Sylvester & Tuette: Cursed Doubt

Chapter Seven

King Sylvester felt sick. He was also tired. He hadn’t slept well and his lack of breakfast aimed to make his stomach churn and inspire a heaving to issue forth. His mind was racing and his pounding heart wasn’t easily quelled. Penson continued to pull a somewhat lavish comb through the king’s tresses but it helped very little. No, only the graces of death or deliverance could cure his current knocking of nerves. He didn’t believe that either would occur.


Sylvester was being sent away from the mountain.


And he was quintessentially terrified.


The king understood amiably that his physical services were required but even with some Gousheralls and a specialist in his service, he had little faith in the idea that he could essentially stop Count Roost’s Curse.


With the rhythmic pulls of the comb, Sylvester went back to the previous day’s meeting with the Malforcrent: all members were accounted for and even Misren was back in his usual state of languid eating. The seating arrangement was the same as well though Misren seemed a little taken aback by it, despite the fact that he had sat in that manner the previous day. Once his food was placed in front of him – the memory of singed meat wafting through the king’s nostrils threatened to presently unseat him – Misren was placidly present.


Trisden was equally as placid in the beginning. Sylvester sat, enjoying the calmness of it all, supposing that with the pleasing state of the Malforcrent that they had worked out a means of stopping the Curse that was stated to have been cast by the malignant Count Roost. Thoughts of such dissidence from a foe so far away made Sylvester receive the man as a coward.


When Dothel was the first to open discussion of proposed actions and he suggested that Sylvester himself be sent on a quest to dilute the count’s Curse, the king felt foolish for thinking of Roost as the coward: his own heart chilled at the thought of taking on such a task!


A plan of action had been crafted, beginning with a visit to the Freezing Clan that was the initial Fyse Castle provider of the ice blocks used in day-to-day life, as aquatically-based needs went. It was a small town to the west of the mountain, easily a day’s trek by splintback. The castle’s finest splints were currently being checked for ailments and loaded with supplies for the journey. Sylvester had been coached in splintback riding long ago but rarely kept the practice up. Trips to the local towns usually required that he be placed in a carriage. Strangely enough, Sylvester couldn’t recall ever making a trip to the town he was headed for, which was named for a famous dancer or archivist or something; he didn’t remember what. The name itself was even elusive and Sylvester knew why: he was focusing on the fact that he had never been to this town before and realized that the reasoning was because he had never spent a night away from the castle. This oddly-named town was a full day’s journey.


Sylvester realized that he would have to sleep elsewhere. This was not a fear that he related to the Malforcrent but kept private. Holding such a dread is probably what has caused my nerves to sizzle without end.


A notion he did propose to the Malforcrent was exactly who would be accompanying the king.


Dothel suggested that half a dozen Gousheralls attend to the king. Immediately, Sylvester wanted to suggest that Penson come along: waking up in a strange place was going to be all the worse when he knew that the familiarity of Penson wasn’t going to be there.


Presently, Penson was staring down at the king’s head a little more intently than seemed reasonable. His mind was bothered most likely. “What’s wrong, Penson?”


The groomer stirred slightly, apparently lost with the hypnotizing rhythms of the coaxing comb. “Um, yes, sir. Sylvester. Nothing’s wrong.” He bore a weak smile laced with tension. “I was merely thinking that this journey, this quest, that you are to go upon, it’s the first time you’ll be away from the castle since arriving her over a decade ago.”


Though he had not said it, Sylvester felt that Penson meant to say “prematurely arriving”. It made Sylvester’s heart wane a little, despite the imagined origins of the idea. In voice, Penson had never made Sylvester feel as if he didn’t belong but the king had never been able to properly detain the thought because he had never felt like he belonged.


“Though you arrived in your early teens, you seemed aptly designed for the position.”


Sylvester wanted to snort at the notion. Aptly designed was far from the truth. If anything, he was the worst successor ever called to wear the crown. In fact, he had felt back then that leaving his home at Majramdic Academy was the worst conception of his young life; he had no standings or experience with kingly duties. Those practices had been set to come during his mid-teen years at the academy. Of which I was forcibly absent.


He knew that the feeling in that point in his life was similar to his current sentiment; Sylvester was being sent to a position he knew nothing of. In the past, it was to manage a kingdom. Now he was to save it.


Sylvester’s mind raced slightly at the scope of it: he was going to save the kingdom. Save it from a Curse cast by a maniacal foe. Provide salvation for the citizens of his country. Serve as security for a more hopeful future!


But his mind halted there. How could he ever hope to save anyone? He was nothing more than Sylvester, a man with a shiny rock in his neck, a spear of doubt through his heart, and a crown of jewels that fit none-too-well.


Penson continue speaking, interrupting his thoughts much to Sylvester’s pleasure. “I understand wholly, young Sylvester, that you are nervous but you are the best candidate for this mission. And I believe that with your own sense of morality, you will return victoriously. And even stronger for it, I would wager!” The king did not respond facially but felt heat rise to the surface of his scalp; he felt embarrassed then as the groomer had implied that, up to this point, he had not been a strong king.


And obviously, Sylvester already knew that. Penson obviously felt the self-conscious flame. “Do not be embarrassed, dear sir. Though you think that you are unprepared for your duties, the fact that you are so bravely facing this journey tells me that you’re more than ready to embrace what it means to be a king.” He resumed combing, conveying the warmth of embarrassment away from the scalp. Sylvester imagined the comb with its metal teeth rising in temperature. Would Penson drop it due to not being able to hold such a hot item? Sylvester assumed so as he knew his warming embarrassment was limitless. “And when the kingdom sees what you’re willing to go through for its citizens, they can only send you swaths of love and respect.”


Sylvester let a held breath loose that he had not been aware of. He was slowly feeling a gaining of confidence for this quest.


Recalling again the meeting with the Malforcrent, when Dothel had suggested that six Gousheralls accompany the king, Sylvester noticed that it was Brinttal who balked at the notion. “How are my merchants traveling on the west coast to maintain protective custody if their Guardsmen are gallivanting southward with the king?”


Sylvester wanted to object: was not the security of the whole kingdom more important than…


Trisden voiced his opinion then and it made perfect sense to the king: he agreed with Brinttal.


As the Fortright Islander stated, cutting the contingent of six Gousheralls to two for the king was a sound notion as long as some other protective manner was provided. “We are dealing with a foe who wields Magik. Might we send a Magik wielder ourselves?” Sylvester had not thought of that! Of course, if Magik were in action here, the Gousheralls could provide little assistance. Yes, Sylvester knew that he needed something more.


Kren spoke up at that point, the memory serving to tire the king as the man seemed entirely too pessimistic. “We have no Magik wielders in employ of the crown, Trisden.”


“Why must it be King Sylvester, fellows? Why not one of u-us?” Marylyn had asked tentatively. Apparently she had not been briefed on the majority-chosen plan.


Dothel spoke up then. “We send the king, Marylyn, because his travels will bring him across more than one region. Perhaps two or three. He’ll start in Uv-Hren to the west, probably travel south through Jint and then into Javal’ta. In our nation’s current condition, as already confirmed by Brinttal’s suppositions, travel between the regions is not entirely safe. It would be even more dangerous if a former tent were to do the bidding of the king, even if under his protection.” He glanced hesitantly towards Sylvester. “The various mayors of towns and districts like to ignore the fact that they answer to a king. So they won’t think twice when you are seen crossing their midlands. Also, since the whole kingdom is being Cursed, the likely candidate for casting the Reverse is the figurehead.” He looked at each advisor in turn then with each returning dawning nods of understanding. “Sylvester has to be the guy, whether we ultimately want it or not.”


Yes, this is making sense. Sadly.


He had to be the one. Sylvester began to let his mind turn around the idea that the journey could actually be fatal towards him, and that it was fate curbing him towards that direction. Is fate only defined when fatality is brought into question? And, as Brinttal stated and Trisden confirmed, he needed more than just muscle. But who?


He voiced such a question, using Kren’s fact as justification for the inquiry: he dared not put forth an original opinion for the Malforcrent to tear apart with easy logic.


Foyle spoke up then, leaning straight-backed in his chair. “Since we’ve no direct access to a person of Magik, might we inquire about for someone who would be… for hire, or however it shall be termed?”


Trisden shook his head, along with Dothel and Brinttal. The three seemed to be in unison on this path. Trisden spoke for them. “We cannot trust anyone outside of the king’s retinue. It wouldn’t be wise.”


“We might have to think outside of a Magikal profession.” Sylvester caught the use of the term Magikal as it had been used, wondering why Dothel had not said “Magik profession”. Dothel continued. “Perhaps a person or persons of immense traveling experience.”


“Like a hunter? Or a skilled splint rider?” asked Brinttal with Foyle’s nods of approval.


“Or a cook?” offered Misren meekly. Sylvester assumed he had not been following the situation too closely. His concern for Decennia would be recognized.


“Or a farmer,” Dothel said with a slightly projected voice while standing. This quieted the bunch, including Trisden who gently furrowed his brow in confusion. Even Sylvester didn’t understand such a notion.


“A… a farmer?” Sylvester pondered 


Attention was entirely on Dothel and the king wondered if the glaring eyes made the Whismerlian uneasy. If he was, Dothel did not show it. “Yes, a farmer. Someone who would know a wide variety of plant life in case they needed to eat addition foodstuffs in order to conserve their rations. A farmer would also have knowledge of predators and most likely even a cunning means of fending them off; crops get attacked all the time and not just by parasitic insects.”


The Malforcrent began to slowly nod with understanding. The idea made almost perfect sense. “With a farmer,” Dothel continued, “everything that has been suggested is represented plus the ability to locate and harvest sustenance. It makes the most sense.”


All advisors looked towards each other, glad to be in agreement on the matter. The nods were becoming emphatic.


Except for Trisden. His eyes seemed to be boring straight through Dothel’s head. Had this not been part of their discussions?


“What do you think, Trisden?” Dothel asked with a genuine smile, obviously because his idea had been accepted by the majority. “I mean, you told me to think on the matter and this is what I was able to come up with. Misren’s behavior gave me the idea though.”


All eyes turned to Misren who had been eating the whole time, focusing his eyes on the variously designed plates instead of the Malforcrent. His aides were working frantically to keep him stocked with gravy, side dishes, and the like. One of them hobbled while serving and Sylvester assumed it had been the one which was struck by the chair that Misren cast aside while fleeing from Wakefield Hall at the end of the last meeting.


“Yeah, Misren was talking once about the different foods he enjoys and how some can only grow in his homeland and that got me to thinking on the matters of farming and how an agriculturalist would be best suited for this task.” He gestured towards the portly man. “Right, Misren?”


“A coo… Yes, Dothel’s correct. C-O-rect. Yes.” He then resumed eating and everyone seemed pleased, aside from Trisden who seemed to be unwilling to be pleased.


“And I suppose, dear Dothel,” Dear Dothel, Sylvester thought but let Trisden continue with, “that you have a suggestion in mind? A candidate?”


Dothel nodded with confidence. “Why would we send none other than our residential agricultural specialist? He’s perfect for the job and, as I’ve already put the idea upon him, he’s more than willing to accompany the king on his quest!” The smile on Dothel seemed to almost be at the breaking point, causing Sylvester to feel alarmed with the size of it. Other than that, the idea seemed quite sound.


In his present state of mind with Penson continuing to comb his hair, Sylvester was rethinking the notion. And how utterly absurd it sounded. The quest to save the kingdom from a crazed and Cursed fiend was being led by an inexperienced king, two of his personal Gousherall Guardsmen… and a farmer. The king could only grimace, an expression not missed by the groomer.


“What’s wrong, sir?”


“I am nervous. And frightened,” he answered without cushion. There was no reason to lie to a man that seemed to always know the truth concerning a person’s inner thoughts.


“You’ve no place to be frightened, Sylvester. You are Decennia’s king, as affirmed by your bloodline. And this,” he said while lightly tapping the kingstone with the whole of a fingernail. “You are the perfect person for this task.”


Whereas Sylvester usually reserved snorting at Penson’s ludicrous suggestions, he couldn’t help to hold one in now. “Perfect? Me?” He gestured towards his seated form looking back at him in the mirror though he tended to hardly ever make eye contact with his reflected self. As a result, he always seemed to be surprised when he saw that his eye color was green. “This is not a body built for questing, Penson. This is not a head built for a crown. This, inside here,” he said, pointing passively towards his own head and then his chest, “is not suitable for leading. For kinging! I cannot act as king when I don’t know anything about what it means to be king!”


Penson stopped combing then – Sylvester’s hair had begun to curl due to the obsessive action, exposing the kingstone anyway – and came around the king to stand next to the mirror and stare at Sylvester. “I know that you are afraid, good king.”


“I’m not…”


“Yes, you are. You are a good king!” As usual, he had known that Sylvester was going to object to. “I know you are. You’re father knew you would be too.”


“My father,” he said, sneering and looking away. “If my father were any kind of…”


Penson quickly and forcibly slapped Sylvester then, the firm smack rebounding off the mirrored pane to land doubly upon the room’s occupants and their ears. It stung, leaving a warm handprint on the king’s cheek; had his beard been a little thicker, it might not have hurt as much. The blow carried the power to draw out a lone tear though even that was reluctant to leave the corner of Sylvester’s eye.


Penson leaned in then and Sylvester noticed for the first time that the groomer was somewhat wrinkled. “You, dear Sylvester, are twenty-two years old. Normal sanctions of the past decree that the king is instated at the age of twenty-three and that’s how old your father was when I met him. You both were born into the same qualities of life and you possess the same kingstone he did.”


“King Gould never had to quest away from the castle though, Penson.”


“That’s right. Your father never had reason to leave. But that should be the cornerstone of your differences. You are so much like him, it’s hard to tell whether I’m still in the present or back in the past with that infallible man.” He touched his face then. “These wrinkles that you’ve so passively noticed help remind me of which generation I’m dealing with though. These are the only real difference.”


Sylvester sat there, redirecting his gaze to land on his reflected crown; the sting from the strike fading on his face but leaving a mark on his mind and possibly his spirit. How could he be anything like a man he had hardly spent any time with? Following the first few years that are unremarkable to memory, Sylvester was sent to the academy for the refinement of his practices and the injection of social graces; it was believed that only a person physically raised in the Fortright Islands had the correct handle on being the king, as the first crown bearer had done. But Sylvester’s lessons were interrupted by his father’s death. As far as he knew, King Gould didn‘t lose his own father prematurely. As Penson even said, Sylvester’s patriarch had been instated like any other king.


So how could the groomer make such a bold and largely-inaccurate statement?


He lifted his eyes to peer back into Penson’s.


“It’s your experience with the kingstone that has made you the same, sir.”


This baffled Sylvester as he knew what a kingstone was supposed to do and what his iteration of the bloodline-Magik actually did, which was nothing.


“Sylvester, your father told me the properties of the kingstone. How it was designed to pass on the knowledge of the previous kings so that a ruler may truly learn from his predecessors. How it’s supposed to protect you from harm when there is no heir apparent. How it’s more than a simple, physical accessory that I’m supposed to hide from everyone else.”


“But mine…” started Sylvester.


“Is just like your father’s was.” Penson’s gaze softened somewhat. “He could never summon the intellect of dead kings, a skill he wished for daily because there were several instances where he had no idea on how to act. At times, I felt so ashamed to be privy to his moments of frightened inaction because I could do nothing to help him. I‘m more than pleased to make up for the manners in which I couldn’t help him by making sure that I can help you. In any way I can.”


The king sat there, stunned. Then quickly realized that he was more than stunned: he was relieved. And of all the persons that he had wanted to confide in, Penson was the first on a list of few others. To harbor trust made Sylvester feel a little more confident. He had a thought. “And of the protective properties?”


Penson shook his head, raising his hands up slightly. “I don’t know. I mean, you were conceived when he was well into his forties – I was in my reserved, late thirties – and he had never been forced to test the theory. I imagine that since the kingstone divulges random bits of seemingly useless knowledge that it must provide more sound protections as they would be rarely called upon.”


“Or,” Sylvester began grimly, “it’s a gambled chance that the kingstone could let me live or die at any moment.”


Penson nodded in silent agreement. “In the years since your father told me the kingstone was more than just some genetic anomaly, I attempted to research it in the castle’s archives. There is little mention of the kingstones of other kings directly but there is always mention of past kings, just as King Nementor, who have sparked moments of divine intelligence and used it to benefit the kingdom as a whole.”


“I imagine if King Nementor were alive now, he’d be astonished to learn that his legacy has fallen into disuse. Or more accurately, is a breeding ground for thievery and molestation of the weak.”


“I’m not sure. Perhaps such blatant actions set against the position of the king ends up being what weakens its power.”


“Or it’s too old.”


“Or you’re too pessimistic, like you think Kren Solarpaste is.”


Sylvester slouched at the memory then, realizing that this session with Penson, which began under a tense notion, was making him feel better about not only the upcoming quest but of what life for himself might be like when he gets back. He didn’t need Penson to point out that the Malforcrent, with all its blubbered talk, was looking out for the advisors personally and only their regions.


“I’m still not sure I want to do this, Penson.” He took a breath, knowing his next question was going to make him sound like a child. He braced himself. “Could you come with me? Accompany me?”


Penson smiled and Sylvester felt a little excited that he could bring out such an object as a smile in another person.


The groomer shook his head. “I’m sorry, dear Sylvester. I cannot. The question is appreciated though.” He laughed then, only slightly, drawing Sylvester’s attention.


“What’s funny?” The king was baffled.


“Here I was, thinking that I was talking to a man advanced well into a state of disuse – I mean you talk like you’re twice your age in worry sometimes - and you make me reevaluate my opinion with such a simple question.” He tousled the king’s hair then and quickly reset it. “And besides, if I attend your quest, who will keep an eye on the Malforcrent? The cooks?”


This made Sylvester smile; he had not realized it but Penson was correct. He was only twenty-two and he often felt like he was nearing fifty. The smile was also because he was thankful to have such a loyal individual backing him.


“Thank you for striking me, young Penson.”


The groomer smiled again, his face reddening a shade. “I’m happy to do it. Any time you want.” They both chuckled then. “But yes, I’m glad I was able to help.”


Sylvester nodded and turned to look back at himself in the mirror while Penson moved behind him, continuing the hair-reset he had started moments before; hair tousling had a tendency to produce fastidious locks.


Feeling better about the issue as a whole, Sylvester couldn’t help but let the meeting with the Malforcrent drift away from his memory. Why had Trisden seemed so angry when it was suggested that an invaluable farmer attend the king on such an important quest? Dothel had made clear the numerous benefits.


A lingering doubt entered the king’s mind then which, if voiced, might draw another strike from Penson, Sylvester knew. What if there was no Curse? Was this some manner in which the Malforcrent was truly trying to get rid of the king? “Penson,” he started, forgoing the possible slap, “what if there is no Curse and the Malforcrent is just sending me away so that I can die in the wilderness of Decennia on some fool’s errand?”


Penson finished resetting the hair to how Sylvester liked it – even making the curl on the back lay down properly – before he answered. “Well, I know very little about Magik. Except the kingstone and the feats it’s employed to enact.” He took a breath, gazing beyond the mirror in thought. “I imagine someone of a Magik background could verify that, indeed, the whole kingdom has been placed under this ominous event come the next full moon. They probably have means of detecting such anomalies. Like when a fly lands in a spider’s web: the web’s creator feels the vibrations all over and knows where to go to capture the intruder.” Sylvester’s mind shuddered at the idea of having to battle – or worse yet, work with – something like a giant spider just to get the information they needed. “Maybe when someone uses Magik to cast a spell or place a Curse, other Magik wielders can also detect it.”


The king sighed then. “But we don’t have any Magiks or Magikans or Magicars or whatever the true word is: we have none in our service.”


“You are going with the two Gousheralls and that farmer to meet some Magik persons, aren’t you? Perhaps they will first confirm that such a Curse has been enacted? Even though they just provide ice blocks for Mount Reign, they would probably be more than happy to oblige.”


Sylvester nodded as this seemed like a hearty truth. “But what if all the Malforcrent is waiting for is for me to leave the throne, even under the pressure of servicing the kingdom?”


“Why, then I shall signal you somehow. Fyse Castle has couriers of different types. If the Malforcrent starts behaving strangely, then I shall send one directly behind you. Most likely one of the trained birds. Then you will know to return post haste.”


The king smiled in agreement for it was a fairly sound plan, as loosely bound plans went. He could not erase the doubts concerning his own abilities though and knew that Penson understood that.


The night prior had been filled with unrest but now Sylvester, with a determined plan of action in mind, felt much better.


Penson spoke up then. “You are meeting with the farmer around the middle of the afternoon, yes? The ‘agricultural specialist’?” Sylvester nodded. “I don’t believe I’ve met him. I’m always so busy with my hard-at-work activities.”


“Well, I’m told he’s been here for almost three years now.”


“And his name?”


Sylvester ran it through his head before he responded as he wanted to get it correct; it was several degrees odder than that forgotten-town name, which is why Sylvester wanted to remember it all the better.


“Tasciturn. Dermitalus Tasciturn.”





*          ~          *          ~          *





“Ya can jus’ call me Dermy.”


Sylvester, along with Penson, looked the man up and down. Or rather, they would have if it had been a whole man. Presently, Sylvester thought that Dermy might be part dwarf; he was extremely short. The hair atop his head was thin with a prematurely balding spot at the crown. As befitting a farmer, his skin was leathered from constant exposure to the sun, possessing a darker hue. His fingernails held equally large amounts of grime underneath while his palms were edged with fierce calluses. His clothing seemed to be comprised of pieced together rags and the king wondered aloud if it was a prime time for visiting.


Wiping grit from his palm, Dermy said “There none time like th’ pres’nt, eh, sir? I mean, Kingasir?” He then stuck his hand out as if to shake it. Sylvester thought it best to decline. Penson did grip the shorter man’s hand though.


“And you are the agricultural specialist for the entire mountain?”


Dermy cracked a smile, exposing his yellow-tinged teeth, and let a chuckle roll out. “That’s a sophist’cated title for a glor’fied farmer. Bu’ yeah, I meanin’ yes, your highness, oh. Tha’s wha’ I do.” He spoke more casually than Sylvester was accustomed too; even Penson conversed with the backing of a telling education. The change was a little refreshing to the king. Dermy continued. “I head mange’ment over th’ grip orch’ds here on th’ mount and th’ var’ous crops a’ sea level, oh.”


“And your knowledge concerning vegetation is extensive, as is that concerning wild animals?”


Dermy nodded, glancing about when a bird chirped. He located it in the nearest tree and went over to pound the bark with a rock at the base of the tree. Looking around, Sylvester noticed that all the trees – was this the grip orchard? – had one large rock at the base.


When a subtle flapping was heard from above, the specialist placed the rock back where he found it. As the looks that the king and Penson were giving him probably conveyed confusion, Dermy said “In a grip tree like this’n ‘ere tall on’, th’ flappers will snatch ya fruit off in a stitch, oh.”


Sylvester felt his own brow furrow. “You mean birds, right?” Dermy nodded and then walked past the king and the groomer towards the haulcart they had found him with minutes ago. Inside were various tools that Sylvester did not recognize. They didn’t hold his attention. “Dermy, is there someone else that you answer to or take orders from.”


The short man nodded and Sylvester felt a flush of relief; traveling with such a man, however refreshing his mannerisms were, did not make the king feel entirely easy with the situation, especially regarding the degree of the quest.


“I ans’er to ya cooks an’ chefs. They place ya food orders an’ I harvest ‘em. Arrange t’ harvest ‘em, at leas’, oh.” He grabbed the handlebars of the haulcart and pulled it behind him, away from the barn where Sylvester and Penson had first arrived to inquire about Dermy’s presence. The king and the groomer followed him. Sylvester looked back towards the barn and noticed that three of the workers had relocated their working area to the large entrance.


“Uh, Dermy, you answer to my cooks and whatnot. But you are the senior, uh, agricultural specialist?”


Dermy nodded while still pulling the haulcart. The tools rattled as the trio moved deeper into the orchard. Another bird was heard chirping and Dermy paused long enough to perform the same rock-pounding to get rid of it. Sylvester wondered if this was usual regarding grip trees but realized that he honestly did not know what a grip tree was, so he asked.


“Kingasir, a grip tree grows tha’ fruit up top,” he said while pointing towards the upper branches. Sylvester and Penson lifted their heads to look. “Tha’ fruit has a juice abou’ itself tha’ can be used for buildin’. Grip juice is strong stuff, oh. Connects lots o’ stuff and what-sher, oh. When flappers peck a’ th’ fruit, they e’ther stick it t’ the’selves or drop it and sticky th’ grounds.” He shook his head then. “Can no’ have tha’ mess, nah sir, oh.”


“And the rocks?” Pension inquired as he must have been curious too.


Dermy cracked a smile. “Well I can no’ toss ‘em up th’ tree, can I?”


Sylvester merely accepted that that made sense and let the conversation die as they finally stopped a considerable distance from the barn, which was still in view. The three figures had stayed near the entrance but looked like they had also stopped working entirely and focused on the king, the groomer, and the farmer.


Dermy turned around then and began sifting through the poorly stacked pile of tools. Sylvester felt a sour mood envelope his mind. Was this midget of a man supposed to be the one able to provide ulterior means of protection for the king on his dangerous journey?


In the corner of his eye, Sylvester spied Dermy grip a small hammer in his right hand.


A strike of fear ran through him at the thought of being betrayed so early into the quest. Was this to be the end? The king braced his standing and made to fully face the tiny man.


The hammer did not rise far before it fell against the bottom of the haulcart with a resounding crack. Sylvester flinched, noticing that Penson did likewise, as he felt a tingling surge pass through him. Everything wavered visibly around him, like he was suddenly put under water.


Dermy was then not the man he had been only moments before. He was still short and thinning in hair. Still with the same patchwork clothing and smile but he was entirely different: he was clean and seemed to hold a stronger sense of self inside his posture and eyes. The change startled the king, making him a little weak in the knees: it had been entirely unsuspected.


“I know what’s expected of me, sir,” said Dermy in a dialect that had been nothing like what had been recently portrayed.


“But…” the monarch stammered but was cut off with a violent hand motion presented by the short farmer, if, Sylvester thought, that was what he truly was.


“Yes, I’m different. I wear a disguise comprised of Magik. We’re presently encased, temporarily, by a Disillusion Spell. They’re rare, thank you, but if those spies see us three talking pleasantly, they’ll assume something is amiss. Like I said, it’s a rare Spell so you’d better appreciate the sentiment. Especially since we can’t have them see what is to truly transpire.” The hazy, underwater-looking vision had expanded beyond the three of them. The three supposed spies were still seen through the haze, wavered as they were. Even through the haze, the king could tell their attention was now completely directed towards the conversing trio.


Sylvester then thought briefly on the irony over the title of the Spell: it revealed any illusions inside the field but outsiders saw something untrue. Did all Magik work this way? He decided to ask at a later date as, apparently, they had little time to spare.


“I know that I’m to accompany you to Zharinna, yes. And that you even doubt the validity of the Curse placed by Roost. Trust me: it’s real. And if we cannot stop it, then your entire kingdom will be lost to the madness of the count.”


“But what is the Curse? What will he do?”


“The Curse he’s cast has threatened to, in ten day’s time, take away the thumbs off anyone born in Decennia.”


Sylvester balked at the utter absurdity of the statement. It was Penson who found his voice first. “Thumbs? This man is after thumbs? What is so damned important about thumbs?” He looked like he wanted to slap the little midget of a man.


“I’ll explain later, groomer. Or rather, the king will at some point in time. I understand that you are staying behind to keep an eye on the Malforcrent?” Penson nodded. “That is wise, concerning your loyalty. We need all the eyes and attention we can spare set upon that mismatched batch. Since this is the case, you will need this.”


He handed a small object to Penson, withdrawn from his own pocket. Sylvester noticed that Dermy’s hand was shaking tremendously – just the one because Sylvester finally noticed that his other arm rested limply at his side – and his face began to lose its color. “Are you alright?” Sylvester asked with fear gripping his throat; obviously, this man was a much more important ally than previously suspected and he could not bear to see a companion fall ill so early.


Dermy nodded vigorously. “It’s the Spell. The illusion. It’s… very draining. Penson. That ring. Pocket it now. Wear it. Only at night.” Penson nodded furtively. “Now, king?” Sylvester looked towards Dermy though he wanted to see what the ring looked like. “Hit me. Hard. In the stomach.”


“What?” He did not understand.


“What is being spied. By the others. It ends. With you. Striking me. I’ve made a scene. About having. To. Attend. Your. Que-que-st…”


The color then left Dermy’s face even more, leaving his eye sockets to look like empty knots in a dying whitewood tree. Sylvester did as he was told, though he had never hit a man before, not in real life. The feeble attempts in his recurring nightmare had not prepared him accurately for the experience.


The weakened man folded around Sylvester’s hardened fist with sickening ease. The king winced while he spied Dermy spitting blood against Penson’s white shirt. The groomer backed away suddenly, leaving the haze – or rather, the hazy barrier contracted into the haulcart.


The three figures that had been milling outside the barn then darted towards Dermy in a dead run. “Boss,” one of them said though Sylvester assumed that by what Dermy had stated, these three did not swear any allegiance to the specialist.


Penson caught on more quickly than the king. “Serves you right, m-maggot! When the king tells you what to do, you do it!”


Sylvester looked from Penson to the downed farmer, now looking like when he had first met the man, and towards the now-present trio. All three wore garb similar to Dermy though were of newer patches and almost identical in stitch. One with close-cut hair sneered at the king. The king then saw Dermy’s eyes flutter back into his head and knew the man was unconscious. He was willing to risk his very life to help the king for this greater cause and had ultimately asked Sylvester to punch him. The king understood that the illusion, or disillusion, had required authenticity but he couldn’t help but feel guilty for having to strike such a seemingly helpless individual.


But the part he knew he had to play though came to the surface easy enough. “When your baby of a boss wakes up – as I’m guessing he still needs a nap – tell him I’ll be ready to ride soon. In the morning. Dawn.” He wiped his mouth then as he had accumulated some spittle on his lips: he tasted grit drawn from Dermy’s clothing. “He’s to be ready for travel by then. Or else.”


He then turned and retraced their path through the orchard with Penson walking submissively at his heels. Sylvester was annoyed by the charade as he felt Penson was equal enough to walk abreast to the king, but he also knew that it was required. For Dermy’s sake.


The meeting with the man had obviously ended unrepentantly – Sylvester had expected to meet a farmer and instead met an ideally perfect man for the task at hand.


The perfect man… as chosen by Dothel.


This made Sylvester pause in stride, causing Penson to bump into the monarch. Sylvester knew that he should have presented a disapproving guise at the groomer’s inattentiveness but his thoughts were too displaced.


“Dothel suggested that we bring Dermy along, Penson.”


“Yes, sir. Could he know that the farmer is more than he seems?”


Sylvester hadn’t actually thought about that but had merely assumed that Dothel did know. But Penson’s ponder could also easily be true too. The argument for bringing an agricultural specialist still made sense.


“I’d like to see that… your new comb, Penson. Tonight.”


Penson nodded and they both continued with the groomer walking even with the king, as he usually did. Even Sylvester understood that since Dermy had personally risked so much to convey something like a ring, it had to be earnestly important and therefore could not be taken out in public for all to see it.


“Between then and now, sir, should we converse with Dothel on the matter?”


It had crossed Sylvester’s mind, but the idea ended negatively. “No. Even Dermy agreed that watching the Malforcrent was of utter importance. With me leaving, there’s no telling what they’ll be concocting. Dothel’s of the Malforcrent…”


“You said he’s usually lax in participation though.”


“That’s true but he’s also taken some sort of special interest in this circumstance regarding that Cursed count. He’s even having conversations with Trisden, a man that even I would not relish talking to privately.”


Sylvester rubbed his jaw, noting the lazy, late-summer sun beginning to redden as it approached the western horizon. From this vantage point atop Mount Reign, the western plains could not be readily spied as Sylvester thought to gaze, if only for a moment, towards Zharinna, as Dermy had called it. By the time they did find that point, the setting sun would wash out their vision anyway and they’d see very little.


“I believe it’s time for a meal, Penson. And after seeing your rare gift, I shall retire early. As you know, I didn’t sleep well last night and though I’m exhausted, I don’t believe I shall sleep well tonight either. Even daytrips unsettle me, as you know. This journey, this quest, is to take at least ten days. But I suppose I should try to sleep.”


The king then thought on what Dermy had said, about the count’s Curse against the kingdom. “Why thumbs, Penson?”


Penson shrugged his shoulders but offered an opinion regardless. “Perhaps the sight of thumbs disgusts him. Or he wishes to cripple everyone in Decennia. Maybe he has no thumbs and is tired of being an outcast? I don’t know, sir.”


Sylvester let the suggestions float marginally through his head as he could honestly not fathom that far on his own. The pair walked up the path leading from the orchard to the kitchens as that was the closest entrance to Fyse Castle. And closest to where their meals were to be served.