Sylvester & Tuette: Cursed Doubt

Chapter Ten

During his early years at Majramdic Academy, Sylvester had taken several types of lessons. All had been absorbed by previous kings but their importance was thus that repetition was necessary. Under normal circumstances, the king excelled in his courses because he had, in working theory, come across the knowledge already. This was never the case with Sylvester, who felt he had struggled through each and every lesson like a stork after a long flight.


As such, his splintback lessons always seem to fall on the wayside of his academic youth; Sylvester used most of his riding lessons to study for other courses.


Presently, the king wished he had not ducked out on so many splintback sessions because the splint he was upon didn’t follow any of his hastily-instructed commands. The stable boy, standing by Sylvester’s leg, had informed the king that his splint was named Eafa and she was said to be the best splint on the mountain.


Which made Sylvester that much more leery about the situation; it meant the lack of response was most likely his own fault and not hers.


“Jus’ ‘member, sir. Pull the hanks on her neck to be gettin’ her to turn which way ya want.” He reached up and put his tiny hand on Eafa’s left hank which looked to Sylvester like just another curved handle that, though attached at the midpoint between the mouth bit and the saddle, did not stick out too precariously. When the boy pulled on the handle – the hank – Eafa turned her head towards the lad while letting out a snorting whine. Sylvester imagined the animal didn’t enjoy the boy’s movement.


The stable hand then patted Sylvester left ankle where it nearly intersected with the stirrup. “An’ ‘member to tap yer heel into her when you wanna get her goin’.” The pat had not evidently been forcible enough as Eafa didn’t move. Sylvester asked how hard he would have to push his heel into the splint. “Ah, not so hard, sir, King. Jus’ ‘as to be both heels at th’ same time. Then she’s off at a trot, yessa.” He nodded, smiling a little and Sylvester felt he was smiling not at the king’s poor observation but at the king’s inability to ride a splint competently before this day.


The boy then pushed Sylvester’s knee into the splint’s side and Eefa released another noise of potential complaint. “If yer shootin’ to stop ‘er cold, just bring the knees into her. She’ll stop ‘mediately.” Sylvester nodded again and experimented by bringing both of his knees into Eafa’s side, just as the boy had instructed. Eafa let out a protest again and Sylvester could only assume it was because she had been given the command to halt and hadn’t even been moving. He felt silly for trying it and then marveled at how even a riding beast could make him feel as such.


He gave the boy another glance and was reminded of his own instructor from when he was probably the boy’s own age. The instructor had obviously been a competent rider but this boy was equally as knowledgeable if not more so because Sylvester almost guaranteed himself that he would never forget how to ride a splint again. How does it work when the teaching manner and intelligence of a grown adult compares to that of a child? Sylvester was not sure he wanted to know what, if any, kind of revelation would make itself known while following that line of thought so she let it flit away and focused more on the moment at hand: he was now to wait until the Gousherall Guards arrived.


It had been stated in a meeting with the Malforcrent that someone should accompany the king on his quest in saving the land. But who? The Gousheralls had been the designated protectors of the crown for several centuries but when requisitions like those made by Trisden Fellows and Brinttal Por Tyrenna called the Guards away from Mount Reign in times of peace – When isn’t there peace in Decennia? – who was called with immediacy? The answer had been boiled down to a paltry pair of greatly qualified Guardsmen. Sylvester didn’t know the names of the men who were coming to meet with him but he imagined he would learn in time.


After acquiring the Guards, they were to pick up Dermy in the orchard. Sylvester grimaced at the thought, recalling the ease with which he had caused Dermy to fold over the king’s fist the day before. But it had been necessary due to the supposed presence of spies working against Sylvester personally.


With that, Sylvester paused his notions. If spies had infiltrated the seemingly benign sector of the mountain devoted to the orchards and such, how many other areas housed men possessed of nefarious design? Already, he assumed that members of the Malforcrent had been harboring negative expressions against the crown. What exactly is Dothel op Prissen’s agenda? Sylvester looked down at the boy again and began having speculations towards what the boy was truly after. With Magik involved, anyone is suspect. This was a sobering realization for the king.


But Dermy had confirmed that all directly involved with the beginnings of this quest could be rightfully trusted. It had been the night before while Sylvester and Penson had been studying the ring which the specialist had given Penson for safekeeping and emergency situations: the ring had gotten warmer when Sylvester was wearing it and in trying to pry the tight accessory off his finger, he had unknowingly activated it. After that and with haste, Dermy explained the properties of the ring, which was actually called a Comgem. The ring itself was only the casing but it was the gem set inside the band that held the Charm of the Magik device. With a Comgem, people from short or vast distances could communicate as if side by side. Sylvester was heartily impressed and saw the beneficial manners such an item would have in any situation. Without Sylvester atop the mountain, someone had to keep an eye on things and Penson was a dutifully prime choice. It seemed trouble was brewing from many areas at once and communication was essential to keep everyone in order.


Through the Comgem, Dermy had laid out the plans for this current day. Sylvester was happy to have a set schedule. Though when he learned he would be riding splintback, he nearly protested the entire account. “I’ve never mastered the splint. Trips to New Opal have always been by carriage. And the foul beasts always tend to make the trip seem that much longer.” Which was true enough. If Eafa had been one of those beasts, Sylvester never would have known as she smelled like she was freshly preened. But he also couldn’t tell one splint from another anyway.


The sound of another splint snorting came from outside of the stable. The boy turned his head towards the slimmer but tall side entrance. Sylvester followed the line of sight and saw the head of a similar splint beginning to pass by. Then he saw the rider’s knees knock gently into the sides of the animal and the pair came to a halt.


Atop the beast was a Gousherall Guard. Though they possessed battle armor, this Guard wore what was probably termed as travel armor. Plates of metal covered the man’s upper and lower legs separately, his upper arms, and his torso, both front and back. Because of the spacing of the plates, the rider made almost no sound when atop the splint. His face was framed by a beard just a degree thicker than Sylvester’s own but brushed through with tinges of blue and grey. Sylvester wondered if a helmet was missing or just not being worn and figured he would wait for another time to ask.


With the natural highlights of the beard, Sylvester would assume this Guard was at least twice his own age if not older. Experienced, indeed! And such an aged specimen would have no trouble in maintaining a loyal hand to the crown. Sylvester was suitably pleased with the choice of Guardsman.


But where’s the other one? Sylvester could only assume he was behind the first Guard or standing sentry at another point in hopes of deterring any other would-be spies, saboteurs, and possibly even assassins. The last notion chilled Sylvester a degree because with someone harmlessly watching your moves from afar, they tended to not make a negative impact against your present stance. But if that someone decided or had been ordered to take actions against a target, resulting in termination… Sylvester didn’t like thinking about it. But he knew it was a very real prospect.


With a Curse set against not just the throne but the entire kingdom of Decennia, and with Sylvester himself taking on the task of Reversing that Curse, his own mortality was destined to come under examination. He had to prove that he had the power to perform such an act of salvation.


Even if I’m only proving it to myself.


The stable boy slapped Eafa on her flank, making the splint move forward, toward the other splint outside. The boy began emitting a clicking sound and Sylvester looked at the lad’s mouth to see how such a sound was made. He’d never heard anyone do this before. Mimicking what the boy was doing on the outside, he could only guess what was going on inside his mouth. Sylvester flicked his tongue around and began to drool profusely. He stopped and turned his head to face forward and saw the Gousherall watching him with a broad smile. Sylvester then realized how silly he must have looked, especially if he was mimicking the boy’s facial expression but not the sound.


Exiting the stable with a twinge of regret over what the Guardsman had witnessed, Sylvester saw the second Guard atop another splint at the end of the building, looking the other way. It was slowly brightening outside by this time, like the sun was testing the attitude of the sky before stepping up to be embraced by it. Sylvester had been made to wake up before dawn’s break as time was essential seeing as how it was working against the kingdom generally and Sylvester specifically. The Guard just beyond the side entrance said nothing and made motions for Sylvester to follow him. They ambled past the supposed sentry – a younger man garbed similarly but with shorter, lighter hair upon his scalp and none on his face – and continued away from the stable towards the orchards. The sentry took up rearguard duty and Sylvester began to feel a little uncomfortable.


For years, before even his time at the academy, he had been subjected to the presence of a Gousherall during several moments in his life. They had always been stoically silent or absurdly friendly. The present pair of Guards could easily be of the stoic batch but they generally spoke even a minimal greeting. Of course, it dawned on Sylvester the notion that of the few people who knew of the properties surrounding the kingstone, the Gousheralls would and most likely did. That would mean that, if they have been serving the crown long enough, they need not introduce themselves: the elder one had to have known his father.


Something else clicked inside Sylvester’s head then. Though the seemingly younger Gousherall could not have been there, the older one would most likely have been present when Sylvester’s father, King Gould, had taken his ill-fated plunge over the cliff while birding on the Fanway shoreline. It had been publicly ruled as a tragic accident – tragic, indeed, for the outcome was a king succeeding at such a young age, an Advisory Council had to be instated! -  but there were rumors circulating within circles, as rumors tend to do that, that King Gould had been… he didn’t want to think of the word assassinated but there truly was no other word that might supplant.


Had the Gousheralls who had been designed to protect the king during that seemingly benign afternoon conspired to literally overthrow their crown? Were these two maybe forced into submission while someone else carried out the deed? Had either even been present? Sylvester cursed himself and his wretched kingstone for not providing the answers.


It was said that all memories and experiences would be his to learn from and relate with in regards to leading Decennia. But Penson’s revelation from the day prior also came back to rush upon the king’s mind: King Gould’s kingstone had been as severely dissociated from his own mind as Sylvester’s currently was. In that state, would the memories ever be harvested or did they move on with his spirit into whatever realm would accost it? If that’s the case, I might never know what truly happened to my father. He did gently ache to learn the truth though. And if this elder Guardsman or even both of them—as a youthful face did not always possess a youthful mind—had had anything to do with the circumstances surrounding King Gould, Sylvester felt he should rightfully know.


He couldn’t though, not presently. And if these Guards held ill intentions, despite the reassurance of Specialist Dermy, Sylvester would probably never know. Not until the dastardly deed was perpetrated at least. If anything, they already had a piece of humiliation against Sylvester; he internally chided himself for attempting to replicate a simple clicking sound while in the sight of others.


It was a decidedly short trip from the northern area of Fyse Castle through the landscaping that gave way to the orchards to the west. Shorter still with Sylvester’s mind jumping from one thought to another. Wishing he could focus, the king was faintly reminded of the grip juice and wondered if there was an aspect of Magik that could make a person’s thought process stay in one place. He made a mental note to ask Dermy at some point.


The large barn was in sight but before they completed their approach, the point Guard halted his splint. Sylvester, directly behind the man, attempted to resurrect riding lessons long dead and even those that had been recently replanted but couldn’t. He tried subtly but with a might to stop his splint but she only moved forward. Without even a noise from Eafa’s short snout, she collided with the leading splint. The Gousherall turned, moving his hand to the short sword sheathed at the hip, and then let a small smile escape his face, looking like a pearly stone strip amidst a graying sea of bristles.


“Remember, sir: pressure your splint with your knees to stop her. Your heels only make her ride on.” His voice was of a slightly lower timbre than Sylvester’s and carried the same accent, registering that he had, in fact, been raised and trained in the Fortright Isles. A subtle nod rolled off the Guard, as if to emphasize the general lesson. Had he been squeezing with his heels rather than his knees? He must have as Eafa had only propelled herself forward. He felt his face redden with hot embarrassment.


Another splint was heard in the continuously expanding light. Sylvester looked around, his stomach churning a little. Was this an ambush? Were these two even Gousheralls…?


The question died as Dermy, atop a drably colored splint, rounded the nearest bank of trees. Sylvester released his breath, never thinking he would be so pleased to see someone like Dermy. Though fears were not dashed, they definitely subsided.


“How’a, Kingasir?” said Dermy in something just above a harsh whisper. He came up alongside Eafa, guiding his own splint to be parallel to the king’s in such a deft manner that Sylvester envied the specialist. For but a moment. His physical exterior was almost exactly the same as it had been the day before and Sylvester almost let the guilt override him again. He thought to ask Dermy if he truly was okay but thought better of it as these Gousheralls Guards might not be wholly trusted in the end. After all, he was still in his Magiked disguise for some reason.


“Uh, hello, Dermy.” The Gousheralls nodded in succession to the specialist, all the while focusing on their immediate surroundings. Is this the life of a Gousherall? Intercepting potentially dangerous futures while delineating your senses from the more tangible present? If this duo were genuine articles, Sylvester almost felt sorry for them. Sylvester watched their actions as they became more apparent in the dawning light. “I thought we were to meet at the—“


Dermy made a subtle motion with his hand that stopped Sylvester’s words. It had not felt like he had been suited to do so but it seemed necessary. “Th’re’s might-o bein’ list’ers present, oh. We canna take chances, oh.” He snorted then, clearing his nasal passages.


It was through the orchards towards the western passage after that, all riding done in relative silence. Sylvester was now more leery than ever. He watched the grip trees that, only a day before, had not seemed so menacing. Looking down the neatly arranged rows, no person was spied so at least no one was listening now. Then Sylvester looked up in a tree and saw a bird – Dermy had called it a flapper, which could have been part of his Magiked disguise – and saw one of its feathers drift against the tree and remain their, stuck. There was obviously some grip juice up there, keeping the feather in place.


This caused another thought to wonder, thinking back to the Comgem: could one such device, so firmly encrusted with Magik properties, be used to listen to people from a distance? From what Dermy said, a Comgem had to be activated by both party members but supposed there was one that only had to listen? If it was only a one-way conveyance of sound, why would both ends require simultaneous activation? Or knowledge of that activation, anyway? It seemed entirely possible, especially with grip juice letting you stick something up as high as a treetop, like the feather.


“Dermy,” he started and the specialist still looked to be of a substandard mentality, except for his eyes; they carried an untold warning of Tread softly, sir but Sylvester charged forward. “Your… ring, Dermy. Or rather…” He paused. He was not sure how to proceed without giving away anything that might be overheard. Dermy seemed to grow subtly nervous. “Um, if I want to yell at you from across the orchard here,” he started, hoping he could get his question across clearly enough. “And you want to yell back, at such a great distance, we’d both have to cup our hands over our mouths to make our voices larger, yes?”


Dermy nodded. “Yessa’sir. Tha’ or some folk’t migh’ use a’ Aura’ Boos’. Por’jects ya voice.”


“Okay,” Sylvester accepted, hoping he wasn’t detracting. The mentioning of the Aura Boost or whatever he was talking beyond suggested otherwise. “But now I’ll suggest that only you listen and I talk. Only one of us would need to enlarge our voice, that being me. Meaning you’d do nothing except listen.” Dermy nodded in agreement. “But if you want to say something to me or anyone else, I could also enlarge my hearing, yes? Without you knowing? Then you’d have to be cautious, unless you didn’t know you were being overheard.”


Dermy smiled then, dipping his head in further agreement. “Yes, Kingasir. Ya und’stand nice-like. There be ‘tective means an’ ways t’ stop such ‘vasiveness, oh. Bu’ nonna whilin’ we ride. Nah.” And he fell silent.


He finally felt like he might be understanding something about Magik because the properties of something like a Comgem could be used to help and also hurt someone, even without them knowing it. This made Sylvester ponder also on the notion of the kingdom’s impending Curse because Magik was being applied against all of the participant’s wishes. Sylvester surely didn’t understand how something rooted in Magik could be so beneficial and just as easily be used against the very people that purported it.


Maybe because whatever drives the power of Magik doesn’t care about the people that channel it.


After that, everyone was silent and nothing but the birds chirped, as if counting the steps of the splints.





*          ~          *          ~          *





Travel down the western pass was inexplicably difficult and took almost half the day. It was a path carved from the bottom of the mountain to the top, and it was wide to allow several up-trippers. As it was, an early-morning delivery was seen being drawn by a seemingly-wild pack of splints who were all connected by tethers to a loosely bundled cart. It looked like the vegetables on the cart – were they doup stalks? – were getting dirty from the dust being thrown up by the quick-riding splints and it made Sylvester swing his tongue around in his mouth as he had eaten many helpings of doup soup, doup salad, and several courd’tee sandwiches, of which a main ingredient was doup. He then thought that the obvious answer was that it was washed thoroughly when it arrived at the top. But what of fruits and vegetables that were too delicate to handle a rough wash? He couldn’t think of any at the moment and only realized a bit later that it was most likely because none had made it up the mountain trek; he only ate what was available to him. My, how this trip was already opening so many avenues!


Their witnessing of the upward-traveling splints was not shared by those same splints coming across the downward-moving quartet. Rather, it was spied from the well-winding path on the side of the wider pass. Sylvester knew why: splints were none to adept at traveling downhill as they were at traveling up. Their bodies were configured poorly for it; many young splints have been known to learn the lesson the hard way, traveling end-over-end to their destination thanks to their ample rears overtaking their poignantly placed heads. As such, the group had to travel down-slope in a back and forth manner, zigzagging their way to the easily-seen fields far below. Dermy and the Guards handled it was the deftest of ease. Sylvester did not like how much attention to guidance he had to pay in order to get Eafa to do his bidding. He was thankful and simultaneously resentful of the herding formation the three had used to ensure safer travel for the king. If only I was more skilled!


Now that they were at the base of the mountain path after being forced to pay close attention to every grueling step along the wended pathway, Sylvester already longed to be home. He glanced longingly up and behind, noting for the first time that from this side of the mountain and with the light just above the stony crest, the contour of Mount Reign resembled a giant drop of water. His bedroom’s tower was a finite point for the drop and the remainder flowed down and outward. Sylvester wondered briefly if the mountain was actually named after not the term reign but rain, like a raindrop falling from the sky, forever emblazoned against the horizon.


Perhaps it means that some giant or creature from above the sky shed this stony tear so that the people of Decennia would have a physical mass from which to lead. This was worth investigating, he concluded. At a later date.


Sylvester resumed forward-focus and noticed exactly how large the fields were. He couldn’t recall if they had a proper name as Dermy had only called them the fields. If they didn’t have an encompassing title, they surely needed one; they wrapped around the base of the mountain for a considerable distance, both ways, easily encompassing three or four kilometers, if his distances were being recalled correctly. And they were easily a kilometer deep.


And there were hundreds of people, everywhere in the fields. They looked to be dressed in similar fashions but retained different color schemes. “Dermy, what calls for their colorings?”


“Tha’s bein’ what tells ‘em where’n they be workin’ fer th’ day or week or how’ver lon’ they be workin’. Their lead han’s set out their un’forms when needed, oh.” He snorted again.


Taking in the whole scene once again, Sylvester noticed a row of structures at the edge of the field, directly in their path. Upon asking Dermy, he learned they were tolos; eight were designed as living quarters and the ninth and largest on the far left was the dining and cleaning hall. Much to Sylvester’s lack of enthusiasm, that was also the only structure that was equipped with an ice block holster that was the crux for modern structures to have running water. If the others are living quarters, how do they live without clean water?


The row of tolos also reminded Sylvester of the Malforcrent and wondered how physically imposing they might seem up close. And how that might compare to how personally imposing the real Malforcrent was.


His thoughts drifted to the advisors then, mainly hovering on Misren, Trisden, and Dothel. They were a differing trio with Trisden clearly being the better. Misren tended to focus more on what his next meal was going to be made up of and Dothel…


He decided that Dothel simply had to be up to something devious. It only made the journey seem more dangerous knowing that someone quiet and mysterious like Dothel op Prissen had helped machinate the sequence of events. Looking at the tolos again, Sylvester mentally assigned the different buildings to represent the different councilpersons. The far right looked nicest from this distance so that would work as Trisden’s representative amongst the field hands. The one next to the dining tolo looked to be composed of jutting shadows, clearly derived of the protruding eaves and irregular pitch of the roof; Dothel couldn’t have been more perfectly structured.


Letting the Malforcrent leave his present state of mine, Sylvester stared at the people identified as field hands. They looked similar in stature to those he saw working around the castle. Amongst the closest at hand, Sylvester couldn’t help but notice that each time a hand touched the crop of that plant, the person would wince in what might have been pain.


Sylvester lifted his gaze and directed his voice towards Dermy while continuing to look around. “Why do these hands flinch when they touch that plant? Does it hurt? Don’t they have protective coverings for themselves?” In asking the question, it occurred to Sylvester that they might not be able to afford such almost-necessary means of protection. And that would be because he had no idea what these people did and how it affected the kingdom. They were in his employ and were experiencing doses of pain on not only Sylvester’s behalf but everyone who reaped the benefit of the plant. The least I can find some finances for are some gloves, surely!


Dermy gave the hands little more than a glance. “That’sa bein’ shren’ work, Kingasir.”


“Shren work?”


“Nah, shren’ work. Shren’. Wha’ yere clothers an’ mixups be made up of, sir, oh.”


Sylvester looked down at his own garments and robes as they aptlykept his body heat contained. Such layers might be considered suffocating! “Shrent, I suppose? My clothes are made of that stuff?” As he asked, the hand closest to Eafa winced at the pain of touching another bud of shrent. Or the shrent? Sylvester really was not too certain of how best to use the new term. He also felt a little odd and foolish for not knowing about what his own everyday-clothing was made of. “If it hurts their hands to touch it, why not protect them?”


Dermy looked at Sylvester like he had asked a very peculiar question, but let that glimpse fade behind his perfect, subserviently styled mask. “Shren’ be tough buds o’ cloth. It need’t be man-hand’ed fer a time ‘fore it be harv’sted, oh. If’n th’ han’s don’ nip th’ pain an’ itch while-a be buddin’, then that bein’ pain that you’n yourse’f be feelin’ later-un. ‘bout now, sir, oh. Yes, ‘deed!”


If what Dermy said was accurate – and he was a specialist in this area for just such a reason – then the shrents gave off some kind of jolting pain. The king felt a sudden urge to reach down and touch a bud to see what kind of pain was present and thought better of it. He knew he would have time later to explore the more obscure portents of his kingdom. If I manage to save it. But a question lingered as they were exiting the field of shrent.


“So, Dermy, shrent causes pain to us and we make it into fabric for clothing? Why doesn’t it continue to harm us?” He wondered silently if it was because the bud had been severed but realized that might not have been an answer as there would be no reason for the shrent to be constantly handled. Just plant, grow, water, and cut. Unless it puts up such a defense against being cut…?


He wished he could understand, more readily, Dermy’s speech while he was disguised as it was likely that the answer had already been dispensed. “Seein’, sir,” begain Dermy. “Ev’n now, shren’ can be hurtin’ ya goodlike. It be pow’ful mat-ear-all. Sin’ th’ han’s be touchin’ it an’ takin’ th’ pain an’ fire out th’ shren’, it be read’ fer pros’sing. Read’ fer looms an’ knits an’ things, oh. Withou’ th’ han’s, ya canna pros’s it right-ee into cloths.”


Dermy spit and snorted again, letting Sylvester contemplate the situation the shrent hands allowed themselves to be put in: they had to feel the pain or else it couldn’t be harvested and processed into manageable clothing materials. If it was not handled, the manufactured cloth would make people feel the pain, or at least very itchy. Sylvester suddenly became aware of a slight itch in the fabric that had been periodically bothering him and he thought back to other articles of clothing he had worn before, wondering if they had all been truly itchy or if they just had not been handled enough beforehand.


Another thought occurred to Sylvester centering on the notion of thanking the shrent hands. Obviously, they were doing a great service to the kingdom and a pleasantry from the king might make them feel more appreciative. “Dermy, how do I turn about? The stable boy didn’t tell me.” He realized then that he most likely forgot and felt a pang of guilt for lying to the specialist.


Dermy looked alarmed. “Whysa, Kingasir? Where th’ prob’em?”


“No, Dermy. I wish to turn around and thank those field hands for their duties. With the shrents.”


“Shren’,” stated Dermy. “An’ they’n needs nun thankin’. Comp’sated, they’n be.”


“What?” Sylvester didn’t understand. How could they be compensated? They looked as raggled as the rest of the hands that worked the fields.


“Comp’sated. They’n pait nicely. An’ live in th’ nic’st ‘olo.” He pointed to the row of structures at the edge of the field. Being closer, Sylvester did notice that one, the tolo on the farthest right, seemed to be more firmly rooted and a scant bit decorated in comparison to the others. He imagined bowls filled with solutions designed to sooth worn hands occupying every bare table in such a building.


“So, they have the most difficult crop to harvest and are rewarded for such an effort?”


Dermy nodded. The Guards seemed to only be interested in watching everything around them, not to what the king and the specialist were saying though Sylvester did not doubt that they were listening. “When’s they are th’ shren’ han’s, they lifing in th’ goot ‘olo.”


“When they are the shrent hands? They take turns or something?” Dermy nodded again, adding no further comment. That made sense to Sylvester: instead of one group being solely applied to the distasteful act of shrent handling, the hands had some type of rotation implemented to make sure everyone shared the duty. It was a very fair system and Sylvester wondered how many more aspects of the kingdom adopted such forms of team management. He hoped it was many as that reflected highly on the stance of the crown; he was a fair king at the top of a fair system.


Realizing he didn’t need to thank the shrent hands – they might be different people tomorrow anyway and there would be no point in thanking the current ones and shrugging off the future ones – he stopped wondering how to turn Eafa around. She did not seem too thrilled to turn anyway. It was difficult enough to ride side-by-side with Dermy. Had she turned, she would be in the shrent field. Sylvester then wondered if the pains of the shrent affected animals too but decided to save that question for later as they were coming to a stop outside the row of the buildings identified as tolos.


Up close, their dwarfing ability reminded Sylvester even more of the Malforcrent and the possible maladies they were attempting to manifest against the crown in the king’s absence. His mind then drifted to Penson’s safety but Sylvester knew the groomer could handle himself; he was nothing if not a competent individual. The leading Guard directed the group to the far left, towards the dining tolo. The king thought it was odd for the most decorated structure to be opposite the dominate one but realized that he would only have to accept it; he knew little about reason, even within his own country.


At the entrance – or what Sylvester assumed was the entrance – stood a man that appeared to be waiting for the traveling quartet. Dermy yelled from his mottled splint. “Ho, Wynn, oh!” The man waved at Dermy and stepped forward to grab the lead splint’s hank.


The man identified as Wynn was slightly older but looked to be very fit. Judging by the different activities the field hands were supposed to partake in, Wynn looked like he had been doing his fair share for many years, resulting in a evenly toned body, topped with thin, silvery hair. The point Guard dismounted with Dermy following suit. Sylvester wasn’t sure how to redistribute his weight against the splint and nearly fell to the ground for his effort. Luckily, Dermy was below, keeping the king steady. He really was a handy man to have around.


“Derm, welcome.” Wynn then looked at the Gousheralls and then the king, averting his gaze when his eyes met Sylvester’s. His voice was firm when he spoke and he was as tall as Sylvester. “Ah, king, sir. Welcome to the fields. Sir.” He made some motion with his body, lowering it slightly to the ground. It seemed very noticeable and very out of place in such an environment. Sylvester felt a small flush of embarrassment and wondered if his beard was thick enough to mask the redness he felt spreading beneath it.


Dermy stopped Wynn’s actions with a gesture and it was the older man’s turn to look embarrassed; his face resembled the setting sun, red as it was. This thought made Sylvester look up to the sky: it was just after noon. This was usually when he ate a meal up at Fyse Castle. He turned gently to look in the distance.


Mount Reign was brightly colored but looked nothing like it did just a short time ago. Overall, it looked asymmetrical as the orchard extended to the north. It no longer looked like a giant raindrop but the lengthy pennants still flapped with the higher winds. He realized belatedly that he wouldn’t be falling asleep to the rustles of the flapping fabrics that sometimes wrapped about his towered bedroom in the middle of the night; he wondered if, without that constant rustling, he would be able to sleep easily. Surely the sound might be replicated!


An odd thought occurred then: Sylvester imagined the large pennant contouring the wind and then snapping unconsciously at a bird. But instead of plummeting, the bird only flew away with a slight irritation against its feather; in his mind’s eye, he saw the pennant as being made up of poorly handled shrent.


He shook the daydream away when Dermy spoke. “Kingasir? Sir? It be time an’ ring fer mealin’.” Sylvester nodded and let the specialist lead the way into the largest tolo.


Inside was considerably different than out. It was surprisingly cooler, an outdoors aspect Sylvester had not noticed until the difference had been placed upon him. There were also rows of tables and benches and chairs. The seating was wholly mismatched, with few similar types grouped together and the tables didn’t all seem to be of the same build but all were generally long and narrow. The better to seat many at one time.


Currently seated were several people dressed in fashions similar to the hands outside. They were spooning gobbets of gray or yellow semi-liquids. Some bowls steamed, some did not. A few had the stuff on plates. Most had goblets of varying sizes, all filled with murky liquids. Sylvester caught a whiff of one of the nearest plates and the thought of food was suddenly dashed against a mental wall, like a bird blinded by the sun reflecting from the very surface it was gliding towards.


“Dermy, I’m not sure I’m all too hungry at the moment,” he said while massaging his neck, mentally wondering how the liquid was intended to go down the throat when it might just as easily come back up.


Dermy looked up at the king, still smiling but now carrying an air of alarm in his eyes. Sylvester wondered if such appearances were translated through the Magiked disguise or if they broke through because of the realism behind the inflection. “Kingasir, we nee’ ta be eatin’ soon and right. Travel ta Crepp Lek is set ta be lon’. An ‘sides,” he leaned in, lowering his voice. “If yer donna meal, yer ‘ffendin’ Wynn an’ the han’s. Which ain’t good, oh.”


The malice had failed to be conveyed but Sylvester didn’t want to disappoint the field hands that consistently worked so hard for him and the kingdom. He sat where indicated and assumed food was being brought to him. “What is the stuff we’re to be served?”


Dermy looked at the hand next to him and then at his bowl, which Sylvester saw had a sealed crack on one side. “’his stuff be grum, Kingasir.” Sylvester had never heard of grum before and almost felt like he would be better without knowing.


While waiting, he looked about and noticed that the hands were conversing with each other, some in jovial fashions, but as a whole, they did not glance at Sylvester. His garb alone should have attracted their attention, but there was nothing. The Guards – he still did not know there names – were seated on both sides of him with Dermy across from the king. Everyone seemed alert and Sylvester imagined that he himself was looking alert simply because he was studying the workers and their mannerisms. It didn’t last too long though as he could only stand watching them shovel the uniquely offensive food into their mouths. Ducking into himself, he wondered how he was expected to down such slop.


The time passed slowly and Sylvester wondered if, in fact, a meal was coming. It certainly could not take too long to muscle a bowlful away from the larger mass! A new scent entered the air though, a strong, alluring scent, and Sylvester’s mouth began to water, reminding him that he had not eaten since before dawn.


He noticed some hands lifting their eyes to watch someone walking up the aisle of tables, towards Sylvester. He leaned back to see past the younger Guard and saw Wynn himself holding a fashionable plate. It was what was on the plate that was drawing everyone’s attention: some kind of perfectly cooked meat and a steaming vegetable.


As Wynn came closer, the scent grew stronger and Sylvester felt he could already taste it. Wynn stopped behind the Guard and extended the plate to be set upon the table in front of Sylvester. He felt his face spread wide with an uncontrollable grin as he looked over at Dermy. And his large bowl of the grum.


Sylvester felt his smile falter and it disappeared altogether when the Gosheralls received similar dishes of grum. He looked down at his own plate and thought it resembled a hefty portion of grilled coonal, a type of tall bovine from somewhere in the southwest. His mind drifted to Brinttal Por Tyrenna specifically and the Malforcrent generally as the coonal had most likely come from that councilman’s region of Serres Mor. Rather than silently worry about what the Malforcrent had in store during his absence, the king wondered if the council always ate this good up on the mountain.


He felt guilty though because he had such a nice meal prepared for him – no wonder it had taken so long to make it! – and his companions had nothing but grum. Dermy didn’t look dismayed at the outcome. In fact, he looked rather pleased to receive the grum. Sylvester decided this was his way of acting like the difference did not bother him. That he might actually think he was better for receiving the lesser meal. The Gousheralls conveyed no sense of positive or negative thoughts in regards to the meal: they simply ate it.


Sylvester, accepting the situation for what it was, began to carve at the coonal, watching as the purplish meat released juices with the first slice of the knife. It was not long before the entire plate was clean. Dermy was taking his time with his grum; it was most likely because the stuff was so unappealing that it took time to work up courage to take your next bite. With the smell of the coonal dissipating quickly, the grum was beginning to overpower Sylvester’s nose and he felt he might have to get up soon.


It was only a minute more as Dermy looked up, saw the king was finished, and nearly gulped down the rest of the bowl’s contents. Just before they were to stand, a series of dull knockings was sounded. At the door, Sylvester saw Wynn standing with some large item that looked like a gourd. Each shake produced the noise and the field hands began cleaning up their dishes, filing towards a point in the tolo where the ice block-holster dropped water into a basin, and left the building in a very orderly fashion. They weren’t quiet or dismayed in appearance, which Sylvester would have expected as they were more than likely going back to their fields. Rather, they still seemed just as boisterous as was readily acceptable without causing a large fuss.


Equally, a new group of hands were ushered in and began retrieving bowls or plates of a new batch of grum and finding seats. One or two cast a glance at Sylvester and his Guards because it was obvious that seeing people still sitting after the rest had left was a mild surprise.


Dermy motioned that they get up while the line of hands was still through the door. “Car’ful, Kingasir. Spyders be ‘bout th’ room. ‘mong the han’s.”


This made Sylvester pause: he was fearful of spiders. They often reminded him of the point in his recurring nightmare where his father’s crown grew by the points and tore into the scalp. He also didn’t like feeling them crawl against his skin. Or seeing one skitter along the wall, only to stop as if it might leap on me. He truly hated the tiny beasts and shuttered with the thought.


The Guards maneuvered the king towards the wide doors they had entered through and Sylvester released an inevitable belch, signifying his delicious meal and making him wish he had received a second helping of the coonal. Sylvester spied the man that he had seen handling the shrent from before and moved to intercept him when, for no apparent reason, the leading Guard halted, making Sylvester bump into him. The clatter drew attention from some of the closer hands. Sylvester inquired the older Guard on the issue.


“Sir, there were some field hands, one of which had been watching you closely while we ate, idling near our splints. One pocketed an object when I saw him and now they are moving back towards the fields.” Sylvester looked around the shoulder of the Gousherall and was pulled to stand directly behind the leader by the younger Guard.


“It’s best to stay under protection, king, sir,” said the younger Guard. He had a lighter voice than the older Guard which caused Sylvester to realize that was the first word he had spoken since meeting the man.


“Go and check the splints,” said the leading Guard, which baffled Sylvester as he had just told him to stay under… and then the younger Guard moved out from behind the pair and jogged quickly toward the splints.


Dermy came up behind the king and Sylvester turned only to see that the field hand he had been wanting to put appreciation upon had moved along with the rest of the line. Dermy asked, “Wha’ be happ’n, Kingasir?”


“The Guard said one of the hands were watching us eat and he was with a couple other people, doing something to our splints. Or maybe about to do something. I wasn’t sure. The one watching us put something in his pocket upon being seen.”


Dermy nodded. “Well’n, they dinna haf th’ time an’ such to be doin’ an’thin’ dras’ic. If’n they pock’ted wha’ fer, mos’ likely mean they dinna do a spell o’ such thing.” Sylvester silently wished that the time would be soon when Dermy dropped his Magikal disguise because it wasn’t becoming any easier to understand what the specialist was saying.


The line of hands was gone; the men in the tolo were eating when the younger Guard returned. “The splints are okay. The hands probably didn’t have any time to do whatever they intended.” He then looked behind him, looking across the fields. It wasn’t possible for him to identify the culprits as he had been out of sight until after they had entered the fields but Sylvester still assumed that the Guard might catch someone attempting to follow-up on the foiled plot.


But even Sylvester saw no suspicious activity.


Then again, he hadn’t even known he was being watched while eating; he had been so enveloped with the coonal. Had that been intentional? Had Wynn purposefully tried to distract Sylvester with a pleasing dish while he was being visually analyzed by a potential threat?


Maybe the coonal itself had been poisoned.


Sylvester felt his heartbeat jump then at the prospect. Have I been poisoned by someone that Dermy trusted?


Dermy the Magiked man, and the Guards with no names and Wynn, if that was his real name! He suddenly felt queasy, like he might stumble. “W-we should be going, yes?”


Dermy looked into the king’s face. “You a’right, Kingasir? You seem pale, oh.”


Of all the people nearby, Sylvester simply knew that he could trust Dermy. The little man was putting so much on the line for the sake of not only Sylvester but the kingdom as a whole. That had to mean something, at least. “Have I been poisoned, Dermy?”


“Why’n say tha’, sir?”


“The coonal. Could that have been poisoned? I was the only one who ate some. What if Wynn was trying to poison me?”


The younger Guard, overhearing, said, “If they had poisoned you, then we wouldn’t have witnessed them trying to tamper with our splints. No sense in the matter.”


“An’ ‘sides, Kingasir: Wynn be a dearin’ friend o’ mine, oh. I canna think he bein’ a pois’ner.” Sylvester must not have looked alleviated from the words, which is probably what caused Dermy to continue with “We can check fer pois’ns, if that’n make ya com’table.”


Sylvester nodded agreement and allowed himself to be shuffled towards the splints. The two Guards were evermore alert than they were just minutes ago; the spook with the splints had heightened their awareness.


Eafa seemed fine and even a little happier; she had been fed and was ready to ride out “When will you test me for potential poisoning?”


The older Guard said, “It’ll be best to wait for nightfall. Magik’s stronger then, when most people are asleep. Leaves less for the Members to have to keep their eyes on.”


“The Members?” Sylvester had never heard this term before but could only think it applied to either the same set of spies or a whole new type. He was still being fearful of the spiders though, as Dermy had warned that they were near.


“Aud’ence Mem’ers, sir. They’n make th’ Mag’k work fer ever’one.”


Sylvester still didn’t understand but mounted his splint regardless. He imagined it would be explained in due time. It was only another aspect of Magik and it was most likely that he wouldn’t understand it anyway.





*          ~          *          ~          *





Travel was easier now that they were on their way in a steadier fashion. It had taken quite a while to come down the relatively short mountain pass and the stop-off at the field tolos had been necessary but had taken too long. Now they were on open country and, in only a few hours time, they saw the mirroring lake that Sylvester saw most easily from his bedroom. It tended to draw his eye as it resembled a piece of the sky itself, as if encased in the land. It also heightened the setting sun in a horrendously blinding fashion. Upon the ground, it was a longer journey than as seen from atop Mount Reign; Sylvester then accepted that distance tended to be a factor in making something more or less alluring.


Sylvester remembered something said earlier. “Dermy, you told that Wynn fellow that we were traveling to Crepp Lek. But I was under the impression that this was the correct path towards Zharrina. Why deceive a man you said you trusted?”


Dermy sounded like he might have sighed but it could have easily been a normal release of air. “Sir, yessa. We be trav’lin’ to Crepp Lek. Tha’ be th’ name o’ tha’ bod’ o’ water, oh.”


Sylvester looked to where Dermy was pointing, which was the lake. Confusedly, Sylvester said, “But that’s a lake.” He paused before continuing. “Isn’t it?”


Dermy nodded. “Yes’n, Kingasir. It be a lake, fer sure, but it’d also be’n a lek.”


The younger Guard interjected. “A lek, dear king, is a body of water that’s extremely and almost unnaturally deep. There is a small shelf around parts of the edge but for the most part, they average at just over two hundred or so meters in depths.”


Dermy agreed with another nod. “Lots o’ caverns, oh, are us’ally ‘long th’ sheer walls an’ th’ like. Some dry pockets bein’ up inside. It a lek, oh.”


The king understood and was glad to be rid of the confusion. He hadn’t really appreciated the way the younger Guard had chosen to define the word for him; as if Sylvester was a child. It had been barely tolerable when the older Guard had done so before the trek had even begun but with the younger one – one possibly younger than even Sylvester himself – doing it too, it made Sylvester feel inadequate.


The small anger made his mind turn again. Why don’t I know what a lek is? Surely that was something that more common folk learned in early-life lessons. Of course, the professors at the academy most likely knew that his kingstone granted knowledge from the past and they might have decided to forego some basic lessons.


This mindset only made Sylvester wonder what other basic pieces of knowledge had been opted out of his learning process. All the more reason to not ask so many questions, he decided. In asking, it seems that I’m more likely to tell what I don’t know.


Dusk was speedily approaching and the quartet was closer to the lek but still a distance away from Zharinna, however far that truly was. A stray cloud blocked the blinding light of the setting sun and Sylvester noticed, for the first time, that there was something on the other shore of the lek. He was trying to recall if it had been there earlier that day or even the day before; it had not been easily seen from any distance and Sylvester saw that it was most likely because the reflection of the lek made the object difficult to perceive except when up close.


Going solely from Debbenmor’s sketches he’d seen in the volumes back in the castle, Sylvester could only assume the large object was a swan. Perfectly still, it was poised with its neck raised up as if watching to see if anything might fly over and be decidedly snatched for a meal. It really isn’t an ideal way to hunt. You might wait there and starve to death before anything flies overhead!


Then a fear settled inside him as he thought the large bird might turn and spy the traveling men as a possible meal. How could such a bird even eat a man? Sylvester, forgoing the idea that not asking questions was for the better, decided to ask about the large swan that, in a roundabout manner, they were approaching.


“Erm…” Dermy began after Sylvester asked the question. And then was silent for several seconds before continuing. “That be more’n like a tolo, Kingasir.”


“What? That’s a structure? Someone lives in that?”


Dermy looked more dismayed to have to continue answering the question. “Uh, yessa. It bein’ a diff’ren’ shaped tolo, oh. Donna know why’t be here’n, oh.”


Sylvester was mentally floored. Who would build such a dwelling? And of all creatures, why a swan?


The group was nearing a smaller structure on the farthest edge of the line of trees that were backing the lek’s scenery. Sylvester tried thinking of follow-up questions when the splints became agitated. The first started to bark and then they began to buck themselves around. The Guards were caught unawares and were too easily thrown from their mounts, their splints still behaving crazily. Dermy started to shout and Sylvester heard him clicking towards his dirty-brown steed, turned, and saw him patting the neck as if trying to soothe the animal. He was unsuccessful though and was thrown to the ground, just like the Guards.


Now Sylvester and Eafa were the only pair and his splint actually increased her spasmodic bucking and swaying as if only to try harder in throwing her rider off. Is she trying to prove herself to the other splints? What’s going on? Finally, with a lurch in his gut, Sylvester went over Eafa’s head and landed hard on his rear, in the center of the four wild-acting splints.


He immediately feared that he would be crushed by the beasts. Though he was just a little taller than Eafa when she stood at full-height, she was a wide and long creature, massing greatly enough to crush a normal human. And that, multiplied by four, is what terrified the man. And it was a danger he faced alone; the other three had fallen to the outside of this space defined by the trouncing splints. What was to occur? What could he do?


The answer came in a most unusual form, beginning with Eafa.


As she was nearing the king, on an upward movement to come crash back down against Sylvester with her forelegs, she froze. It was a literal chill as Sylvester felt an icy breeze blow from the body of the beast. Then, in almost the same moment, the other splints were similarly frozen. Sylvester stared up at them, aghast at the turn of events. Frozen splints? How’d this…


A new fear stabbed at his heart as Eafa began to lean forward. She’s going to crush me regardless!


But a small group of men moved forward and stopped the frozen splint’s fall, grabbing her in places that she would probably have objected to had she been able. Where’d they come from? It was most unusual. They were in similar fashions but of a different caliber than compared to the hands of the mountain base fields.


More came forward to grab the other splints; to lower them more safely to the ground. He could only have imagined the precariousness had the splints been aloud to crash down. Frozen pieces of meat scattered everywhere! It made Sylvester a little sick to his stomach to think such a thing but he remained mostly relieved to not have been crushed by the spooked creatures.


But what spooked them? The king stood finally, dusting particles from his disheveled robes, looking around. In the midst of his near-death experience, several people had massed; including the splint-catchers, at least twenty or twenty-five total. One stood out from the rest, looking slightly unsettled if his eyes were any indication. He looked like he could be grinning or even on the verge of frowning for conducting such an affair against the king. Does he know I’m the king? Absently, Sylvester put his hand to his hair and felt no crown there. He then remembered that he hadn’t brought it. Would this have happened if he had worn it?


“We apologize for our actions, your highness, sir,” said the supposed leader. “But we had to spook yer splints to make sure they weren’t poisoned or Magiked or anything.”


“How was putting our lives in danger testing that?” he asked with a little more anger than he had actually intended. Even though they had perpetuated the state, they had saved his life in the end.


“If they had been poisoned, the Accel-Stone chips they walked on would have made the poison increase its potency, killing them. Or exposing their true forms, if they’d been false.” Sylvester immediately looked to Dermy and saw that he was beyond the now-noticed chips of stone: he had been thrown there by his splint… or had that been with purpose? “Since they weren’t tainted, their natural states of heightened-alert was enhanced and they became too sensitive to even move without causing harm.” The explanation made sense to the king and he nodded that he understood. The man then patted Eafa, bringing a twinge of jealousy out of the king. It made him feel foolish and he blushed. “This one seems near dehydration. We’ll get her some water.”


“I do hope we did not bring harm to you, sir,” came a female’s voice. The sun had finally set and she appeared from behind the mass of people, breathtaking in her beauty. She paused and bowed deeply, revealing his extensively curly hair and… other noticeable features. She was a terribly beautiful woman, the likes of which Sylvester had not readily seen. On the mountain, woman that worked for him tended to be a fair deal older or unattractive in conventional regards. But this woman, with curled hair and shapely body, was greatly attuned for what Sylvester thought was attractive.


Her bow had made Sylvester feel even nicer inside his heart. She recognizes me for what I am. Ordinarily, such expressions of subservience bothered Sylvester but in her, it made her seem somewhat endearing. “And you are the Freezer that will be accompanying us? I hope.. er, wonder?”


The woman chuckled, heaving her chest with the effort and causing Sylvester to catch his own breath. What a woman, indeed! “King Sylvester, sir, I am Perryta Fy’tay om Yett. I am the governess of Zharinna. I cannot attend you and your quest.” This dispirited the king and he felt greatly hurt. Why could she not accompany him, or them, or mainly him? If she was some kind of governess, could she not put in place a temporary place holder while she chose to be absent? That was, after all, what he had done! “We have chosen a Freezer of high caliber though.”


The others started to exchange glances as if conferring amongst themselves whether she was, in fact, saying that any one was better than the other; Sylvester had already deduced that these others could only be Freezers. How else could the splints be frozen like they were? Sylvester looked at Eafa and wondered what was to become of her now. And how she had gotten so dehydrated so quickly.


The crowd parted then and a woman of dirty blonde tresses stepped forward. Her hair was not so much curly as it was matted against her head in an unladylike manner; Sylvester decided that he truly didn’t know what was ladylike and what wasn’t but this present display did not seem to fit the proper definition. She wore drably colored robes whereas Perryta wore bright ones. She was shorter too and did not smile in a way that would take Sylvester’s breath on a whim. It was not a smile at all but rather a strongly pursed pair of lips. She was pale compared to the rest of the group and he wondered how much time she could spend outside and still be considered a Freezer of “high caliber”.


What Sylvester noticed most of all was this: the woman did not bow or lower herself slightly or even acknowledge Sylvester for what he was. Internally, he was experiencing mixed emotions: the… nicer woman had shown a genial degree of subservience, of which Sylvester normally didn’t feel comfortable with. But this other woman did nothing of the sort and he, as odd as it felt even to him, felt a great amount of disrespect. The nerve of this woman!


“Hello,” she said as if it had to be wrenched from her androgynously shaped frame.  She offered no hand for shaking or even a curt nod. She was stony in all respects and Sylvester could not help but wonder if this was a quality desired amongst expert Freezers. But Perryta had been quick to show her own level of service towards the king. And this woman was to accompany Sylvester in an attempt to save the kingdom? How was it to work if she did not even acknowledge his stature in the government?!


In return to her cold greeting, he only nodded and then turned his attention back to Perryta. “Um, Perryta Fyta?”


“Perryta Fy’tay. And her name, though she is begrudging in revealing it, is Tuette.” She bit her lip then, looking at the woman identified as Tuette with something that might have been contempt. Shared contempt. “Uh, yes, sir?”


“Why is it not you who is attending to this quest of dire importance? I mean, surely one of your loyal servants or vice governors could easily fulfill duties in your absence.”


She looked perplexed but said with a smile, “Sir, I understand that your presence is necessary for the completion and success of your journey, but I cannot detract from my important duties as Zharinna’s leader.”


Sylvester then felt an embarrassing hue embrace his face; he was not so readily required for this quest but had more readily jumped at the chance to embark on it, if only to prove his standing with the throne. But this woman didn’t need to do that and instead recognized that she was needed at the head of her branch of government. It was no wonder the other woman hadn’t paid any general respect for the crown. In her position, how can she think highly of someone like me? Someone who so easily abandons his own position to practically gallivant across the countryside in hopes of finding a herd of birds?


And this woman that made him feel slightly terrible about his part in the overall journey to save the kingdom would be accompanying him as the official Freezer. He knew from that point on that the trek for a rare flock of chickens was going to just be that much more difficult.


Looking back at the mountain, now gently lit by the remnants of the newly set sun, Sylvester ached to be home. And he knew it wouldn’t be for the last time.