Sylvester & Tuette: Cursed Doubt

Chapter Four

The time passes all too quickly.


Sylvester walked again towards Wakefield Hall. It had been only a dozen or so days since the last meeting with the Malforcrent. All of a sudden, this “emergency session” had been called by the councilpersons. We’re supposed to meet once a month!


The king did not wholly enjoy surprises. They usually ended in his disfavor. In the weeks leading up to this presently unexpected meeting, Sylvester had performed as usual: he did very little.


The king was hardly ever called upon to do anything apart from the usual guest appearances for publicly accredited holidays. Just this past Sargentee, he recalled, he had made a short trip to New Opal to celebrate the festivities with that town. Decennia as a kingdom was on the brink of running itself.


But the disregard of the Nementor Paths rested uneasily in the back of his mind. It was not because he was culling some ancient wisdom in regards to the routes but because they seemed to make public the very idea that his kingdom was not as sound as he had been lead to assume.


So he had done some checking; some research.


According to writ, the king had access to all printings that existed in the land. When he delved into the stacks within the bowels of the mountain, Sylvester found not so much in the way of knowledge but endless yarns of discrepant information. How could the paths have become neglected if each region was supposed to contract local smiths and laborers to provide upkeep? And how did the regional tents confiscate funds for those laborers if the crown did not pay them for their services? And why, when looking at a recently-woven map of the kingdom, was Whismerl and Javal’ta so poorly represented while the seemingly insignificant regions of Uv-Hren and Jint were exceedingly detailed?


If the paths had been kept up for the last handful of decades as lawfully decreed, then the present merchants on the west coast wouldn’t need so much money and guardsmen reallocated for those specific purposes. He felt like he did not understand the finer manipulations of his own governmental policies due to the sole fact that he could not understand the meaning that rested within the actions or inactions in this case.


That didn’t stop him from pondering on the funds of the tents. The whole Malforcrent was comprised of former-tents and they seemed to be doing well off. Misren was very much the glutton – somehow more so than his fellow Javal’tans – while Trisden was always so well robed. The Ghin’ra twins seemed to have a new jeweled thread or two added to their collective outfits with each passing month and even Marylyn seemed to be more pasty-white than any of them, meaning she spent more time indoors rather than outside as most professions based inside her region were recognized for. Where was the wealth coming from? Were there tariffs or fees imposed that Sylvester had no knowledge of? As far as he knew, tents earned a wage or bartered like all other contributory citizens. Being subjects of the crown, they normally accessed everyday necessities with no cost, same as their immediate aides.


The wealth provided to the king and his potential family had little to do with actual currency and more to do with how much the bloodline contributed to the kingdom as a whole. In short, Sylvester paid for nothing. Whatever he needed was always present, at hand, much like with the tents and the advisory council. Within reason.


The one thing he knew he needed though could not be provided by those who served the crown or apparently by any who lived within the confines of Decennia: Sylvester desired the knowledge of his kingstone, of the bloodline passed.


Shaking his head, he exhaled but did not break stride. I’m barely a king. He had little useful knowledge and had known it for some time. Who was he to question the very people who served him loyally? The Malforcrent, in all its manners of action or inaction, knew what it was doing.


He had nothing more than baseless suppositions. And when it came down to it, why should he, as king, care about whether or not one region was represented more fully on a map weave than another? It was his job to keep the kingdom as a whole in mind. And that was what he would do, to the best of his abilities.


With this rehashed sense of determination, he entered Wakefield Hall and let a hiccup enter his step as what he saw before him admittedly surprised him.


At the elongated table that dominated Wakefield Hall sat the Malforcrent but not in their usual fashion. Four advisors, those of Fortright Isles, Dekenna, Whismerl, and Broze were on his left hand side. The other four were on the right with the twins closest to him and Misren sitting across from Marylyn.


Picking up his pace once more, he approached the table and, for the first time, noticed the ornately decorated chair that rested at the head. It wasn’t much as chairs went but seemed to take up just a few more spatial dimensions than those the Malforcrent occupied.


Another instance that seemed a little eerie for the king was the deafening silence provided by the seated advisors. A steady flame was burning in the wide fireplace to his right but the crackle echoed all too loudly and Sylvester silently wished that someone would say something or make any kind of noise. As it was, even Misren was silent. There were no plates in front of him and he sat stock-still, staring straight forward. Sylvester could tell he was making Marylyn uncomfortable as she pulled on her earlobes in the way she always did when anyone was talking to her. Confrontation seemed to unsettle her in all regards of the word. Even the aides were silent, as they usually were; they stood against the walls. Misren’s had no plates or dining accoutrements either. Perhaps the seemingly brief time between meetings had disallowed the obese Javal’tan from having his regularly enjoyed meal or meals delivered by someone under order of his region’s tent?


For all the pleasure this was giving the king, he could not help but feel a little more delight seeing the likes of Trisden and Brinttal slightly squirm under the ropes of this docile situation. Apparently, whatever the situation, it was serious enough indeed if Trisden was not already shouting about having to sit in such an obedient manner.


Sylvester sat finally, suppressing the urge to smile: he was literally and considerably elevated over those that advised him. Somehow, this felt more than okay with him. This felt right. Was it like this before? Back when the Malforcrent had been formed, had they been completely obedient to nothing but a child? Even if he had his kingstone’s knowledge to draw upon, it would contain nothing on how to deal with the present situation. Only one other king had called the Malforcrent, and his mental capacities had been called into question anyway.


Across the table – which in this moment seemed entirely too long for any conventional use – was placed an extremely large bouquet of colorful plants. He did not detect any particular scents but Sylvester got the slightest impression that the bouquet was doing something besides balancing out the surface of the table. Was it attentive? The king simply could not know or spend any more time pondering the colorful plants, flowers, and pottery that housed them. 


Refocusing on those at hand, Sylvester cleared his throat and finally spoke. “What is the present emergency, my Malforcrent?”


None answered. Did they appreciate or loathe being referred to as his Malforcrent? And should I truly worry over any potential offense? He didn’t know but pressed the question again, leaning forward as he asked.


Trisden began to shift in his seat, bringing forth the idea that the problem related to his academy. True, it was not the only academy that was erected within the borders of the kingdom but it was the largest and it was the only place where kings were generally crafted. But that would not have been the case as their seating arrangement would not have changed as wholly as it had. Trisden was a forced participant.


Brinttal, Sylvester knew, was also in the same pen. The pair looked like it was trying to make eye contact but was afraid in carrying out such an action. It was Misren whom spoke then, with a slight gurgle and a gentle wheeze. “There is a problem hailing from my own region, your kingship.” There was a pause as he took a deep breath and continued but, again, without clearing his throat to work out the gurgled echo of voice. “A municshipal’s governa’, the count of Boosht within the Sheegulf Islandsh, hash shent messhage to Ten’ Copely of ackt-e-ons he aim to perfor’ ant, in all like’hood, hash ak-reedy garried out.”


The words were becoming noticeably garbled and it was Dothel of all people who leaned forward and said “Misren, perhaps you should drink a beverage to clear your throat?” Misren nodded once and continued to sit there.


He said nothing more but his breathing continued as if labored. The Javal’ta aides exchanged glances and one of them, with confusion and slight horror on their face, rushed over to the refreshment table near the Halls’ entrance. He poured a liberal amount of the precious water and hurried it to his employer. The scene made Sylvester a little uneasy. Is this how these advisors always treat their own aides? If so, how do they treat their regional citizens? Do they all scamper with a layer of fear on their costume, spilling drops of clean water in the process and hoping their lords don’t notice?


Before Sylvester could focus further on it, the goblet was in front of Misren and he grabbed it and forcibly dumped a portion of the contents into his maw of a mouth. Once he swallowed, Dothel nodded, sat back, and Misren continued with a more understandable diction. “In all likelihood, this count has already carried out his threatened actions.”


Silence again, seemingly unnecessary since most of those present had already understood that much. Trisden looked as if he had wanted to say something and Sylvester started to ask of his opinion but Dothel, again, leaned forward and asked “What exactly does this Count Roost claim to have the power to do?”


“He is named Count Roost,” started Misren, as if Dothel hadn’t already stated the name plainly. Obviously, the man from Whismerl was very knowledgeable even of island governors outside his own region! “He says that he has put into motion the means for Cursing a large portion of the kingdom, if not all of it at once.”


Cursing? Sylvester knew of cursing but only in the sense of using offensive language directed towards another body possessed of an incapable mind. It was the king’s turn to lean forward slightly. “He plans to verbally offend all of Decennia?”


Brinttal sighed dramatically and Trisden covered his face with his hands and proceeded to rub his temples with his thumb and forefinger. The Fortright Islander spoke up. “Syl- Sir. Your highness. A Curse is more than just something offensive. It is a… legitimate form of Magik.”


“Magik?” His mind tingled slightly at the mention of Magik, as it always did when mentioned by a Malforcrent member. Sylvester knew it was only a matter of time and dwindling chances that the advisors would learn of the kingstone and its present weakness. He knew it was grounds for a potential usurping. He knew that a conversation centered upon Magik was not one he should be actively taking part in. Sylvester leaned back then, propping himself on one elbow and using that hand to cover and gently rub over his precious and useless kingstone.


“Yes, Magik, good king.” What’s with all the flattery? Trisden’s vocabulary was a little disturbing but the present topic was more unsettling so he ignored it. “Magik has been known to be used for more than just cooking, cleaning, and the occasional healing process. Magik can be used for more sinister purposes.”


Brinttal interjected then. “It can be used to dramatically alter or even destroy a person’s life.” Misren continued to sit and stare forward while Marylyn seemed to shrink away from the table, moment by moment. “In the case of Cursing, Magik can be used to curb one person’s path in ways they cannot control. For instance, perhaps, a Curse that makes a person jump when someone says the word ‘corporeal’.”


“Or even a Curse,” continued Trisden “that causes you to write in another language.”


“Or a Cursing of Truth” stated Dothel. Trisden exchanged glances with the usually silent man and Sylvester, in a mental aside, was attempting to remember how many times Dothel had spoken in other meetings. Did the fact that this was an emergency meeting make him more talkative?


“Yes. And there are Curses that alter physical anatomy or mental conditions or even circumstance outside of a person’s body. The point is they are not to be dealt with lightly as not everyone has the privilege of Cursing others” said Trisden.


Privilege, thought Sylvester. Privilege? He wondered how anyone could denote the act of altering someone’s existence as a privilege.


“How does someone go about Cursing someone else?” asked Marylyn. Obviously, as revealed by her question, she did not know too much about the abstraction of Cursing either.


Brinttal cleared his throat to answer. “A prerequisite is the fact that whoever is casting said Curse is Cursed as well.”


Sylvester’s mind jumped at the possibility to seem like he was paying attention and also to present that he thought of such questions. “If that’s the case, then who cast the first Curse? The very first one?” He suppressed a smile but felt proud of his observational speculation.


“No one knows the origins of Cursing” said Trisden. Dothel cleared his throat. Trisden continued. “But Curses can be Reversed. Almost always.”


“So this… Count Roost is Cursed with what exactly?” All eyes turned to Misren as he had brought up the initial circumstance.


The large man continued to sit and said nothing. Dothel cleared his throat again and spoke up. “Uh, I don’t know if that’s, uh, relevant, but if what Misren says is true, then we might have a problem to deal with.”


“Well, if it can be Reversed, what’s the problem?” Sylvester was beginning to wonder the purpose of this meeting. Was it to inform the king of this potential upriser down south or to make him knowledgeable about more lethal Magiks… or both? He was getting a little worried and with worry came suspicion. Just who was running this show? Was Trisden playing a strange game or was someone else stringing the sail?


His mind tingled again but not because of the overt talk of Magik; it was his mental analogy to the wind sail, which brought forth his briefly forgotten nightmares. Which served to make him lean back and decide to merely listen further; he was without knowledge here.


“The Reverse has to be set by the caster or, in some rare cases, can only be achieved upon the caster’s death. If the Curse is devastating enough to affect the whole of Decennia, then there’s also the chance that all of our people will be too affected to even attempt the Reverse.” Brintall’s clarification made sense to Sylvester, as did the seriousness of the situation. He felt foolish then for voicing the earlier statement alluding to Cursing in the form of obscene vocabulary.


Is there such a Curse? Can someone be Cursed to only curse? He shook the question away and plowed forward. “So what is our option then and what exactly is this Roost fellow planning to Curse us all with?”


Misren then spoke up once again, much to Sylvester’s relief. The king felt the Javal’tan had been quiet for far too long at this point. “Count Roost has not specified his Curse but if he has already cast it, an amount of time is required for it to complete itself. Curses of such magnitude require extensive time to mature though an absolute timeframe is not available at this moment.”


Up until this point, the Ghin’ra twins had been silent but Sylvester noted more than blank knowledge on their faces: they seemed a little afraid. Did they have a reason to fear the properties of Magik as well? It only reminded the king of their unique situation. It was while making this observation that Foyle risked a glance in Sylvester’s direction and could not help but maintain eye contact. His throat then moved as if he was attempting to swallow something small and Pocquet turned towards her brother and then the king.


Sylvester broke eye contact with the man to look towards the woman but she had already turned her gaze again towards the conversation. When he refocused on Foyle, the advisor was doing the same as his sister, staring into the storm of words and propositions. Sylvester wanted to continue with the little distraction in part to stay away from the main topic but also to get a little hint of what was going on beneath the surface of the twins.


Dothel then cleared his throat again and the king’s attention was fully restored for the sake of the meeting. “Uh, sire, we may not know what Misren has to report on Count Roost’s personal situation but the Curse he aims to cast – or has already cast – on the kingdom is something we need to garner more information about, if none is already in hand or mind.”


He then glared almost menacingly at Misren and the obese advisor drank from his goblet once more and pressed on with whatever else he had to report from his native region in regards to the Seagulf Islands. Briefly, Sylvester wondered why the Seagulf formations were considered islands and the ones of Fortright were isles. This was hardly the time or venue in which he could ask so he adopted listening ears and kept the question to himself.


“Count Roost of Boost revealed towards my sources that a Reverse has already been set. That means the Curse has already been cast and that the Reverse can be carried out to halt such drastic actions.” Silence ensued. Everyone waited for Misren to continue with what exactly the Reverse was.


Sylvester was growing a little impatient with the proceedings and could see similar judgments on the faces of other Malforcrent members. Trisden looked the worse for wear, as if he was ready to go through Kren to get to Dothel for an honest throttling. Sylvester pondered again about not only this meeting but all others before it and how the Malforcrent usually behaved.


He could not remember a time when they were arranged as they presently were. Nor could he remember a time when Dothel spoke so much. In the past, as Sylvester recalled, Trisden usually ran the meetings with Brinttal backing him up at every turn. Marylyn would work hard to stay clean while Misren would work seemingly harder to stay full. The twins rarely offered anything that would pass as helpful advice but they participated more than Dothel ever did.


Until this day. This very unusual midday where Dothel was speaking up and Magik was being actively discussed and Sylvester was becoming entirely uncomfortable with the blank territory. Was Dothel up to something? Was he making a move within the Malforcrent?


A slightly more offensive thought entered the king’s mind: did Dothel know about the kingstone?


Sylvester’s hand went to cover the base of his skull yet again, drawing Dothel’s wandering eye with the movement. Does he know?


Outside one of the Hall windows, a bird chirped. It was somewhat rare at these high altitudes but Sylvester could not help but notice it; they were such active parts of his past and acting parts in his nightmares. Dothel looked towards the window too, as if noting the same bird. Was that something he should have noticed, Sylvester wondered?


Exchanging quick glances, he deduced that no other advisors made note of the bird chirping outside, so why did Dothel?


Trisden stood up then, drawing both Dothel and Sylvester’s attention towards himself. “What is the gootin’ Reverse you slab of a slab?” The shout echoed commandingly around the Hall and finally seemed to find Misren’s ears; the fat man continued.


“Count Roost has stated that to stop the nature of his Curse from being carried out, a forest of living chickens is to be created.”


That floored Trisden, or more appropriately put him back into his chair. His face was still as red as a cuemfrey. Marylyn, who had finally disappeared from Sylvester’s line of sight due to being nonplussed by Misren’s constatnt staring, spoke up in her barely perceptible voice. “Wha-what’s that mean, Kren? Bri-Brinttal?” Neither men answered. “Trisden?” she called, drawing the blonde haired man’s attention her way. “What’s th-that k-kind of, uh, um, Reverse say – I mean do?” As she spoke, her hands fumbled over themselves. She was evidently more nervous than she was accustomed to.


Trisden only shook his head, mouth slightly ajar. No one else optioned the fact that they knew what it meant. Somehow, Sylvester was not too surprised when Dothel cleared his throat to speak. Misren took a small gulp of water as if about to say something but Dothel spoke first.


“Perhaps, your lordship, fellow advisors, perhaps it means, ah, that someone has to do exactly what is stated, maybe?”


His actions were not very convincing. Sylvester assumed he knew exactly what the statement meant and was behaving as if he were speaking to a group of unintelligible adolescences.


Sylvester leaned forward then, moving slightly beyond the fear of sounding off without knowledge. “And exactly what does that mean, op Prissen?”


The tone was not mistaken as all others of the Malforcrent seemed to stiffen of spine.


Sylvester liked the action but couldn’t explain why. Is it the synchronization of it all or that fact that a small amount of fear rested behind it? He didn’t know which answer he preferred but didn’t find himself dwelling on the thought. He had achieved a small goal; a victory. Sylvester had addressed someone by their last name only, a sign of utter dominance and knowledge over not only the person being spoken too but their entire familial bloodline. The suspicions that rested behind this meeting had drawn it out of the king and he was glad such a subtle yet effective means of enforcement was within his social grasp.


And besides, no one would call a bluff against such an idea as the king not having the knowledge and power of an entire bloodline. He was still the king, after all.


The effect was seen most clearly on Dothel’s face; there was more than a tinge of fear. Sylvester could not place it but it seemed like shock coalesced with… pain?


The man from Whismerl stammered slightly and looked at the table before continuing. “I think, your highness, sir, that what Misren has told us is all there is to the matter. A forest of chickens – living chickens – has to be fashioned somehow.”


Kren spoke up for the first time then. Apparently, he was uncomfortable with talks of Magik as well; otherwise he would have been in the thick of it like Dothel and Trisden. “And how is that, Dothel?” He obviously felt a certain sympathy for the man as Kren had failed to take up on the notion of addressing Dothel by his bloodline’s name, as sanctioned by the crown. Sylvester made a mental note on this fact as Kren continued. “How is a forest of living chickens to be created? Such a notion is assuredly absurd to say the least!” 


Sylvester had to agree partially: the least to be said was that the idea was downright insane. His mind boggled on the notion of such a feat. He directed himself towards Misren, hoping that Dothel would not intercept the king as Sylvester feared he might. “Misren, was there any specification from your sources that might elaborate on how such an act is to be carried out?’


Misren sat still. Marylyn could be heard finally scooting her chair to her left, closer to the oft forgotten bouquet, so as to move from his line of sight. The man stared forward though and failed to react to the loud scraping sounds generated by the chair against the stone flooring. Sylvester began to wonder if the councilman was well.


As thoughts on the man’s condition began to blossom in the king’s head, a sound could be heard from below the table. It sounded like a liquid had spilled onto the floor near Misren but no one but Misren had possessed a goblet.


A familiar odor entered the air and Sylvester knew exactly what the liquid was that had been spilled: Misren apparently had just ejected his amber fluids.


Brinttal backed away from Misren first, bumping slightly into Foyle, who in turn bumped into Pocquet. Brinttal then stood up and cursed viciously as he pulled a small cloth glove from his robe’s inner pocket and began to wipe his thick sandals.


Dothel went to the other side of Marylyn before he bodily moved over the table to stand next to Misren. Dothel pushed Misren away from the table and Misren chose that moment to fall unconscious.


Sylvester, still seated and thankfully free of the splattered liquid beneath the table, looked at all members of the Malforcrent. Of all of them, only Trisden seemed to look truly angry. The monarch could only guess that it had something to do with a member of the esteemed Malforcrent losing control of his body in the middle of a meeting. An emergency meeting of all things.


An emergency meeting that looked more and more out of his control, especially when Dothel stood up straight and said “I believe we shall postpone this meeting’s finale or ending or what have you for when Misren of Uv-Hr… ah, Javal’ta is capable of understanding the actions, uh, carried forth – out – by other members of the—of the Malforkent—Malforcrent!”


Sylvester was glad to object but Trisden beat him to it and stood in the process for good measure, elevating his voice even. “No, Dothel of Whismerl. No, sir! This emergency meeting summoned by Misren will continue with or without the man.” Sylvester didn’t understand the reason for emphasizing Misren’s name but was glad to see someone think along his same lines of reason. “We will decide, as a group, what action will be carried out. Forget Misren. He will be briefed upon obtaining consciousness.”


Dothel looked panicked but could do nothing more of the matter as Trisden called for a quick and decisive vote by the Malforcrent and the majority passed. Even Marylyn liked the idea of continuing but Sylvester suspected it was only because she could pay attention now that Misren was not constantly staring at her. Only Kren Solarpaste had aligned with Dothel.


The Whismerlian could only walk around the table, going the long path, and finding his seat. Sylvester, for a moment, was distracted once again by the large bouquet of plants. He wondered if the aides against the walls appreciated how the large bouquet balanced the action of the table in relation to the room. He then realized he was purposefully letting his mind wander to detract from the subject at hand and Sylvester readjusted his attention. After all, he finally had someone like Trisden in his corner.


“A forest of living chicken” said Trisden. Sylvester nodded though he wasn’t entirely certain as to why. “Obviously, a form of Magik has to be involved. Not all Curses, your majesty, require Magik to operate the Reverse but in this case, the only way to craft a forest of live chickens seems to be with Magik.”


The twins nodded in conjunction with the logic of it. Marylyn leaned forward to look down the table at Sylvester. She was taller now too as she was clearly sitting with her folded legs beneath her; she did not want any of Misren’s fluids upon her booting. “Sir, perhaps we are to trim an already-existing forest into the likeness of chickens? Or the shape of one large chicken?”


Trisden waved his hand at the suggestion. “No, that couldn’t be it, Mary. If it was something so simple…”


“It’s Marylyn, actually.”


There was a pause at her statement which made even Sylvester sit up and ask “I’m sorry? What’re you referring to?”


Marylyn squared her shoulders away, took a deep breath, and looked at the king. “My name is Marylyn, sir. Not Mary.” Sylvester wished then that he had let Dothel ask the question; this gentle hostility would then be directed towards him. Apparently, of all the things that Marylyn would put up with, being referred to by anything besides her actual name was something none too crisp.


Trisden dipped his head towards the table slightly. “Begging apologies, madam.” The madam bowed with a smile and Sylvester snagged a subtle sneer from Pocquet’s thin-lipped face as directed towards Marylyn. What was that about, he wondered? Trisden’s continuance discerned that thought. “But what I was about to say is that such a solution as that would be entirely too simple with a Curse so drastic. We’re looking for a Magik remedy; a way to get this Reverse done as quickly as possible, if it’s even possible.”


Sylvester started thinking about Curse Reverses and wondered if there might be some that were deemed impossible to perform. He wanted to immediately ask about them but knew it would sidetrack the current topic, of which he wanted to be done and over with.


Marylyn seemed to accept that answer despite the fact that it came from Trisden. She set herself on her haunches and rested her forearms on the table, no longer working her hands about each other. Trisden appeared then to be thinking, pulling softly on his lower lip as if he wanted to make sure everyone knew he was within ponders.


Dothel resigned to leaning back. He looked as dejected as ever. Misren was sprawled unsightly against his chair with his neck hung over the back of it, his head turned away. Sylvester could not see it but imagined the man’s tongue to be dangling from his mouth, like a canine of sorts. Brinttal also appeared to be thinking within the same realm as Trisden and had the furrowed brow to prove it. Even Marylyn was now silent and appeared to be mentally examining possibilities despite her initial response being clipped from the skies like a gilltain.


Trisden was the first to propose the suggestion; Magik dripped off of his solution. “We could employ one of the Freezing Clans for our cause.” Sylvester sat back to stroke his softened beard and became aware of, for the first time since the meeting, the awkward crown on his head: it had shifted with his movement just then.


Freezing Clans, Sylvester knew, were groups of people who had the hefty task of Freezing blocks of water to be delivered and installed in the various dwellings of more than half of the citizens of Decennia. Delivered, that was, to those who did not have ready access to the few waterways of the land. The blocks were temporarily guarded against melting in accordance with their distanced destination and their Clansmen. Ordinarily, a holding device called a holster was built into the upper reaches of different types of dwellings and structures. The holster was fitted with pipes and chutes, all built from any number of materials, that snaked their way through the buildings, providing a variant of running water whenever it might be needed. The holsters were reloaded on a periodic basis by the same members of the same Freezing Clans. Sylvester did not know any finer details but had an idea what Trisden was referring to.


“Are you suggesting, Trisden, that we consign a Freezing Clan to literally Freeze a flock of chickens?” Trisden nodded. Dothel sighed heavily. Misren snored and a tremor subtly ran through the stone flooring.


“That would be well and good, Triss, except for one thing.” Trisden raised his eyebrows towards Dothel and Sylvester felt a flash of anger towards the Whismerlian; namely, his shortening of the Islanders name without the king setting such a precedent. “Misren reported to us that the Reverse required a forest of living chickens. A Freezing Clan could not help in any way. Not with their aged devices.”


The king frowned a little and felt bold enough to ask the question. “Why won’t that help us out, Doth?” He hoped the abbreviation of Dothel’s name would not go unnoticed by Trisden. As it was, the Fortright Islander nodded towards the king and Sylvester felt a soft flush of appreciation.


“Because, my lordship, Freezing Clans use literal Freezing Magik; they turn the water to ice. That’s how their business works. If they didn’t work that way, then water wouldn’t be as available as it is now. Even they have preventative measures for ensuring that fish do not get caught in their water blocks. For one thing, a client would become agitated if they unlatched their pipe and a fish or waterweed popped out. Secondly, they strive against Freezing living creatures in general so even if they had the proper devices of Magik, they would most likely be against helping us.”


“Even under order of the crown, young Dothel?”


Dothel let out a slight breath and Sylvester saw the corners of Trisden’s mouth pull upwards. He felt like doing the same thing. “Well, of course, your highness. The Freezing Clans, along with any other public interest group, would be more than willing to follow a ruling of the crown. But the notion of Freezing chickens this way won’t help out the kingdom in the long run.”


The king went for the wrist then. “You certainly know a great deal about Magik and Freezing Clans in general, Dothel op Prissen.”


The twins exchanged glances and Foyle’s eyes briefly glanced over Sylvester’s. They did not meet for more than a moment. Dothel sat up as if stung. “Sire, the Magik of Freezing, though a protected practice, originated within the borders of Whismerl. And it has often been reported as being one of the factors that speak towards our nation’s prosperity. We have no people dying of thirst in this land, which is known for its weak dispersion of waterways. My people are proud to carry that distinction.” There was a pause that felt almost unhealthy. “Your highness.”


Sylvester was not sure why but he felt guilty for attempting to provoke the man. Obviously, he was part of a greater heritage than the king had assumed. Kren was nodding next to Dothel, as was Marylyn. They felt some kind of sympathy for him, Sylvester guessed. Would Misren be nodding if he were conscious and of full bladder?


This emergency meeting was something that was making Sylvester’s mind race. His personal thoughts and slight allegiances had been somehow tested and pulled and he was not sure if it was good or bad. Before even this session with the Malforcrent, Sylvester had assumed Trisden was nothing more than an opportunist with sights on the crown; that Dothel had not cared for progression for the sake of the kingdom; that Misren cared for nothing more than progressing his own gravitation.


In just this one meeting, Sylvester felt more lost and unsure than ever. Facets were turning and he didn’t like it. This meeting, as he had guessed due to its surprising nature, was certainty within his disfavor. He wanted it to end.


But this rogue governor, this Count Roost, had apparently put a call of challenge against the kingdom, threatening the crown and the people loyal to it which was obviously everybody, indeed.


A forest of living chickens? Sylvester had never heard of such a thing. He knew that Magik was something powerful though. It was the only reason he was here.


Magik was the only reason he existed.


He huffed and leaned forward, resting his palms on his kneecaps. This action grabbed the attention of the Malforcrent, minus Misren.


“Malforcrent, this problem needs to be solved, no matter the level of ridiculousness. Is it safe to say that this Count Roost is offering up a legitimate threat? Can he truly Curse my kingdom?”


All eyes exchanged contact with each other with most landing on Dothel: he did seem to have some grasp on viable answers. Dothel spoke up. “We can send markers of the crown to verify the situation but it might be safer to assume that Roost is substantial in threat and action.”


“If that’s the case, advisors, what’re we to do? It sounds like a technical nature resides inside Magik and therefore cannot call on a Freezing Clan for our purposes. What other options do we have?”


No one spoke. No one even looked around this time. The birds, Sylvester absently noticed, had stopped chirping outside and he missed the external distraction. He wished Misren had remained awake; he might have had a suggestion at least.


Whatever gods listened to thoughts of privy must have been listening then for Misren finally did stir. He was not pleased about his current situation though. Misren began to shout a bit, startling his aides into action.


“Where am I?” he bellowed, knocking over his goblet finally. He went to catch it, missed it as it rolled over the lip of the table. He bent wholly to the side to retrieve it and adopted a cross look. Sylvester guessed it was because he touched the expelled liquids still sitting below.


Misren pulled his hand up with a disgruntled face, sniffed the substance on his hand, and his eyes nearly bulged. He apparently then felt the wetness of his seating area and stood up, throwing his chair behind him and knocking that into one of his aides. He stormed readily out of Wakefield Hall without dismissal, wailing about how he wished he knew what was going on.


Dothel and Trisden appeared to be sharing a laugh like they knew something of what rested behind Misren’s actions. It was quite comical in nature though and most likely brought out these tense shutters of laughter. Sylvester stood then and said, “Men and women, with that, we adjourn.” Advisors began to protest but Sylvester hushed them with a slight action of his hand. “No, this will end now. We will resume tomorrow, early, when all are bodily accounted for. By then, I expect a plan of action that we’re to follow, yes?”


The Malforcrent agreed reluctantly and Sylvester gave one last, curt nod. He left, entering the foyer of the Hall and breathed the sweet, clean air. Sylvester had not noticed how sour it had begun to smell in there. He wondered if it was because of more than just the urine.