Shadows of the Realm (The Circle of Talia) (18 page)

Within two blocks the gentleman led Blayke down a dark, narrow alleyway, clearly the dodgiest lane they had traversed all night. Blayke was wondering if all people who could
‘find’ people operated from dark alleyways; it would have been a nice surprise if he had been led to a brightly lit mansion. At the end of the alley the merchant stopped and turned to Blayke. “Have you ever been fishing?”

He was caught off guard by the change in subject.
“Fishing?”

“
You know about bait, don’t you? A small fish, used to catch a bigger one.”

Blayke was figuring through what the merchant had said. He heard footsteps behind him and turned. Through the gloom he saw a plump woman whose grin was wicked and cunning. He looked into her eyes; dark eyes full of malicious glee, eyes that were looking at the man behind him with familiarity. He understood his predicament in the second it took to feel the pain in the back of his head before he blacked out.

The old woman stepped over Blayke’s body and pulled a large ring of keys from her pocket. She opened the door and stood aside so the man could drag Blayke’s body in. “About time, son.”

“
As I always say, mother, if you want a job done, you have to do it yourself.”

“
Yes, Morth, I know, I know. Just get him in here so I can shut the door.”

Fang watched the gate close. Arcon was not going to like this. Apparently they had found Morth, just not the way they had planned. Fang looked up to the sky, but Phantom was nowhere to be seen; he was already racing to get Arcon.

16

Leon sat atop his regal, white stallion. He ignored the flakes of snow that drifted through the silence to land on his nose and lips. He had called a halt outside the walls of the northern capital of Klendar. Whilst winter had commenced it’s departure in Bayerlon, icicles still adorned the trees and houses of northern Inkra.

Leon, as usual, wanted to make a grand entrance into the city. He had shed his heavier coat, wishing to display his gold-adorned, red one. He now willed himself not to shiver as he sat exposed, waiting for an honour guard to meet and lead them into the city.

It was almost laughable to Leon that they had to wait at all, and he was on the verge of taking it as an insult. As soon as they had crossed the border between Veresia and Inkra, guards had trailed them to the city, sometimes even leading the way when Leon’s retinue was heading off track. The Inkrans had not spoken to any of their party, keeping a wide berth. As soon as they had sighted Klendar in the distance, the guards had ridden ahead. Leon surmised their disappearance into the city had been to inform King Suklar of their arrival. A welcoming party should have materialised by now.

Leon reflected on their week-long journey through the hitherto unvisited land. As soon as they had crossed the border
, the difference had been noticeable. The road was pitted and potholed, slowing travel. Brown weeds and overgrown shrubs grew as unkempt adornments, spiking out of the snow and marking either side of the roadway. The sun remained hidden behind heavy, dark clouds, although small patches of blue occasionally managed to peek through the oppressive curtain.

Snow started falling within two days of entering Inkra, and by the time they neared the city, the horses were labouring through chest-high drifts. Some of the soldiers smiled at the white beauty, which hid the sombre surroundings. Leon only noticed the biting cold and increased difficulty travelling, not to mention the snow blindness, which had affected many of them. Some of the men had brought gossamer thin scarves to place over their eyes. These enterprising soldiers sat around the fires at night, trading pieces of scarf
for food and money. The thoughtful wives who had spent days slaving over their creations would have been mortified to know they were now reduced to small, scrappy eye coverings.

Every Inkran they saw, and those weren’t many, were clothed in the same grey woollen coats, shawls, and head coverings—it was almost a uniform. The houses were all the same, single-story stone huts, with the exception of one larger, two-level house in each town. Everything was neat and ordered, but dirty and morose. Each day further into the countryside saw tensions mounting amongst the troops: whilst they trusted their prince, there were those who felt they were being led into a trap. The
y were far into enemy territory where nothing could save them if Suklar decided their time on this earth was at an end. Leon’s arrogance gave him courage. No one would dare hurt him, the great Prince Leon. He never entertained the thought that everyone else did not necessarily share his perception of his own greatness.

The men
’s forebodings weren’t helped by the fact that two of the men had gone missing. They had been travelling along with them one minute; the next they had disappeared. Leon had refused to risk any more men by looking for them. In Leon’s opinion, if his soldiers had not listened to him about the dangers of this place, they deserved whatever had befallen them. The life of a soldier was to obey his superiors; those who didn’t, suffered the consequences one way or another. The fact that no search was carried out, sent a clear message to the remaining men. Leon knew no one else would wander off.

Leon flexed numb fingers within black gloves. Feeling had also fled from his feet, pain replacing the warmth. Finally, the gates started to open. The sound of stone grating across metal shrieked through the falling snow. It vibrated in Leon
’s teeth. He saw those closest to him squinting eyes and gritting teeth, involuntarily raising palms to cover sensitive ears.

An honour guard of grey-clad Inkrans formed on either side of the road between Leon and the entry to the city. Leon sat straighter in the saddle and ignored the urge to wiggle his fingers in the hope of generating warmth. Everyone held their breath. Would they all be paraded through the city in chains, their prince
’s journey a foolish miscalculation? Were they moments away from death? No one spoke. There was no announcement introducing Suklar, King and ruler of this dismal land. The only sound was the occasional clumps of snow falling from where it had built up on the branches of nearby trees. Each thud caused more than a few of Leon’s men to jump.

King Suklar appeared. He was borne on the shoulders of four grey-clad men, and he sat in what Leon could only have described as a heavy-set, small, ebony throne. The throne was open at the sides and front, and roofed with shiny black leather, which draped down to protect his back. The king was dressed in black with gold and silver thread around his collar. The threads chased each other around to form a symbol, which was composed of diminishing triangles, one inside the other, and so on. The throne bearers glided smoothly and expressionlessly toward Leon. As he surveyed those before him, he could see the Inkrans lacked reasonable height, and his men were typically a half to one foot taller. It was nice to have a natural advantage. 

As the chair approached, Leon dismounted, feet sinking up to his knees in the freshly fallen powder. He knew he had impressed everyone already. Now he had to make a good and humble impression on King Suklar. Leon always felt that to be underestimated was an advantage, and he would pretend inferiority to gain favour. Although he had, technically, an inferior title, he felt his lineage to be superior. Veresians were the supreme race on all of Talia, and Leon was one step away from being their king—well two, but he wasn’t going to let that stop him. He schooled his face into meekness, touched with a hint of awe. Any king, and particularly this one, would have been used to reverence and fear from their people. By all accounts, King Suklar was a mean and hard man, quick to take offence, quicker to take fatal action to rectify the situation. Leon wasn’t stupid enough to think he was going to be a pushover.

The importance of this moment was not lost on the Veresian prince. The last person to meet with King Suklar had been a distant uncle of Leon’s, more than 300 years ago. What Leon
knew about Suklar had been gleaned from spies who had never penetrated the castle, but relayed information from the outer Inkran villages. Suklar had ascended the throne after the suspicious deaths of his two older brothers. Suklar’s father had been an evil tyrant and it appeared the son followed in his footsteps. Suklar had also had his two younger siblings murdered, just in case they were as ambitious as he. Leon could relate to this side of the king and admired his ability to do what was necessary to get ahead.

After proceeding at a stately pace the chair reached Leon. He bowed low. When he straightened, the king offered a barely perceptible nod. No words were exchanged. The king remained in his chair, looking down at the foreign prince as if he were watching a cockroach. Suklar
’s icy blue eyes gave a reception as cold as the snow Leon stood in.

Prince Leon swallowed a growl at the absence of ceremony on what should have been considered a momentous occasion, and at the obvious lack of respect he was being accorded. The Veresian soldiers held their breath as one; they had never seen royalty, in particular theirs, treated so negligently. The prince held his tongue with difficulty, lifted his head higher and returned the insulting nod. Leon told himself he enjoyed games, and this was going to be a good one. Before the end of his stay he would have the king bowing down to him.

He stood still, as the chair was turned around and the king’s hand floated negligently out from behind the leather in a gesture one would use to summon a servant. Leon mounted his horse and followed, signalling his men do the same. The Veresian prince smiled to himself as he pictured how much fun he would have repaying Suklar for all his hospitality. He felt like a child on the eve of its birthday.

The city of Klendar, to Leon
’s surprise, was full of activity. People rushed around, heads bowed to ensure no one made eye contact. It was a wonder they didn’t endlessly bump into each other. As expected, everyone was clad in grey. On closer inspection, Leon noticed coloured lines snaking the edges of everyone’s collars. The colours ranged from green to yellow, red, blue, and purple. It appeared that the purple-striped people had more authority over everyone else, being the only ones who dared lift their heads as they strode along.

Dirt pathways meandered lazily through the plain, level city. No children or animals played in the streets. Every now and then two or three purple stripes harassed, and in one case beat upon, a non-purple striped citizen. Although there was much activity, the silence struck Leon as they marched toward the king
’s enclave. There was no chatter, laughter, or friendly banter—and there were no loud arguments. When the members of this strange society met to exchange or buy goods, they kept their voices to a whisper. Were they scared of being overheard saying the wrong thing, or did the king just dislike noise to an unreasonable extreme? Leon’s men had also noticed this strange phenomenon and chose to keep quiet. Most of them were wound tight after their long journey through the unknown; the eerie lack of noise added to their tension. An impatient snort from a horse, or soldier’s cough, triggered nervous starts from many of them.

Leon rode his horse into a large shadow. He turned his attention from the surrounding city and looked up to behold a monumental structure. The castle, standing a few hundred metres in front of him, was unlike its bland surroundings. The main tower, which rose from the middle of the edifice, was the origin of the exaggerated darkness on an already gloomy day. Heavy squares of pink, yellow, and grey stone climbed one atop the other, many stories high, fading into the falling snow.

The foreign prince had never seen a man-made structure so tall, nor so impressive. The castle walls were reflective and shiny—inky black stone appeared to have grown out of the ground naturally, later to be polished by the hands of man. The luminescent tower appeared as a shaft of light, a heavenly pathway toward the sky. Various-sized arched windows cut into the building at uneven heights. Obsidian walls stepped down in height from the perimeter, to lie lowest in the centre, where the bright stone stamen appeared to have burst forth.

Leon was instructed to halt at the vast doors. The lack of defence in the form of a moat or additional stone wall did not escape Leon
’s notice. What a foolish thing, to leave the castle unfortified.

“
Excuse me, but the king is waiting. You may bring two men, as a courtesy.” The young man in grey castle liveries addressed Leon as he would have addressed the commonest worker, “Follow me.” 

His voice carried a harsh accent, each hard consonant inflected even further, to the point of sounding stunted. Leon dismounted in annoyance but did not speak. He would not give them the pleasure of seeing they had insulted him. He would play their little game, for now.

His realmist, Fendill, and the king’s captain, Pernus, accompanied Leon. The captain of his own guard, Seth, was not impressed about being left behind. Leon had explained that he resented having to take Pernus everywhere, but he preferred to have him where he could see him. Seth would never argue with his prince, so whilst he acquiesced, he also left Leon with no doubt about what he thought about the arrangements. Leon pushed his frustration aside, knowing he was clever enough to do what he needed to, right under this upstart’s nose. If he didn’t keep an eye on Pernus, who knew what mischief he might contrive?

In great contrast to outside, the main hallway of the obsidian castle was clothed from floor to ceiling in white marble tiles. It was an amazing display of wealth, and Leon had to admit, beauty. Every few metres there was a triangular, obsidian tile so black it looked as if it were a bottomless hole, waiting to swallow up a careless passer-by. The prince was not the only one who tensed as he passed over the first black tile.