Fantasy Story

PROLOGUE

GRANITIA 1070 VP.

He stood on the balcony of the granite palace and let the gentle southern breeze comb his hair back from his forehead. It was a fine night. Both moons were in the sky. The greater of the two, the moon known as ‘The Eye’ was hanging low on the horizon over the desert mountains to the North West. The lesser of the two moons, the Marble moon or Maf moon, as it was commonly known was rising in the south over the Inland Sea. The Maf moon decorated his family’s crest. In the tradition of the Maf family a new day was begun when the Maf moon had risen and the Eye had set. The Maf moon shone a brilliant white and the veins of blue that crisscrossed its surface were startling in the clear southern night. The boys face was an eerie reflection of the surface of the moon. His skin was so pale as to be translucent, the blue of his veins crossing his face and tinting his eyelids. His hair was a brilliant oily black that caught and reflected back the light of the two moons; his pupils were a shining ruby red like spots of blood on a stone floor.  He stood in silence contemplating the sky, a pale ghost like figure.
He was dressed in a shimmering skirt of silk and high collared jacket woven from cotton of a brilliant white. The colour was acquired by the crushing of the skeleton crab and was one of the few tradable goods in his ‘kingdom’.  For generations the fishermen of the Inland sea had trawled nearby coves and bays for the crabs and other fish that were delicacies to the Maf. The knots of his jacket were dyed a deep purple, the buckle of each knot made from polished pieces of obsidian stone with a hole bored through to take the knot.
He had stood on this balcony watching the sky many times over the years. This night though was different from all the others, tonight he reached his majority and from the morrow would no longer be considered a boy, but a man. The regent, his stepfather would hand over power to him in the morning.
The silence of the night was broken by the opening of the entrance, a glass door. The boy Tarquin did not turn around he knew who it would be, his stepfathers slave Elame. The slave was notorious for being the regent’s eyes and ears within the palace.
“Tarquin, your father summons you”.
“My father has been dead these last eighteen years so pray tell how he summons me,” replied Tarquin never once taking his eyes from the rising Maf moon.
“The regent your father would not approve of such words, he wishes to discuss your new role as ruler and what you can do to help,” said Elame.
Tarquin did not move, his eye had now turned from The Maf moon to the Eye and he waited intently for the last segment of it to drop below the horizon and unnoticed by Elame, his breathing was quickening.
Elame spoke again, “Tarquin shall I tell your father that you refuse to obey?”
The Eye had set Tarquin took one deep breath and turned to face Elame.
“No, I am coming now. Where is Stilico?”
Elame was startled by the disrespectful tone and familiar use of the regent’s name. He stared at Tarquin intently, trying to discern his demeanour in the pale light of the moon. The boy was several feet ahead of him as he turned to face Elame the moon was a corona illuminating the veins of his pale skin. The old man had not heard this tone from him before the directness, the insolence.
“Tarquin…” he began before being cut off.
“I am the Maf,” the boy said a dangerous edge to his voice. The Maf was both the family name and a title. It origins lay in the distant past it simply meant ‘master’.
Elame now felt fission of danger. Tarquin had not moved but he was now staring and his round red night eyes were like those of some malevolent wolf waiting for its prey to jump.
“I asked you a question…. slave.” The last word came forth as a languid hiss.
Elame swallowed and tried to gather his thoughts to regain control of the situation. He was about to speak when Tarquin’s voice cut through the darkness. “Your familiarity has not been forgotten, nor your master taking advantage of that which is not his, now if I have to ask you again where the regent is I will have you roasted over on a spit and fed to your family.”
The malevolence of his voice made Elame deeply afraid and for the first time he became aware of Tarquin’s size, strength and youth.
“He is in the garden of sensuous flowers,” blurted out Elame.
Tarquin turned back to regard the moon. Elame backed away his right hand trying to find the handle of the door.
In front of him Tarquin Maf raised his hands as if to embrace the moon. “I did not dismiss you, slave.”
Tarquin turned and stepped softly towards Elame who was now terrified, so terrified that he did not notice the long slim dagger that the boy held in his hand. He screamed as the dagger pierced his side and drove in one long slow blow for the deepest of his innards. Tarquin twisted his hand eliciting another scream from Elame. The slave’s legs buckled underneath him and he fainted.
When he came to he did not know whether it had been a moment or an hour but his agony soon reminded him of his surroundings. He could not focus his eyes and his mind was entranced, appalled by his own body’s agony.
Slowly he focused through the pain but he could not see the moon, the glass door to the interior of the palace or his stone surroundings. He could see only two beautiful and glaring eyes staring down at him from what seemed an immense distance.
“Who am I Elame?”
The dying slave did not know his lifeblood was slipping away, and his thoughts scrabbled among his last moments trying to find a toehold something with which he could grip onto life.
“Master,” he whispered, “master.”
“Finally you understand,” said Tarquin his voice softer now. He raised his foot and snapped the neck of the dying slave to spare him his final torment, like a man killing an old faithful dog.

                                                           
The regent Stilico loved the garden and often retired there, sometimes with a consort, at other times he came to the garden to think. It was his favourite place and nowhere else in the stark stone of the palace could he find such peace, that the scented flowers of the garden afforded him. Such moments were a rarity for him.
But now he had a lot to consider; Tarquin had now officially reached his majority and would need to be guided along a steady course if the ancient kingdom of Fornakia was to be preserved. Whilst the title Maf had great prestige, the office was only as strong as the title holder and Tarquin was young to be competing with the other high caste Mafs that ruled Fornakia.
Stilico himself was not a member of the Maf race but a Fornakian, his marriage to the Queen, Tarquin’s mother was an elevation undreamed of a generation before.
Tomorrow there was due to be the ceremony where he handed over the sword of state to the new ruler in front of the gathered Maf nobility that were camped to the north and would enter the palace for a week of feasting, and plotting.
As agreed with the Queen he would then take his place on the boy’s right side as his chief counsellor.
It had been eighteen years since Fornakia had a king. Tarquin’s father had died eighteen years before on this very day, the night before his son was born.
There was a crackle of excitement running all around Fornakia and the Inland sea as people watched and wondered if Tarquin could hold onto his throne. Upon the Queens insistence Stilico had placed guards all around the palace to ensure the boys safety. There would be men at the ceremony on the morrow that had been a part of the plot that killed the boy’s father.
The moon had risen high now, he had sent Elame to find the boy some time ago and the regent was becoming impatient.
There was one entrance to the garden and its banks of beds and flowers. The beds were made up of soft bolsters and silken sheets. The flowers were specially chosen for the sweet perfumes they released at night and he had fond memories of the nights he had whiled away up here beneath the light of the two moons.
He heard a movement behind him and a rough voice spoke “Master, may I light the lamps?”
“Yes, have you seen young Tarquin?”
“The young lord sends his apologies, he will soon be here.” The servant began his task lighting the first lamp. He was methodical and slow about the lighting of each lamp making sure he had enough oil and the wick was clear. His were the movements of a man who knew what he had to do but unpractised in it’s execution.
The regent went back to his musings for a few moments and then became conscious that there were several other servants in the room, a lot for the late hour.
Stilico like all nobles normally took no notice of them, they were after all  slaves and thus merely chattel. He looked up and saw that two of them were standing by the entrance.  Then it struck him that none of these servants were Eunuchs and had no right to be there.
“You”! He called to the first of them. “What are you doing here? It is forbidden for you to be here!”
“Not any more.”
“What you insolent dog”! Stilico closed the gap that separated him from the servant and struck him forcibly on the back of the neck knocking him to the ground. He stood over the slave who now was on his knees.
“You will be castrated for this,” the Regent snarled. The servant he had knocked to the ground did not raise his head, but spoke in a low strong voice that struck Stilico as being entirely unafraid.
“I was sent by the master, to light the lamps and prepare”.
“Prepare, for what? Who sent you?”
“I did”.
Stilico turned around to find his stepson had silently stolen in behind him and they were now almost face-to-face. There was a feral gleam in Tarquin’s eyes.
A fleck of blood ran across the boy’s cheek from one side to the other.
“Whose blood is that?” whispered Stilico hoarsely.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Tarquin.
Stilico like Elame before him could not grasp what was happening.  Tarquin was sullen, quiet and mirthless and barely spoke to anyone spending his days in long walks up and down the interior of the granite palace keeping his pale skin out of the burning noon sun. To the best of the regent’s knowledge the boy had never been outside the palace continually immersed in books of the Maf’s mythical past. This was not the boy he believed he had known. He bought his hand up to grasp Tarquin by the shoulder but found his hand held fast. He turned to look at the slave that restrained him and recognised him as one of the latrine cleaners!
“Are these the men to serve you? What kind of a kingdom do you think that you are going to have?”
Stilico stopped to draw his breath. As he did another one of the slaves caught his other hand. Standing behind Tarquin were two other servants carrying between them a cauldron and he could smell the lamp oil, mixed with the special pitch used by the pyro-mancers for their local spectacles, it was used most often for funeral pyres. Now for the first time Stilico was deeply afraid.
“Tarquin what are you doing”? Stilico’s voice was full of a dread that he could not hide.
Tarquin had not moved and still stood close enough to his stepfather to kiss. He stepped forward and did just that kissing him gently and then stepped away. He motioned for another slave who was carrying strong cord ropes. Hysterically Stilico shouted “Who’s this, the cook’s boy?” as his hands were bound.
He stood there his shoulders slumped, in resignation. The slaves grabbed the ropes that were attached to his wrists and pulling on each end stretched out his arms.
Tarquin spoke his voice carrying the low menace that it had earlier when he had murdered Elame.
“I have spent many days waiting for this, many, many days. I have now as of the setting of the Eye reached my majority. Do you acknowledge this?”
“But you do not rule until declared by the council, this is the law” said Stilico in reply.
“Wrong, that is the custom, I rule from midnight that is the law.”
“Since when?” Gasped Stilico despairingly.
“It has been the law of my forefathers since the before our exile.” Tarquin drew his knife from his belt, the same knife that had earlier butchered Elame.
“Tarquin do not, don’t please”.
He was not cut; Tarquin began stripping away his clothing with the blade instead.  Once this was finished and he stood naked before the boy who he had imagined was going to be a figurehead while he continued to rule. The two slaves carrying the cauldron flung it at Stilico covering him in the oil. The other slaves, the ones holding the ropes let out an extra length as taking a torch Tarquin made fire form one of the recently lit lamps.
Stilico was now frozen in fear and a sob escaped his throat.
“Tarquin mercy do not do this, do not burn me”.
The regent’s dark skin was corpse like under the harsh glare of the torch.
Then Tarquin spoke in his low toneless voice the one which had grown this new and sharper edge. “It is possible to be merciful even to the disloyal if proper submission is shown, will you submit?”
Stilico saw his chance, and the mind that had consolidated his position sidelined his wife and had been ready to secure his rule as the boys chief advisor now came into play.
“Tarquin I have always been loyal...” His sentence was never finished as Tarquin thrust the torch into his throat and then jumped back as his stepfather went up in a brutal conflagration.
“I gave you your chance”.
Stepping a safe distance back he fished within his step father’s robes taking no notice of his screams. He removed an ornate key, the only one to the Queens chambers.
The boy who had celebrated becoming man with two brutal murders turned on his heel to exit the room he left one last instruction “Ensure the room does not burn and that he is dead once the flames have died.”
He then left to find his mother and tell her the good news.