The King's Blood (10 page)

He shook his head, uncertain if he was agreeing or disagreeing with her, just needing this to all go away, for it to have all been some horrible dream, one he can soon wake from. He'd be back in his room with the cracked flagstone where his Father once tripped and bowled over the Bishop of Ostero. His headless Father...

But Ciara squeezed his hand harder, cutting off circulation, "Save your rage, save your anger. Use it to continue." The way she spoke the words it sounded like a familiar phrase.

She sat back into her chair then, watching the soldiers out of the corner of her eye, her hand still pressed hard into Aldrin's. Slowly, bringing her glass to her mouth she finished off the last of her ale. She tried to nudge the boy's cup, but he seemed too terrified to do anything but keep breathing.
 

Sighing, she stood slowly, patting her pockets as if she forgot something and yawned. If she'd been at a party, the hosts would have been checking her pockets for stolen silverware. Ciara motioned to Aldrin to rise. The boy, still numb from the heart down, was afraid his legs would give way, but he tried all the same.

She got her pack halfway on when she remembered the buckles he undid earlier, leaving the thing unwearable. Grabbing it from him before he could try to slip it on and have it crash on his heels, she scooped the second pack up and thrust it into his hands.
 

Taking one quick swig out of Aldrin's tumbler, she rose, still keeping most of her back to the soldiers and quietly but crisply made for the door.

"Hey, pretty thin,' where ya thin' yer goin'?"

Ciara froze. Aldrin bumped into her, his eyes upon the bundle in his arms, but she didn't notice. Her fingers dropped down to the table, trying to find something heavy.

"She's nah a pretty one you want be messing with." Bearded picked up.

"Oh? Oh, you jus' wan' 'er for youself," clean-shaven's accent grew thicker the deeper into the bottle he crawled.

"Look 't her, that black skin, those soulless eyes. She's on' o' them unblinkers," Bearded pointed at her with the bottle of brandy.

Clean-shaven finally cleared his eyes enough to see properly out of them and took in something other than her figure being in a dress. "Ya...di'n't there be an unblinker at the castle? A full gro'n 'n' too. This 'nes barely left the hell pond."

Bearded scratched his chin, clarity sobering him up more than he preferred. Clean-shaven was staring at the pair of them now, his own dark eyes darting over the state of Aldrin, who for the first time was grateful Ciara sold off his royal clothing.

"Sounds like something that queer coward Lord Albrant would have."

Clean-shaven laughed and started to stand, moving closer to Ciara as her questing fingers could only find purchase on the mug.
Gods, would that even cut through that thick of a skull before shattering?

But Scepticar must have interceded, for Clean-shaven only got a few steps before the owned stool at the bar slid back and one of the regulars disentangled himself from his first home. The man, a logger by trade, rose and then rose some more, his ham of a fist landing squarely on Clean-Shaven's shoulder.
 

The soldier turned, taking in the man bear interfering with his investigation. He only got as far as "Sta..." before the man put his frying pan fist through Clean-Shaven's jaw. Dropping to the floor, the soldier screamed as his mandible fell off its hinge, flapping loose like the doors of the inn.

"No one makes fun of our Lord Albrant," the man bear said.

Bearded rose from his seat. Forgetting he had a sword he jumped onto the regular's back while his compatriot continued to scream and bleed all over the floor. The men in the corner rose from their spots, metal glinting in their hands.

Ciara dropped the mug and grabbed Aldrin's hand screaming, "RUN!"

Aldrin dropped the pack, still unbuckled, onto the floor of their "room". A horse whinnied in response.

"This is the best you could secure? A pile of straw between a mare's hindquarters?"

Rather than wait to see who would win the fight, the pair fled to the barn up the hill; the "rustic suite". If they'd stayed they'd have gotten to watch the lumberjack haul both soldiers out by their necks and toss them into the well. Their cries for help echoed around a silent town that smirked behind darkened doors. Sure, eventually someone would fish them out before they started to smell and mucked up the water supply, but no reason to tell them that.

Ciara; frustrated, exhausted, and realizing why her mother never asked her to watch any of the little ones the servant girls inevitably birthed nine months after the armies passed through, gritted her teeth, "I am so sorry, your majesty. Next time I'll craft magical fairy gold out of your teeth and use that to buy a palace on the moon."

Aldrin's eyes dropped down, not at her sarcastic threat to steal all his teeth, but the mention of his birthright. Once nothing more than an assurance that he might get one of the draftier castles to watch over in his adult years, it now dangled the sharp threat of an advancement he never thought or hoped possible.
 

His father was dead. Out of all the constants in little Bonny's life, the large man who'd waltz into the main dining hall -- his eyes lusting upon a slice of egg pie with extra anchovies -- was the most absolute. He'd sooner believe the sun would never rise again, that summer would never come, that dogs would wear funny hats, and birds were once giant killer lizards, that his father, his king, would never wink and absentmindedly call him "Susan" again.

The sob started as his knees sunk down into the straw. Tears dribbled down cheeks burning with embarrassment as the girl watched from across the stall, trying to make her bed with as few horse droppings as possible. He rolled onto his side, and curled up like a newborn kitten searching for littermates that vanished into loving arms while the runt was left behind.
 

Ciara looked away, uncertain what to make of this much grief and even more concerned that the same welled beneath her breast, held only at bay by a razor sharp wire of purpose. But the kid, all he had was someone to drag him to safety. And after that...

Her fingers brushed up to her eye and came away wet. This trip to Tumbler's End was going to be an even greater challenge than she feared. Another heart wrenching sob escaped Aldrin. They were bottlenecked, an entire mental breakdown dammed because it attempted to break free all at once. Ciara tried to roll away but knew she'd be unable to sleep.

"When I was little my mother used to tell me stories. Fantastical things about little girls with ribbons in their hair who made friends with the animals and had tea parties." Aldrin paused in his sobbing hiccups, welcoming anything that kept him from the thoughts tumbling through his head.

Ciara continued, "I hated them. All happy friendships and everyone saves the day and no one gets eaten for breakfast."

Aldrin snorted at that. It would be a rather unpleasant tea party if young Alice tore into the roasted leg of the white rabbit. "My nurse, she'd go on about this young boy who did all these naughty things and never had any good come to him if he kept doing his very naughty things. As if I hadn't figured out she meant me before I learned to walk."

Ciara rolled her eyes. Parents; always quick to assume their children are slightly less attentive then a molding rutabaga. Or maybe they secretly hope it to be so their lives are a bit easier. "The stories I really wanted were from my father. He'd talk of ferocious lions in the Western lands, of the deadly scorpions bigger 'en your head in the South, and of course I couldn't go to sleep without one tale of the unblinkers."

Aldrin gawped, the burning in his soul forgotten, "How did you reach sleep after that?"
 

There were always tales of the unblinkers, most scattered in the wild forests of the Eastern Aravingion Empire. Men with skin grey from neglect, some even covered in lichen, stalking the land in strange, jerky movements, like a puppet with an inexperienced master. And of course, the eternal stare, the eyelids never closing. But those stories were all dismissed as little more than superstition, things to haunt children around fires, and to encourage people to properly dispose of their dead. As all good Scepticars knew, there was no such thing as magic.

"There were some tales I couldn't sleep for a week after, then my mother'd be back with the happy squirrel and his ant friends. Eventually, my father would sneak in with something even more terrifying than before." She sighed, trying to forget that last kiss on her head and the finality as her father pulled away from her.

"Ciara," the voice was much smaller in the flickering light, "there's something I should tell you. It might be important, or not. I…I'm not just some noble's son." Aldrin tried to weigh his next words carefully, "I'm actually the son of..."

The barn door slid open and a man dressed in tasteful black entered. His sharp eyes moved past his horse to a pair of kids curled up in the waning lamplight, their chatter halting jaggedly at his presence. A couple of transients, probably slipped from their guardian's watch to get married or die on their way to a real town.

He was about to turn away from the couple when the light landed on the boy's face. The lack of a chin grew into a strong jaw in the shadows; the doe eyes sharpened into a hardened gaze and crisp grief aged his countenance. The assassin couldn't believe his luck. The saddle slipped from his hands as he reached for his dagger. "Bonaventure," he intoned in the gravely voice he spent years perfecting, "I have come to introduce you to your maker." His overtly pointed shoes crossed the barn's floor as his cloak billowed dramatically around him.

The boy scrambled to his feet, his shoes sliding in the straw, but he was paralyzed with fear as the blade advanced towards him. The assassin paused and smiled down at the child. He savored his kills, really wanting to feel each.

He also really felt the iron horseshoe smashing into the back of his skull as he crumbled to his knees in sparking darkness.

Ciara grabbed Aldrin's hand, shaking him out of his stupor. He looked into her eyes as she dropped the shoe, coated in assassin blood. "Run?"

"Run," she reached over and picked up his pack, still buckleless, "But not without this," and pushed it into his arms.

They burst into a dark clearing which, with a few panicked footsteps, changed quickly into dark forest, thick and untamed. The lantern was abandoned back with the assassin, and any excess light would be an invitation for any more shadow ravens to swoop down upon them. Ciara ran in front as best as she could, taking most of the branch whippings to her legs and arms. One split into her cheek, leaving a sprinkle of blood dripping onto the leaves below.

Aldrin stumbled in her wake, trying and failing to dodge each branch her form turned into ballistics. He struggled, his arms unable to guide through the trees as they were wrapped protectively around his bag. "Ci..." he started, failing to keep his breath at this pace.

His ankle turned in a log and he yelped, but the girl didn't stop or even turn, she was running like a horse in stampede mode with no destination in mind aside from away. Gritting his teeth, he fought through the pain and shook off a scream every time his right foot connected with the ground. At the pace she kept, this was rather often.

The forest grew even more impenetrable the deeper they entered, the trees ancient and far more resistant to this thing the seasons called change. They'd hang onto their leaves, thank you very much, for as long as they wished. Stars vanished beneath the dying canopy and even the moon blotted in and out of existence.
 

"Please, stop, Cia..." was all he got before his bad ankle caught in a root and threw him violently against a tree. His head slammed into the trunk, knocking his royal brains about.

But Ciara didn't hear him, with the blood still pounding in her ears and the forest trampling beneath her feet. Aldrin gurgled but couldn't breathe, the wind shoved from his lungs. He fell to the ground coughing, trying to pump oxygen back in for his voice.

"Ciara," he squeaked. "Stop."

But only the night answered back, the wind whispering warnings he couldn't comprehend and the owls growing restless at the trespassers stalking their home. For the first time, Aldrin was completely alone. He tried to rub some relief back into his ankle, but it was so twisted he was destined to walk with a limp for a fortnight.
Or worse
, he thought, grimly assessing the damage. But he still had all his head and none of his blood littered the ground, so, stein half full and all.

Aldrin put his hands up to his mouth and called "Ciara!"

Again, no answer but the near distant sound of the forest relenting to an unstoppable force. It could be hours before she noticed he was missing. The prince laughed mirthlessly to himself. Dropped in a bear trap, nearly pulled into a bar brawl, sent into a headlong run into the night forest, and now left with a twisted ankle at the roots of what was probably a haunted tree. The girl wasn't very good at this rescuing stuff.