The Twin Princes Page 8

  ‘Half our men are starving, and Commandant Artus wanted you to have his personal ration. Your father, overruled Castellan Zignumerand about the food rationing, but that doesn’t happen often,’ said Theodric, studying Elymiah and then glancing out the window of the room. ‘After an extensive conversation with your father, Castellan Zignumerand has requested to train you personally. It is an honour, to be sure. He hasn’t taken on an apprentice in years.’

  Elymiah frowned. ‘I was an apprentice once, and I do not wish to be one again. I wish to be left alone. I will not become a daemon hunter.’

  Theodric ignored her words. ‘You may use the training gear in that chest.’ He pointed to a large oak chest in the corner of the room beside a small lantern. ‘I will be waiting on the other side of the door to escort you to the training grounds when you are finished.’

  ‘I said, I wish to be left alone!’ shouted Elymiah.

  Theodric turned on his heel and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him without another word. Elymiah stared at the door, but then the smell of cooked meat rose to her nose. She hurriedly jumped from her bed and threw the metal lid from the cart. It fell with a loud clang onto the stone floor. She stared at the tray of food as saliva pooled in her mouth. A thick slice of bread seasoned with some kind of red spice sat in the dish. She dug her fingers into the toasted crust and stuffed it into her mouth. Warm butter sprang from within the bread into her mouth. Elymiah grabbed a piece of sausage and bit into it ravenously. Grease collected at the edges of her mouth, but she did not care. A skin of wine stood at the end of the cart. Elymiah reached for it and put it to her lips. She swallowed too fast and coughed as she did so, sending wine into her nose. She drank more anyway. She chewed rapidly and reached for another piece of bread. Elymiah glanced around the room as she ate. She hadn’t thought she would have an entire room to herself. The bedchamber was spacious and had a large window looking out onto the dark LaFoyelle Sea.

  ‘You’d best not drink too hard. The last thing you want to do is be drunk at your first training session with the castellan.’

  The deep voice startled Elymiah, and she turned to see Artus standing before her. She hadn’t heard the door open. He was wearing a brown riding coat, black pants, and a leather vest. His sword hung at his side. His white hair was slicked back and neatly trimmed, as was his beard. He held his wide-brimmed hat in his hand. He smiled, picked up a piece of sausage from the cart before him, and bit into it. Elymiah set the skin of wine down and stared at her father.

  ‘Oh, don’t mind me. Eat! You need to regain your strength,’ said Artus with a laugh. Elymiah needed no further coaxing. She continued to dig into the bread and sausage. ‘I hope you have found everything to your liking.’

  Elymiah slowly chewed as she stared at her father.

  ‘I want you to become more than just one of us. One day, I want you to lead the Veledred,’ he said.

  Elymiah chewed thoughtfully and finally swallowed. All hunger left her, and she set the last bit of sausage onto the tray. ‘Father, I do not wish to become a daemon hunter. I… For the first time in my life, I do not know what I wish to do.’

  ‘Sadness and the dark cling to you like a cloak. I see it,’ said Artus. ‘That is why I have a gift for you.’

  ‘You speak bluntly, Father—’ she started, but then Artus drew a silver sword from within his cloak, making her words cease. The edge of the blade was blurred as Artus held it up, as if it were encased in a thin layer of liquid. A blue rune shone in the bevel of the sword. The rune was in the shape of a sparrow with wings spread out. The sword guard held two blue jewels on each side, and a silver striker was placed at the end of the hilt in the shape of a bird claw.

  ‘This straight sword is the sharpest and most durable blade in all of Karagh Muín, likely the entirety of the world. It belonged to the first Aivaterran king, Lyndelt the Fair of House Alamánd. This hallowed weapon was my father’s before me.’

  ‘House Alamánd, not a very well-known story of the Aivaterrans, Father. But besides that, this weapon belongs to my brother, Eymeg. He must receive this gift first. What would he think of you gifting me this sword before him?’ asked Elymiah.

  Artus scowled and shook his head. ‘Eymeg would rather whore and waste gold away on trivialities. Very little else interests him now.’

  Elymiah gathered her robe and draped it over her shoulders as she stood up. Artus cleared his throat and averted his eyes, but he held the sword before him. Elymiah tied the robe and then took the sword from him. The weapon was beautifully crafted, and the weight was evenly distributed between the blade and leather hilt. She turned the sword in her hand and measured the length with her eye. There was no variation. The weapon was stunning to behold.

  ‘I am honoured, Father.’

  ‘A knight must remain busy and train, but for that to happen, a knight must have a sword.’ Artus beamed as he watched light dance on the edge of the blade.

  Elymiah smiled but then let her smile fade. She set the sword beside her bed. ‘I am no longer a knight, Father. That title was taken from me, as was everything else. I was branded, remember?’

  ‘Not all is lost, my daughter.’ Artus picked up the sword and sheathed it. ‘There is still much to accomplish in you.’

  ‘Castellan Kaathe disagrees with you.’

  ‘What Zigi fails to realise is that I am Commandant of the Veledred, not him. He will follow my orders,’ said Artus, squinting his eyes. Elymiah picked the skin of wine up and put it to her lips but drank more slowly than before. She set the skin down and picked up a piece of bread and began nibbling on it.

  ‘How did you become Commandant, Father?’

  ‘Well, that is a long story, but the short of it is I came to the Isles of Brume under the guidance of the Ashen Knight. Nearly thirty years ago I found the Veledred, nearly destroyed and lost. I joined them and slowly rebuilt them up from the ground.’ Artus paced the end of the room, walked to the window, and looked out of it. Theodric had explained that, although the windows were made of glass, they were curved in a way that didn’t reflect light back onto the waters. That way, anyone from within could see out, but no one from the outside would know a large glass window was there. The clouds of fog that had covered the mountain when Elymiah arrived had all dispersed. The sun’s rays poured in through the window, almost blinding Artus. He put his hand to his eyes and gazed across Oarfish Bay. ‘It took a long time, but through various fortunate events, I was able to earn the rank. With you leading the Veledred, the Second Age of Fog stands no chance.’

  Artus turned his back to the window and walked to stand in front of Elymiah. ‘You will bring the Veledred back to its former glory.’

  Elymiah set the unfinished piece of bread onto the cart and thought carefully. ‘I’ll help where I can, Father, to keep my mind off things, but I have a mission of my own.’

  ‘The Ashen Knight?’

  Elymiah nodded slowly. ‘He told me to hunt this creature in the Titanite Mines. I made a pact with the Ashen Knight. I have to complete my agreement, despite Robyn’s—’ She choked on the words refusing to abandon her mouth. She swallowed them and looked into Artus’s eyes. ‘My word will be meaningless if I stray from my path.’ She stood and then walked to the window and looked out, much like Artus had just done. ‘However, I wasn’t given a time frame. I’ll stay until my strength returns. Then I will leave.’

  ‘There’s more at stake than that, Elymiah,’ Artus said, running his finger around the brim of his hat. ‘Daemons have made Weserith their home. Aivaterra will not be able to fight for a while unless a miracle happens, and gods only know what is happening in Alder Isle.’ Artus ran his fingers through his moustache. ‘I need you, Elymiah.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘When you are healed and ready, I will send you to Alder Isle to seek out Baron Wylfesmer. He was the only one who heeded my call to arms, and he is expecting a daemon hunter to show up at his doorstep at any moment. The baron and the twin princes
—elfen from the north, far in the Cairn of Winter— have the armies, and their technology is far more advanced than anything this world has ever seen.’

  ‘What of the Hallowed Masters? Will they join in the retaking of the world?’ Elymiah said, opening the chest and rummaging through the clothes stored within. A black pair of riding pants, very similar to the ones Artus wore, were folded, and beside the articles of clothing was a black cloak and a white riding shirt with a lace collar. But Elymiah wasn’t paying attention to the contents of the chest. She was listening carefully, awaiting Artus’s response.

  ‘Elymiah, I…’

  ‘You what?’ She growled and slammed the chest, turning with fists clenched. ‘You intend to make a treaty with them? After all they did to me?’

  ‘Even after the siege of Aivaterra, they have the numbers, Elymiah. They could turn the tide of this war.’

  ‘They branded me with a hot iron and threw me into the Kingsoul… Then they mutilated...’ said Elymiah, but his name stuck in her throat.

  ‘Robyn,’ Artus said, sighing and lowering his head.

  ‘Don’t you dare speak his name.’ Elymiah’s face turned red hot. She spat through her teeth, ‘You’ve lost that right.’

  ‘I know how you feel, Elymiah.’

  ‘How could you? How could anyone feel what I’ve felt?!’ she shouted and fell to her knees. Tears spilt from her eyes, and she could not control them. She knew she was behaving like a child, but no one could truly know what it was like being her. However, she realised she did not want to become someone who paraded her sorrow. She shivered and clutched her shoulders, wiping the tears off her cheeks. Artus approached her and embraced her. Elymiah put her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes. The heat from his chest warmed her heart. At that moment, she knew he was right. She sobbed into her father’s shoulder for a moment longer and then wiped her tears. Artus helped her stand up and looked into her eyes.

  ‘Know that if I had the chance to blast them all to hell, I would,’ he said. ‘I do promise you this. Those people that branded and exiled you will pay.’

  Elymiah wiped her cheek and nodded.

  ‘Until then’—Artus pulled a box from his coat and handed it to her—‘I have another gift for you. Happy Nameday, my daughter.’

  Elymiah had all but forgotten. It was her twenty-ninth nameday. She took the box in her hands. It was a crudely carved container, and it was massive. She opened the lid and let it fall onto the floor. A flintlock pistol, much like Artus’s, lay inside the box. The weapon was masterfully made. The grip of the flintlock was carved of white ivory and inlaid with gold designs. Elymiah didn't exactly know what she held in her hands.

  ‘It’s a triple barrel flintlock pistol made from ivory. This elfen invention will push our technology hundreds of years ahead of anything the daemons have. I’ll teach you how to use it when I return,’ Artus said, picking up the lid and placing it on the box. ‘The age of the sword and shield are near to the end. A new kind of warfare is on the horizon.’ He cleared his throat and turned toward the door.

  ‘Where are you going?’ asked Elymiah, a hint of curiosity on her brow.

  ‘I am to have an audience with the Keeper of the Reef in Saltkire Hold. I wish you would come with me, but Bearohd hates the Veledred more than anything. I am the only one he bears, or so he says.’ Artus smiled and shook his head. ‘I will return in a couple of days. In the meantime, gather your strength, daughter. Train with the castellan, and meet the other Veledred. Listen to him. He may be bitter, but he is of great value to me.’

  Artus chewed his moustache and looked at the sword in Elymiah’s hand. ‘The Alamánd. You should give the sword that name. That way a part of a history of the Aivaterrans is not forgotten. The memory will be carried on in that sword.’

  Artus closed the door behind him with a soft thud. Elymiah shook her head and walked to the chest. The darkness within the room began to fall heavy on her shoulders. She opened the chest once more and set the pistol inside it, then noticed something wrapped in a white and black sheet. It was bound in the shape of a bottle. Elymiah reached into the chest and pulled the package out. She unfolded the cloth, unscrewed the bottle top, and put the bottle to her nose. She sniffed the contents and nearly gagged. Something was rotting inside the bottle. Curiosity filled her like a chalice beneath a waterfall. A piece of parchment fell from within the cloth. She reached down to pick it up and squinted her eyes at the ink jotted down on paper.

  HAVARI

  The word meant nothing to her. She put the blue bottle to her lips and took a swig. The blue liquid burned her throat, making her cough, and she realised that this was a health serum knights used in battle, but she knew it could also do other things. She remembered using a variant of this liquid in her training in the Trials of the Cherub to become a hallowed knight-captain. Elymiah took another swig from the bottle, but this time the smell wasn’t so rough.

  It tasted sweet.

  ‘WAKE HER, NOW.’

  The voice seemed distant and foreign. Something stung Elymiah's cheek, but she didn’t know what it was, nor did she care. It didn’t hurt at all, but then something hit her chest, causing a stinging feeling in her stomach. An overwhelming bitter taste filled her mouth, and she gagged, waking herself up. She realised she was in her bed again, and she was not alone.

  Two men stood before her. Light poured in from the giant window, but it wasn’t from the sun. Moonlight created strange shadows that towered far above her.

  ‘She’s drunk,’ said one of the men. Elymiah looked down at the bed to see a pool of blue vomit at her side. She stared at it in confusion. One of the men walked to her side and yanked her up. Elymiah frowned as she recognised the face.

  ‘Where did you get this?’ asked Zignumerand, holding the empty Havari bottle in his hand.

  ‘Artus,’ said the other. ‘It must have been a keepsake.’

  Elymiah realised the voice belonged to Theodric. Her vision wandered and blurred, making her nauseous. She burped and put her hand to her lips, feeling a buildup of fire in her stomach.

  ‘You are coming with me,’ said Zignumerand.

  ‘No,’ Elymiah said, twisting her neck, forcing the feeling of vomiting away. ‘I don’t belong here. I will not go with you.’

  Zignumerand’s eyes opened up more than Elymiah thought possible. He wasn’t accustomed to being told no.

  ‘I will leave in the morning. I have no place among you,’ she said.

  ‘Artus left you in my charge. You will do as I say,’ snapped Zignumerand.

  ‘Fuck off and fuck you,’ said Elymiah, standing up. Theodric punched her in the stomach, making her double over. She reared up and hit him in the nose with the back of her hand, forcing him to the ground. Theodric held his bloodied face.

  ‘I didn’t ask for any of this. Fuck the Veledred, and above all’—Elymiah turned to the castellan and bared her teeth—‘fuck you, Zigi.’

  Elymiah had found some form of strength, and she wasn’t about to let it go. She screamed and threw a fist at Zignumerand. But before the blow landed, he caught her wrist and twisted it expertly, forcing her arm to the ground. Her face hit the wooden floor with a hard thud. Zignumerand brought his knee onto her shoulder and put pressure on it.

  ‘And I thought you had no more fight left in you.’ He smiled cruelly.

  Whether it was from the shock of being brought down so efficiently or from the Havari she had drunk, Elymiah could not speak.

  ‘You will obey me.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘No?’

  ‘As I said,’ grunted Elymiah.

  ‘Fuck me?’

  Elymiah nodded, but then a bright flash in her eyes caused her to lose vision. Her breath escaped her for a moment. Zignumerand had dislocated her shoulder.

  ‘You will pay for this. I will not harbour drunks in my castle. Theodric?’ Zignumerand stood up from Elymiah, allowing for Theodric to pick her up. Pain shot through her arm, but Elymiah would not
give them the satisfaction of shouting.

  ‘She is tough, Castellan,’ said Theodric, who was still bleeding from his nose.

  ‘So are we,’ said Zignumerand. ‘Take her to the dungeon immediately. I will deal with her later.’

  Theodric nodded stiffly and picked her up.

  Zignumerand glared at Elymiah. ‘I hope you enjoyed your night in the commandant’s quarters, for it will be the last time you will sleep in a bed so soft.’

  THREE DAYS CAME and went, according to the jailer, Thomas Guiomar, a retired Veledred, aged well over sixty, who sat by the chair next to her cell. He winced in pain and gripped his hip as he sat on a wooden stool beside the gate. Her cell was the only occupied one in the prison chamber. She sat with her head against the back wall. The pain in her stomach began to grow worse as the Havari she had drunk subsided. Her face started to feel numb as well.

  ‘Ah, these cells haven’t been used in nearly two years. The stone here has grown used to being alone,’ said Guiomar as he pulled a pipe from his belt and lit the leaves in the bowl. ‘Ah, the dark brings back memories…hrrmm.’

  Elymiah glanced up at the back of the old jailer’s head. His hair was a pale white colour and falling out. She didn’t remember seeing his face, but Guiomar spoke all the same.

  ‘Tom, Tom, Tom, haven’t you fought enough? No need to go ranging anymore. The daemons have all disappeared, been hunted, or killed. Stay and rest, old dog. You’ve had enough, they all said.’ Guiomar coughed and then fingered the bowl of his pipe.

  ‘You decided to stay, obviously enough,’ muttered Elymiah.

  ‘Nay,’ coughed the jailer, blowing out smoke from his nostrils. ‘I swore I would, but in the end, I followed my heart and went to the deep chasm in the Moonlit Valley on a mission to retrieve a rare but valuable root. We were ambushed by rockbeetles and got all my men killed. I was the most accomplished healer in the Isles of Brume, but I could save not one of my hunters. For that, I was placed to watch over the prison for the rest of my days. A jailer, but also confined to these very cells.’