you able to retrieve it?"
"I guess you could say I was blessed by a god."
Siebold snorted, rolling his eyes. "Many people make that claim yet they failed to pass the trials. I find it odd that the newest person to join our ranks is an outsider who managed to overcome the barriers many have failed to pass. What is your secret?"
"Faith," Morty replied.
Siebold folded his arms. "Seems mine isn't strong then."
Clair looked at Morty once more. "I will take this sword. What do you want in return?"
"You don't own him anything, my queen," Siebold said, concerned. "He's but a soldier."
"He's done something no one else has achieved," Clair said.
Morty looked at the amulet. "I'd like the amulet."
She raised an eyebrow. "What? This?"
"Yes."
Her brows furrowed. "What do you think, Siebold?" She turned to the blond knight.
"I cannot deny that a sword is more useful than an amulet."
"Then I will accept the trade."
Siebold raised his eyebrows. "What? Are you certain?"
Clair nodded. "My problems are solved. I will gift the sword to the best of my knights."
Her willingness to part with the item surprised him, but he didn't complain. He took the amulet and placed it around his neck for safety. Now he had all three items. He could return home and receive the reward promised. "Thank you."
"You've proven yourself. I want you to be part of the circle. A knight." Siebold opened his mouth to protest, but Clair raised a hand. "I am the queen. My cousin has abandoned our ranks. I need every able proven hand."
Morty forced a smile. "I'd be honoured to serve."
"Then I will see you tomorrow at the break of dawn outside the castle keep."
Poor Clair. He had been given a chance most soldiers wanted, but he wasn't a common soldier. "Of course," he lied.
Clair smiled. "Excellent. You may leave. Return to the barracks."
He bowed. "Thank you again, your majesty."
He turned his back and started to make his way back to the barracks. Obtaining the final relic had been easier than expected. The amulet had taken its toll on her mental health. People who were not familiar with dark magic were easily corrupted. But Clair wasn't his problem, and he no longer had a reason to dwell here. He decided to take the long route back to the castle gates to avoid suspicion.
"The next time I return I'll be helping to tear down these walls," he murmured. Once he had found a way to leave the city. The guards wouldn't know about him yet. Still, he avoided venturing too close to the barracks or crowded areas, knowing someone would eventually ask questions. He would have to leave the castle unarmed.
Guards continued to walk by, uninterested. All were caught in their own thoughts. He remained in the shadows, ducking around buildings every time he spotted an armed guard. The closer he came to the gate, the less populated it had become. Most people were too afraid to leave their homes, and he supposed many of the main paths were heavily guarded. No one would be trying to leave. Except himself.
He headed towards the castle gate slowly, making sure the other guards weren't around. No one was supposed to leave the city still until Lyra had been found. He found Brock up ahead, alone. The man carried a sword and a shield, his back to the gates, surveying his environment. Morty looked over his shoulder, making sure there were no other guards about, then approached the man.
"Brock."
Brock turned around. "Have they found her yet?"
"Who? Lyra? No."
Brock tightened his jaw. "She must be hiding somewhere."
"Why do you even care?" He eyed Brock's sword. Would the man try to attack him?
With a frown, Brock said, "He's a prince. That never ends well for anyone Why are you even here anyway? Falkner was never on gatekeeper duty. You should be searching for Lyra."
Morty shook his head. "I've got a task for Chuck."
"I haven't heard of any tasks other than find Lyra."
"I'm here to relieve you of your duties. Go home, Brock. Take care of your family."
Brock raised an eyebrow. "But I always guard the gate. That is my duty."
"Prince Benga's dead. The city is a mess. Things change. Go home."
The man wasn't convinced. "Why would Chuck want to relieve me?"
"Because someone poisoned the prince? Be with your family. Keep them close." What would it take to convince the man to leave? He didn't have any gold on him so he couldn't persuade the man with coin. "I wouldn't be here if Chuck hadn't sent me. I offered to guard the gates actually." Brock couldn't disprove it either unless he asked Chuck, but he'd be long gone from the city by then.
"Well… Since you insist…"
"It's no problem." He glanced over his shoulder again, searching for guards. That would make things far more difficult if he were spotted. Someone would want to know why Brock was walking away from the gates since that was his primary role. Fortunately, there was no one else around. Shifting his attention back to Brock, he added, "You don't have to feel guilty."
Brock nodded and turned his back, retreating towards the city centre. Morty waited until the man was well out of range before turning his attention to the lever to open the city gates. "So gullible and easy to manipulate," Morty said aloud as the gates creaked open. But what could he expect from a city of fools with so many soldiers who hadn't experienced a real battle before? They had so much trust in each other to do the right thing. Once the gates were wide open, he walked through, putting the city of Blackthorn behind him.
.
Lance exited Agatha's house, making sure to grab a cloak before leaving. He pulled a hood over his head to conceal his features from passing by peasants. Clair probably hadn't told the rest of the guards yet about their confrontation, but he didn't want to take any chances. He needed to reach Mahogany Town.
At first, he had felt no different, but the now the reversal of the curse was starting to take effect. It began with a slight tingle in the back of his legs before transitioning into a mild cramping sensation which spread to his arms and lower abdomen. Every muscle felt ached, as if he had been involved in a strenuous training exercise. But it wasn't just pain. Although the air was cool and crisp, his skin felt hot, as if he had been standing under the blazing sun for hours until his skin had turned red.
Guards patrolled the city streets, still on the search for Lyra and other offenders, but merchants could leave once more to resume trade with nearby villages and towns. The opening of the gates meant he could speak with his father again, but his mind and body struggled to walk. Every step caused his head to spin. He avoided the guards as best as he could using his enhanced hearing to detect them in advance. Last night he had slept in the stables. Clair would probably have him arrested if he returned.
The tavern wasn't open yet, but he'd force his way in. It wasn't as if Gary would force him out. It was the safest place he could be right now until his body became accustomed to the changes. Fortunately, the soldiers had already passed by and would not return for a while. He pushed the doors open and walked inside immediately taking a seat at the closest table.
Gary glanced at him with an eyebrow raised. The boy was carrying a cloth and a small bucket of water. "Prince Lance? What are you doing here?"
"I just need to rest. I won't be here for long." He placed his elbows on the edge of the table and buried his head in his hands, squeezing his eyes shut, hoping the pain would subside. The longer he spent time dwelling here in Blackthorn, the more control Clair would have over the city and the stronger their enemies would become. He couldn't delay for much longer.
He heard footsteps approaching. "Can I get you something to drink? Do you even drink at all?"
Knights didn't drink. Drinking was for soldiers and knights were supposed to abstain from such things. But right now, that's all he wanted. Something that could numb his senses and take the pain away temporarily. But were wolves affected by drinks in the same way humans were? He knew wolves healed quickly. He wondered if that extended to ailments outside wounds and magic. "Just give me the strongest thing you have whatever that may be."
"…The soldiers have already checked this building."
"I'm not here to arrest you," Lance replied, pulling his head away from his hands. So much for a chance of some peace and quiet. Gary seemed to relax. Slightly. His eyes kept shifting to the entrance as if expecting a few more guards to come barging through. "I talked to Lyra. I know about your involvement and I know about Morty. I trust her which means I know you had no intentions of murdering Prince Benga."
Gary tilted his head to the side. "You believe a slave. Her word over Clair's."
"I know my cousin tends to exaggerate everything especially if she's displeased. She didn't want this marriage and she hoped to make Prince Benga sick enough he'd have to go home without her to be treated. Grandfather would not risk Clair leaving and becoming ill too. I don't think Clair wanted to kill him, but the potion had a spell cast on it. Henry died of poisoning too."
"History is repeating itself then. Do you have a name at least?"
"Lyra said she met someone called Morty. He's new to our ranks. I wasn't even told. He will be found, and he'll pay." He brought a hand to his head again, feeling a spasm of pain in his forehead. Gary raised an eyebrow. Lance waved a hand. "Don't ask questions. I'm not poisoned. I'm just… feeling a little under the weather. That's all."
"I had an encounter with him too," Gary said.
Lance frowned. "What?"
"Morty. He wanted something." The boy then looked around as if he feared an ambush.
Lance raised an eyebrow. "What exactly?"
Gary ran a hand through his hair, his eyes not meeting Lance's own. "…Something old." It belonged to my ancestor… Nathaniel Oak. A sceptre. Morty wanted it. Said it was of great importance."
"I'm not going to have you arrested for playing with magical items."
That brought little comfort to Gary. He kept his distance as if he thought Lance would change his mind and arrest him. "…I found it. Just a little bit of blood on the door and it opened. I thought… I don't know what I was thinking, and now it's all my fault."
Had Morty come to Blackthorn seeking the sceptre? For what purpose? Was he part of the threat Brawley had warned him about? "You didn't do anything, Gary. I don't believe you tried to cause any harm to anyone." How much had Samuel told Gary?
"Morty has the sceptre. He seemed to know all about it. How to use it properly." His face paled. "What if something bad happens to this city? It'd be my fault. He wanted it so badly he attacked Tracey and myself."
Lance shook his head. "We don't know what is going to happen next, but you need to stay here in the tavern. Don't tell anyone else what you told me – no one is going to believe you. I'd stay and ask more questions, but I've got someplace to be."
Gary frowned. "You're running away."
He pulled his hand away. "I slept in a stable last night. Defending Lyra… a slave against my cousin, the new ruler of Blackthorn… She didn't take that well at all. She'll be caught up in her anger and order her knights to arrest me for being a traitor. I won't be caught. That's why I'm leaving but I'll be back before this city is lost."
"And what about Morty?"
"I'll deal with him when I return."
"He could be long gone by then."
"It's a risk I'll have to take, but right now this city is a state of chaos. I need to retake the city, and I can't do that alone." He stood up, testing his balance, then sat back down again. Gary left the room then returned moments later carrying two silver tankards of ale, setting them on the table. Lance grabbed the handle and peered down at its contents. It was a chestnut colour with a strong scent of malt. Two pairs of eyes were on him.
"I've been wanting to talk to someone about it… Morty attacked me. Left me unconscious on the floor. He tried to kill Tracey too, but he's alive and recovering in another room. I didn't even know if I could tell you." Gary sat down across from him.
"I'm not my grandfather."
"And I'm not mine." Gary gestured to the drink. "I didn't know you drank. It's not like I've ever had to bring you one before. That's what we call Arbok's Fang. Made with malt, yeast, oats, water and a dash of honey," he explained. "It's one of the strongest ones we have."
Lance brought the tankard to his mouth. "That's because I don't, but there's a first for everything." With that said, he took a swig of the ale. The drink was warm and hard to swallow, but it travelled down his throat. Not a pleasant taste, but he consumed its entirety then set the ale down. "Is that it?" He didn't feel any different except for a strange taste in his mouth.
"…Huh. You've got a strong stomach," Gary noted.
"Yes, I do. You might find a lot of things don't affect me." So, it seemed his natural healing didn't cure symptoms that were associated with the werewolf curse such as the headaches and muscle pains. That was to be expected. But his healing did prevent ale from influencing him. That wasn't good.
"…I hope I'm not treading dangerous territory here, but what made you trust a slave?"
"She hasn't given me a reason not to."
"You'd defend a slave."
"Because I know she's innocent of the crime."
"If it were some other slave would you do the same?" Clair had asked him the same thing.
Lance opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. Would he? No. But other slaves weren't like Lyra. She was educated. She was smart. She was a faerie. He wondered how much Gary knew. Had Samuel told him much? "…Lyra's different."
"Because you like her?"
He frowned. "I never said that I did. Besides, even if I did, why would I tell you?"
Gary snorted. "You're certainly a lively conversationalist. I'm starting to see why you don't seem to have any friends in that knighthood circle of yours. But then again, all royals seem to be quite stiff in their behaviour. Makes me glad I refused to my grandfather's offer to work alongside him in the castle."
Gary's grandfather. Of course. Samuel Oak, the man who was responsible for making a special brew that he could take to alleviate the symptoms on moon sickness. The ingredients would've been collected by Gary. Did Gary know how to make it? It was worth trying. Alcohol hadn't worked.
"Perhaps you can help me with something. Your grandfather used to treat me for… this problem that I have. You would've obtained ingredients for it. It lessens the symptoms commonly associated with moon sickness."
"Moon sickness? Isn't that something that affects females only?"
It was a term associated with women and their reproductive system and not one associated with men unless of course they were carrying a werewolf gene. "No. It's just… it's like a flu that appears around the time of the full moon. Headaches. Muscle aches. Chills. Your grandfather was helping me get through it."
Gary frowned, puzzled. "Huh. Grandfather never mentioned it. I mean, I knew he was making it… But never knew who it was for."
"Yeah. It's not something that is commonly known. But are you able to do it? Brew the potion?"
"I can do it. I have the list of ingredients. It's simple enough. Follow me." He stood up from the table and Lance did the same, following the man towards the kitchen area. Tracey was busy sweeping the floor until Gary motioned for him to leave with a simple tilt of his head. The man took his leave once more. "Take equal amounts of radish, bishopwort, garlic, wormwood, helenium copleek and hollowleek. Pound them up and boil them in butter with celandine and red nettle. Keep the mixture in a brass pot until it is a dark red colour then strain it through cloth and smear on the forehead or aching joints," Gary said.
"I used to just drink it."
"Oh. You'd be the first. It's not really supposed to be consumed."
"I guess I just have a strong stomach."
Gary frowned once more then shook his head, walking towards the cabinets to grab the ingredients he needed. He placed them on the table and crushed them then pushed the ingredients into a brass pot. The brass pot was positioned above the fireplace supported by chains. Before setting fire to the wood, he filled the brass pot with the butter, celandine, and red nettle. "Now to set fire." He pointed to a fire steel positioned next to the fireplace.
Lance walked over and picked it up as Gary picked up a flint and handed it over. He scraped the fire steel against the flint until embers appeared. The fireplace already had pieces of char cloth, so he didn't have to wait long for flames to appear. Soon, the water began to boil.
Gary watched the liquid turn a dark red before raising the chains to put the fire out. He then lowered the pot again to allow it to cool. "You must have one hell of a stomach to handle this," he said, reaching for a large wooden spoon.
"Yes, it's quite endurable," Lance replied with a shrug.
Gary dunked the spoon into the pot then poured the liquid into a tankard. "It'll be hot still. So, you'll want to give it some time to cool down."
"That doesn't matter to me." Lance took the tankard away and brought the rim to his lips.
"You'll burn your throat."
Lance ignored him and drank the potion. For a normal person, their throat would be scorched. The flesh inside would bleed, but he was no longer just a normal human. For as quickly as the liquid burned his throat, he would heal again within moments. Already he could feel the effects take control, the muscle pains and headaches starting to lessen. "I told you I would be fine," Lance replied, placing the tankard back on the table.
"…You're something else, aren't you?" Gary said, frowning, curious.
"Perhaps."
"You're not going to tell me?"
Lance raised an eyebrow. "Should I? We're not friends."
Gary faked a hurt look. "I did just help you and now you won't tell me anything? I suppose I could always ask my grandfather. He must know what you are if he was the one treating you for whatever problem you have. But whatever. I'm not important. I'm just the guy who owns the tavern and collects the ingredients needed to treat people." He stood up from the table and grabbed the two tankards. "You should leave. We'll be opening the doors soon and something tells me you don't want to be seen."
"Advice noted," Lance replied, rising to his feet. His headache had subsided, and the muscle aches had faded. All it took was some local plant life and his symptoms had been healed. Magic couldn't fix everything. Even magic had its drawbacks. He headed towards the door but stopped just before exiting. "You need to watch yourself. There's a war coming. Prince Benga's death was just the start of it, but there'll be more deaths to come. You're an Oak, a descendant of the priests, the ones who brought magic here to this land. Our enemies will come for you and you won't be safe within these walls as long as Clair is in control."
Gary turned around. "What? I never…"
"I know who you are. But I don't care. You just need to leave this city."
"And where do you propose I go? My life is here," Gary called out.
Lance glanced over his shoulder. "You want to stay here?"
"I can't leave Tracey behind, and I can't escape the city anyway."
Right. Gary had a fair point. He couldn't leave. "Stay in the tavern. Don't leave. I'll be back."
Gary didn't say anything. Deciding not to pester him further, Lance opened the door and exited. He couldn't afford to linger around for much longer otherwise the guards would arrive and he'd have no way of escaping. As far as he knew, the tavern only had one exit. He moved away from the tavern and headed towards the secret exit, making sure to keep out of range of the guards. He hoped his grandfather would survive until he returned, and Clair hadn't turned the city against itself. His grandfather needed to hold on for a few more days at the most. There were still some things he wanted to know. Things only his grandfather would. But first he had to talk with his father and learn the full story. Cautiously, he moved towards the secret exit.
