Curse of Kings (The Trials of Oland Born, Book 1) (32 page)

ecresian had always been more than just the land and the buildings that stood on it – Decresian was its king and its people. They were so entwined and so powerful that, when one was lost, so was the other. But the kingdom was alive again. Decresians stormed the castle, throwing open the windows and doors, airing out the terrible pall left behind by The Craven Lodge.

That night, dressed in a fine uniform of teal and gold, Jerome Rynish stood in the arena's royal box, overlooking the crowd. Delphi stood next to Oland as Jerome's voice rose above all others. It was a voice transformed – by a new start and a new life. It was a voice filled with dignity and pride.

“We stand today in a restored kingdom,” said Jerome. “And what we have learned through Decresian's most terrible times is to have hope. Even the darkest day is a new day. And, even on the darkest day, we can create light. Tonight,” said Jerome, “we will celebrate. We come together in the settled grounds of Castle Derrington for the kingdom's first ball in fifteen long years.”

The crowd cheered.

“I introduce to you a man we have heard so much about, yet, ultimately, knew so little of. A man whose vision was mistaken for madness, a man who was much loved, yet much ridiculed. I introduce to you your new king from a family with a tradition of fine and respected rulers. I introduce to you King Roxleigh.”

King Roxleigh stepped forward, dressed in elaborate robes of gold and teal, made by the swift hands of the Tailor Rynish. On King Roxleigh's head, pressed down into his halo of grey hair, was a magnificent gold crown with the scrolled D of Decresian at its centre.

The cheers of the crowd were deafening. There were people who remained silent, who would need more time to be persuaded of his sanity, who would need an explanation for his curious long life, but it was too soon for the secret of the distillations, extractions and essences to be released.

“Greetings, fellow Decresians,” said King Roxleigh. “I am proud to be among you; I am proud and humbled to stand before you as your king.”

He held up a hand and raised his voice over the noise. “Before I speak any further, I would like to call to the royal box an extraordinary young man: brave, bold, loyal and fearless…”

Fireworks exploded in the sky. King Roxleigh scanned the crowd and found the place where, only minutes earlier, Oland Born had stood.

 

Outside Castle Derrington, Oland leaned against the cold stone, staring at the stars as he listened to Roxleigh's booming voice. He allowed himself to smile, but it was as far as he would go to acknowledge his achievement. To stand before Decresian was something he felt unworthy of. He turned to leave, but stopped when he heard the sound of footsteps on the grass of the battlefield. At first he thought it was Delphi. But then, in the darkness, he saw a young man walking among the dead. The moonlight struck the alarming angles of his face. He was little more than a skeleton, the effect of his terrified eyes emphasised by the dearth of flesh around their sockets. He had a similar gait to Villius Ren, and his father's same dark hair, though his was much thinner. He arrived at the body of a fallen soldier and sank to his knees. He brought his head down close to the body and, for a moment, that was how he stayed. Then he backed away, tears streaming down his face. He stood up and ran, ran from every terrible instinct that churned inside his poisoned core.

Oland did nothing more than watch him go. He was sickened by his affliction, but sickened also by his own actions, though he told himself he had done what he had to do.

He turned as he heard the sound of a horse's hooves in the mud.

“You have a troubled look,” said Delphi, coming to a stop beside him, and jumping down from the horse.

“Are you ready?” said Oland.

“I am,” said Delphi.

Though he didn't say it, Oland couldn't understand how she wanted to leave, after discovering that her father was still alive. If Oland had found his parents, he expected that he would stay, that it would mean more to him than any desire to move on. But he had not found them, and, though Decresian had been delivered to its rightful king, he would continue his search for Archivist Tristan Ault and the census he hoped that he had guarded.

“Are you sure, Delphi?” said Oland.

“I am,” said Delphi, for, after experiencing the wider world, she could not bear to be shut away again; and this time she knew it would be as close to a prison as her loving father could make it.

Oland and Delphi walked along the edge of the moat, holding his horse's reins. As the fireworks once again lit up the sky, Oland suddenly bent double, gripping his stomach.

“What is it?” said Delphi.

Oland fell to his knees. “I… I…”

“Oland, what is it?” said Delphi. “Are you ill?”

“I just…” said Oland. “I saw… I saw…”

He had seen the strangest image – it was the scryer running free. Oland staggered to his feet, wiping sweat from his brow. Then another image struck him. The Bastions standing on the barren ground of Gort, cursing him, roaring his name into the sky. Then another image. The doctor's office at King Seward's Hospital. The bed. Malcolm Evolent, terribly wounded. Benjamin Evolent with a knife to a weeping old man's throat, as he pushed, up and down, on Malcolm's chest. The old man at the desk, his head down. The open drawer. The name, screwed back on to the plaque: Dr Farnsley Evolent.

“
Oland!” said Delphi. “Oland!”

The fireworks died, and the sky went black.

Oland raised his head. “I'm all right,” he said. “I'm… just… ”

“Exhausted, I would imagine,” said Delphi.

But Oland was more than exhausted. He had been struck by a rush of memories: when he was a child, Villius had spilled water on the hearth in the banqueting hall and the flames had reflected on the surface; when Wickham bent with his candlestick to pick up the goblet and the flame shone on the spilled wine; on the night of The Games, in the arena, as the blood pooled at his feet and the torchlight shone on it; in the cave when the light from the camberlilies shone on the water; when the lamplights lit up the marsh; when the flames of the Pyreboys' torches struck the water… all lights on liquid surfaces. Every time, Oland had been flooded with images. They were so fleeting, so strange, that he had never quite known what they were. He had never thought to harness them, he had just pushed them away. He realised now that they were images of the future.

Oland now had the answer as to why King Micah had chosen him to restore Decresian. Like Praevisia's mother, when King Micah had looked into Oland's newborn baby eyes that night in the stables, he saw deep crystal pools, and knew that this strange boy was a scryer, that he would have foresight. And, when he saw the vision of Oland's future at The Games as it flashed across his newborn eyes, he knew he would grow into a young man of great strength and bravery.

Oland realised that, when he visited the scryer, she had screamed at him so that he would be saved. He remembered Blaise's story: “only the scryer herself will know the Rising Scryer”. She was nearing the end of her life, and she didn't want a boy of his age to suffer her fate. The scryer knew that, along with the Thousandth Soul, the Rising Scryer was the most precious commodity in Envar.

Despite the terror of his realisation, Oland managed to mount his horse and pull Delphi up behind him.

Soon, the only sound he could hear was the sound of hooves on the Derrington cobbles, and Delphi's breath in his ear. The horse galloped on, his motion solid and graceful in the worsening rain.

A bolt of lightning flashed overhead, and the puddles around them erupted with light. Oland closed his eyes. For the first time, he tried to capture what he had just seen, to harness his gift. At first, it felt like he was watching the past, but he slowly realised that, although they had common parts, it was clearly the future that was unfolding.

And then Delphi… no… not Delphi… he didn't want to know Delphi's future. He wanted the vision to end. But he had no idea how to control it.

Oland's eyes shot open. He sucked in a huge breath of air. “Delphi!” he shouted. “Delphi!”

Frantically, he reached his arm back.

“I'm still here,” said Delphi, as she felt his hand against her side. She pulled herself closer, pressing herself against his back. “I'm still here.”

nd so, the downfall of Villius Ren was not just at the hands of one champion, but at the hands of many. The restoration of Decresian had begun, and the kingdom would go on to prosper.

Jerome Rynish was not wrong when he spoke of the archivist's oath not to burden a story with his own entanglement. There was, indeed, another line to the oath:

 

I am sky on sky, water on water, fire on fire, earth on earth.

 

Invisibility was considered elemental to the tale. But on the night I chose to become an archivist, only because it was the wish of my dying father, I knew that part of the oath was being broken: I was passing on a letter from King Micah on which the future of Decresian depended. So I vowed only to what I could.

It gave me the freedom to swathe my fire-scarred flesh in bandages not unlike those of Malcolm Evolent in order to rescue Oland Born. When I saw his achievements in the arena, I knew how much attention he would draw and, if I took the first step of removing him from the castle, he could be safely away to embark on his quest. Although I knew nothing of Gideon Ren, nothing of his home in the walled garden, I knew of the existence of the tunnel – as a boy, it was the only way I had to sneak away from my father to study combat. I hoped to take Oland Born through the tunnel and out of Castle Derrington, but, luckily, that was not to be.

 

And so the Thousandth Soul and the Rising Scryer travelled onwards, each hiding a secret from the other, neither yet knowing the depth of their strength and their weakness, nor what it would mean for their future.

There are stories to be found everywhere – in eyes and in hearts and in hiding. It is for each person to choose where to look, and what to believe. In the first of
The Trials of Oland Born
, we discovered myths that were proven to be real, and realities that were proven to be myth.

In the second of
The Trials of Oland Born,
we will uncover fresh deceits. Where was the census and what would it reveal? Would the distillations, extractions, essences and infisions ever be found? And what of Gideon Ren? Would he be drawn, forever, to feed on the dead? And whose wrath did Delphi incur as Stoker carried her away from the burning Curfew Peak?

Oland and Delphi had both known such suffering by their fifteenth year, and had begun to carry in their young hearts such heavy burdens.

Perhaps time or love, like cinderberry salve, could make the scars go away.

 

I am Archivist Tristan Ault.

I am sky on sky, water on water, fire on fire, earth on earth.

I vow to tell the untold tales, and my master is the truth.