Sylvester & Tuette: Cursed Doubt

Chapter Twenty-One

It had been quite a shock to find the seleagle, once again, inside the workshop.


Count Roost might’ve been afraid.


Except the bird was dead.


Puze is certainly a tenacious little dacker. Evidence of the fly’s actions only reminded Roost of why he had altered the Curse of the Fruit Fly for the little buzzer in the first place: because he had been working for months at finding discrete ways of acquiring the kingstone. Using the traditionally reliable Artificial-from-Afar Charm, he learned that King Sylvester was immune to the effect. No malignant Curse could touch him either, and Roost had tried them all, using hairs from a brush brought to the count by the insensible Puze.


Had the fly known the king couldn’t be altered in such a manner? That had to be the case, though Count Roost couldn’t see how. It had led to Roost questioning the fly and the questions had only produced annoying answers which had turned the count’s mood sour and murderous. The original glass-mesh cage that had been lost had been because of the brush landing inside with the fly. The first reproduced one lost had been that large and ugly plant.


Yes, the plant. Roost was becoming more and more certain with the notion that the World Spirit was not tethered in the stones – Though that has happened – but inside the odd stalk and tangle of roots. The plant itself warranted closer attention and the count was baffled about its origins; he had never seen anything like it. The stalk was lean in some areas and broad in others, forming a symmetry that was more commonly associated with fine vases. And the root system acted like it didn’t need nutrients commonly found in soil but like it fed on sunlight. A couple of times, Roost spied the topmost bud open, revealing a flourishing flower that seemed to funnel in on itself in deep purple waves.


Upon realizing the possibly true nature of the plant, Roost immediately thought to cut it down and harvest any Potential Magik properties. But he didn’t know where any of the plant’s seeds might exist. He wondered if the bulbous portions in the center of the stalk might contain them but that might’ve meant that the only way another plant could be born was to breach the existing plant.


And that looked like it might bring about the rare plant’s death.


He shook his head, seeing the similarities between that one plant, that World Spirit, expanding itself and how one human could basically sacrifice his or her entire life just to insure there was a future for their bloodline.


Roost thought of Botch then and felt relieved to be able to embrace him as a son, especially since he had been able to skip past the child-rearing part. It almost seemed like Botch wanted to finish growing up anyway, what with taking on more responsible tasks in just the little time since he had first used the Pain-Less Stone on Voidet below.


A dreadful truth boiled up: Botch was going to suffer the same Curse as everyone else. Roost knew he couldn’t stop it.


Not unless he stopped the Curse of the Thumb from coming about.


If he did that now, the king might be alerted through some means and return to Mount Reign. There was also no doubt that Roost’s head would be what they were after. Could I convince the king to give up his kingstone without him trying to kill me? Perhaps. But once the king finally did arrive, Count Roost knew he might not have a chance to disable the Curse against Decennia.


It has to happen this way.


Thinking on his own horrible childhood and how almost all of it was rooted in some form or fashion to his mild deformity, he could only wonder how Botch would fare.


But no, Count Roost knew he could be there for the boy, in a way Roost’s own father never had. He wouldn’t ridicule the boy, wouldn’t make fun of him. And he certainly wouldn’t allow anyone else to do such a thing either. In thinking more about Botch’s immediate future, Roost knew it was the right path: Botch’s path towards a greater destiny. They would have so much more in common after that fateful moment when Botch lost his thumbs and became more like Count Roost than he ever might have before.


With Voidet’s life coming to an end and the king’s as well, probably, life in Decennia might finally start to turn for the better.


Roost ascended to the rooftop, accessibly only through his bedroom. Once there, he opened the small, innocuous box that rested in the corner. Inside were the pieces of bone from King Gould that, when reassembled, would denote their origins as that man’s thumb. Count Roost hadn’t been certain he could make the Curse of the Thumb work in the manner he had chosen, but it had worked.


He had first curbed the effect of the Curse onto Sylvester himself, but sources told him he had been unsuccessful. He then changed the target to any that answered to the current possessor of the kingstone. The Audience Members obviously recognized what he was talking about because he held the bone fragments when he called for their attention.


They had unerringly obliged.


Instead of directing the Curse towards the current owner of the kingstone, they fashioned it to become attached to all that answered to the king. And since they were aware that the kingstone was designed to serve Decennia, every citizen of the kingdom fell under its blanket. He couldn’t have been more pleased.


To think that an entire nation was going to be without thumbs, just as he had been for his whole life, made him feel ecstatic. Thrilled!


Naturally, his first thought was why it hadn’t been done before.


It didn’t take long to realize the answer: no one in Decennia even cared about the king. His younger days were filled with balking notions that fed into the idea that a monarch was obsolete in this country.


Coming from a Gor Pyron-settled land had truly provided the count with a better notion for how a country should operate. And if he could easily place the entire nation under one Curse, that nation could learn to fear him; respect him, even. Because, through his short-yet-long life, Count Roost had come to realize that respect was truly another facet of fear itself.


Botch didn’t fear him though. He liked him. And Roost liked Botch. Liked him enough to treat him like a son.


But it only made him question his capacity for love.


Parents were supposed to have within them an unconditional love for their offspring. Botch isn’t my genuine sire, but could I come to love the boy? Could I raise him to be a man?


Through Cursing him with the rest of the kingdom, I’m damning him. But essentially saving him. It’s best that children learn, while young, that life is filled with cruel events and crueler people.


I can protect him from those people, at least.


And maybe, in time, find that notion of fatherly love that I might never have known before.


That idea chilled him though. If I never felt I was properly loved, even by my accursed parents, would I even know if what I felt was love? It seemed like he might as one of those moments might define itself, but Roost knew he wasn’t so sure. And he hated dealing with uncertainties.


It occurred to him that he might have to test Botch’s stance on the subject.


Returning the box to its original position, Roost descended into his bedroom and continued down to the ground floor. He actively sought Botch, knowing if he didn’t come clean now, he might not have the courage later.


Botch was exiting the infirmary when Roost found him. He asked the boy to follow him up to the workshop, thinking the whole time that only weeks before, with any other incompetent servant, he would’ve bellowed and shouted for the servant to come to him. But this boy was decidedly different.


Following Roost, Botch looked a little fearful, like he might think he was receiving a punishment of some kind. Roost knew he could accidentally intimidate in that manner, but he didn’t want the lad to feel that way. In the workshop, Roost sat down on a stool, took a deep breath, and said to Botch, “I’m not entirely what my form has suggested. I am strong, yes, but I look… different.”


Botch looked confused. “What do you mean? You can change your shape?”


Smiling tightly, he said, “Not exactly. I just have a… false one covering my true face.”


“And you’re deformed somehow? Did you have an accident or something?”


Briefly, Count Roost drifted back to a time when an older child taunted him by stating his entire life was an accident. It wasn’t difficult to come out of it though: the flashbacks never ended pleasantly.


“No, everything about it was… aptly designed.”


Seeing that Botch wasn’t understanding completely, the count extended his feet, leaning against the sturdy workbench, the claw marks from the dead lei cat still evident. “Botch, grab my feet. Pull upward. Make my knees bend forward as far as possible.”


“Bend forward, sir?”


He could only nod and, almost reluctantly, grabbed Roost’s ankles. With a quick grunt, he jerked upward and Roost knew it wasn’t enough; the boy wasn’t strong enough just yet. He was trying to have the boy temporarily dislocate the joints that were strapped on the backside of his true legs. The disguise hid them, obviously, but he knew now he’d have to use some of his invaluable Truvis Pote.


Standing with a groan, he reached to a shelf above the marked bench and withdrew a small vial. Without anymore words and with his heart hammering in his ears – he had never been this nervous before, not about someone whose opinion he actually valued – he unstopped the vial and drank the contents entirely.


In moments, he was groaning and shaking audibly and he saw, through clenched eyes, Botch back away, his face miming fear or panic. Roost hoped he wasn’t making a mistake.


Finally, after the pain subsided, Count Roost was slumped backwards on the stool, countering the threat that his sagging gut put on him in trying to pull him forward. The disguise had only masked his physical enormity. He still weighed the same and felt large, but not seeing all of his own extra mass always made it easier to get through the day; made it easier to maintain his labored breathing, his heavy steps.


Absently, he thought he looked a little thinner, what with walking up and down the stairwell every single dacking day, but he couldn’t ask Botch for verification: he’d never seen the count this way.


Botch.


The boy was leaning against the furthest bookcase, his mouth hung open only slightly. When Roost leaned forward – nearly toppling in the process – to find his footing, he finally stood and felt disgusted with himself.


“You…” sputtered Botch. But then Roost realized that the boy might remember the count from years before, when he had first arrived at Boost, before he had adopted the Magik disguise. “You really are him!”


That hadn’t been expected.


“What?”


Botch took a moment more to find his voice while staring at the extra flesh. “Many… Lots of people, around Boost, they said that you came and then, well, they were all wrong.”


He still hadn’t met Roost’s eyes. That made Roost a little sad, and maybe even a little angry, but he wasn’t sure witch emotion was winning out. “Wrong about what?”


“They said that you, the other you, they said that he came in and killed you one night and demanded that he – you – was our leader.”


Count Roost remembered the day he had come to the island and, a few months later, when he revealed himself to be of a much more acceptable physique. He told them he had been the same man, Magiked to look more presentable: he never assumed they hadn’t believed him. In the months between them seeing his bulbous form and his trimmed form, they had already erected a statute out of dutiful respect and fear.


The statue depicted him as bulbous.


And thumbless.


“Yes, I am the one and same person. You didn’t believe me?”


Botch didn’t shake his head or nod it. He was just staring in amazement and Roost was beginning to feel like this was a mistake, like Botch couldn’t handle it.


“How’s it work?” he asked earnestly, moving forward by a step.


That question was enough to make the count believe this was right.


Turning, he showed the bones that were attached to the back of his legs. “This is a method that comes from Gor Pyron.” He realized then that he hadn’t explained his own background too carefully so the boy probably didn’t know what he was talking about. He continued. “I’ve noticed that here in Decennia, most disguises are tethered to small boulders, even though everyone knows that human bones make the best tethers: they last a long time.” He took a breath and licked his lips.


“In Gor Pyron, a land far, far away from here, they had warriors that would go into battle with bones from their enemies strapped to their limbs. They would then tether Magik disguises – they called them doseken or ‘second skin’ – well, they would tether them and if they came to harm in battle, they would reveal that they were wearing dosekens and the true form beneath would be unharmed.


“Here in Decennia, they consider a dead human’s bones sacred for some reason. But when we die, we’re gone. The bones don’t matter. Valtos ordered that, when we die, our bones be left behind for those of us who would wish to use them to truly tap into the Magiks that he offers us firm and most devoted of believers.


“So I can be harmed, but as long as it’s all taken by the disguise, the real me, all of this,” he felt a little sick for having to motion how much of this there was, and that it was the real him, “will be just fine. And I’ll live to fight another day.”


Botch’s look of horror or disgust or whatever it was had finally subsided and now he looked genuinely curious. But what Roost noticed most of all was that he hadn’t run away. He also hadn’t looked Roost in the—


“What’s Gor Pyron? Or where is it?” he asked, looking Roost in the eyes finally. The question made Roost’s heart swell a little as the boy was curious enough to still learn from the count. But it was the eye contact that made Roost feel like something that could be respected.


In starting to explain about Gor Pyron and how it was quite literally on the other side of the world, Botch noticed Roost’s hands. And how he had no thumbs.


Roost, being emboldened by how the boy had taken part of the truth, revealed his precon Curse and the real reason he had Cursed Decennia. Botch took it all in even stride.


And he stayed.


That’s the part Count Roost was most proud of: after seeing his master’s true form, Botch hadn’t left him alone. Absently, Roost realized that he had never taken the first hair samples from Botch for an eventual Cursing.


After this revelatory episode, he knew he’d never need to.