Curse of Kings (The Trials of Oland Born, Book 1) Read online

  ELPHI LOOKED AT PINFROCK’S LETTER. THEN SHE looked at Oland’s.

  “Yes, they’re written by the same hand,” she said. “So perhaps King Micah wrote both of them?”

  “He couldn’t have,” said Oland. “He died that night. He couldn’t have been collecting papers and ink after that.”

  Pinfrock shook his head. “This is an archivist’s hand, but a youthful one. I believe that this, indeed, was written by the younger Ault. Tristan, did you say?”

  “Yes,” said Oland.

  “If, as you say, the archivist died on the night the king was overthrown, then clearly his son did indeed decide to follow on the tradition. He could be doing that very well. I always remembered, from my dealings with King Micah, that his archivist was even more secretive than most. I would imagine that, if he had lost his life in the course of his duty, any son of his would take great pains to remain in hiding.”

  Delphi nodded. “Yes!” she said. “That makes sense, Oland.”

  Oland looked unconvinced. “Or it could all be meaningless. This entire…” He trailed off. He leaned into Delphi. “Let’s talk about this later,” he whispered.

  They turned towards Pinfrock. There was a worried look in his eyes.

  “Thank you,” said Delphi.

  “Yes,” said Oland, “thank you for showing us your letter, and for telling us what you know.”

  Pinfrock handed him his letter and Oland put it into his bag.

  Delphi pointed to some of the ornate writings that were framed on the walls.

  “What beautiful coloured ink,” she said.

  “And they are no more,” said Pinfrock. “It’s all black ink now. My coloured inkwell has dried up, so to speak. Or has been misappropriated, ironically, by darker forces. Only one man is brave enough to work in colour.”

  Oland and Delphi had no idea what he meant, and Pinfrock didn’t elaborate. When he spoke again, it was clear that the conversation was at an end.

  “Please, be careful,” he said. “Mind how you go.” He bowed.

  Oland and Delphi ran down the cobbled streets and turned a corner into a deserted square with a fountain at its centre. A low stone wall encircled it. The night was filled with the winding-down sounds of late-night revellers.

  “Stop running,” said Delphi. “Where are we going?”

  “I don’t know,” said Oland.

  “Wait,” said Delphi. “Wait. Listen to me.”

  He stopped. They sat down on the wall.

  “So my letter was not from King Micah after all,” said Oland.

  “It had to have been!” said Delphi. “I have no doubt they were his words, dictated to someone loyal and trusted—”

  “Did you know that Villius Ren used to be loyal and trusted?” said Oland. “Villius Ren was our age when King Micah took pity on him and rescued him from an orphanage. King Micah saved him from a terrible life, and gave him a privileged one. And still he was a traitor. We know very little about Tristan Ault and—”

  “We know that his father was killed by Villius Ren,” said Delphi. “And that Tristan likely took the king’s records away…”

  “We only know that because that’s what we’ve been told,” said Oland. “I’m tired of being told things, and having to act on them. The letter was the one thing that was different. It was in writing. It was fact… or so I thought.”

  “Oland, you’ve come this far,” said Delphi. “Whoever left that letter for you believed in it and believed in you… can you not at least accept the possibility that the archivist wrote this on behalf of the king?”

  Oland looked away. “I have no choice.”

  Malben suddenly landed in front of him.

  “Malben,” said Oland. “Did we forget about you?”

  “Never!” said Delphi.

  Malben climbed up the centre of the fountain.

  “Oland,” said Delphi, “the last Friday of the month is three days from now. Why don’t we go to the border between Gort and Oxlaven and wait by the statue that Pinfrock told us about? If what he is saying is true, the archivist’s son will come for his paper and ink. At least, if he does, we will know. He is the best person to tell us about King Micah. And perhaps about your parents. If you think about it, Oland, he is the only person we know of who can help…”

  Oland paused. “If he wants to,” he said eventually. But he was doubtful. His thoughts were tainted by the fear that he would never find the crest, by the inhospitable places they had stopped, by the obstacles that had already appeared in their path. There was so much to discover, and now the one person who could enlighten them was a man who had successfully hidden away from the world for fourteen years… yet what had they to lose by looking for him?

  “All right,” said Oland. “We’ll go.”

  Suddenly, Malben jumped from the top of the fountain towards them. He landed hard on Delphi’s shoulder and sent her toppling into the water. “No!” she cried as she went under. Oland jumped into the fountain. Malben cried out in fright, then darted away. Oland grabbed Delphi, turning her face up and pulling her out of the water. Her cape slipped from her shoulders. Malben reappeared, jumping up and down wildly, his small face panicked. Then he disappeared once more.

  Delphi sat on the edge of the fountain, her head bent. “Thank you,” she said to Oland. “Thank you.” She took hold of her cape to pull it back on, but, before she had the chance, Oland saw three deep scars like slashes across each of her shoulder blades. He wondered what could have happened to her.

  “You saved my life,” she said.

  “It was only a fountain,” said Oland.

  “Remember the prophecy,” said Delphi.

  “I never thought you were going to drown,” said Oland.

  “And yet still you came to my rescue.”

  “Delphi, you’re perfectly fine – you’re not even coughing or spitting up water,” said Oland, “so perhaps this water prophecy is all nonsense.”

  “There is a way of finding out,” said Delphi. “If we’re going to the border with Gort, and we have three days to make it there, then we have time to visit the scryer.”

  Oland stood up. “Oh, no,” he said. “No. We’re not going to the scryer. No.”

  “Why not?” said Delphi. “She might even be able to tell us where the Crest of Sabian is. Does she not tell people their future fortune or failings?”

  “You don’t even believe that,” said Oland. “You just want to know about the water prophecy.”

  “You’d want to know about your own death if someone warned your mother so fiercely,” said Delphi. “I haven’t asked for anything on this journey. Please just let me do this. I left the beautiful Falls,” she said, “to come to miserable Galenore. There is nothing of beauty here, nothing. I feel so sorry for Galenorans. I’m so lucky to live where I live. And yet the one part of the Falls that I can’t truly enjoy is the water – the very essence of that beauty. You can’t tell me that you don’t believe in the Scryer of Gort, and at the same time stop me from going underwater,” said Delphi.

  “I think you can go underwater all you like,” said Oland.

  Delphi gripped the edge of the wall and leaned backward into the fountain, raising her legs straight up in front of her. Oland quickly put a hand behind her back and pushed her upright.

  “Don’t,” he said. “Don’t…”

  Delphi turned to him, her eyes bright, water dripping from the ends of her choppy hair.

  “We shall visit the scryer,” said Oland. “Just to put an end to your taunts.”

  T TOOK A DAY AND A HALF FOR OLAND AND DELPHI TO reach the southwest border between Galenore and Gort – a dividing line between a barren grey landscape and one of barren bronze. It had scarcely rained in Gort in one hundred years and, as they walked, its dry hills seemed endless. The journey passed quietly. Malben had not returned since fleeing in fright at the fountain. Oland and Delphi appreciated even more the distraction he had brought to their journey.

  No one could vis
it the scryer without bringing her water. Oland and Delphi had filled a flask from the fountain in Galenore. It was said that some merchants would bring the scryer gallons, as though the greater the volume, the brighter their future.

  “What will happen here, do you think?” said Delphi. “Apart from the water, is there something we have to do when we meet her? Bow or avert our eyes or—”

  Oland stopped dead. “Gold!” he said. “I forgot about the gold.”

  “What gold?” said Delphi.

  “Have you heard of the Bastions?” said Oland. “They guard the scryer. In Bastion culture, it’s considered a great honour. They have little to say; their only concern is the fee: gold coins that they make into rings and chains, ornaments and charms.” He let out a breath. “But I’ve got no gold to give them, so they won’t let us in.”

  Delphi laughed. “But I’m a daughter of Gold.” She rattled coins in her pocket. “Because of my father’s name and reputation, no one paid him any less than in gold coins for his guide work. You can’t give silver to a man called Chancey the Gold.”

  “I can’t expect you to pay,” said Oland.

  “I’m the one who wanted to come here,” said Delphi. “I’m sure my father would understand why.” She walked on, “How do we know where to go?” she said.

  Oland pointed to the hill in front of them. “We scale that and we see.”

  They stood and watched Gort spread out before them. There was a huge valley ahead and, spanning it, a narrow rope bridge. Dark figures were gathered at either side.

  “And there we have the Bastions,” said Oland.

  “You never said anything about a bridge,” said Delphi.

  “Because I didn’t know there would be one,” said Oland.

  Four Bastions guarded the entrance to the bridge. They were ragged and rough, heavy-browed and heavy-limbed. Their leathery skin, their wild curly hair, the very air around them was dark, yet the Bastions were blinding. They did more than just make rings and chains from their gold. It appeared that their entire bodies were covered with belts, cuffs, chokers, earrings, nose rings, toe rings and anklets. Even the buckles of their sandals were made of gold. Yet not one piece was well-crafted – the shapes had no symmetry; the surfaces were pocked or uneven. Their inspiration had clearly come from the mottled landscape around them.

  Oland and Delphi stood before them.

  “We would like to cross to see the Scryer of Gort,” said Oland.

  The Bastions turned to each other and laughed, low and spiteful. One of them, dressed in a tunic studded with gold nuggets, opened his fat palm.

  “Make shine,” he growled, pointing into the sky. “Like sun.” The other Bastions laughed.

  Delphi reached into her pocket and pulled out two gold coins. A wide, crooked smile spread slowly across the Bastion’s face as he closed his palm around them and shoved them into his pocket.

  “What a shame – too young to see scryer,” he said.

  “That is ridiculous,” said Delphi.

  “Too many years ahead of you,” said the Bastion. “Too many years.”

  “I have no fears for my future,” said Delphi.

  “Don’t care,” said the Bastion. “No entry. Rules.”

  “Rules that say you can chain up an old woman and take money for her gifts?” said Delphi.

  “We’ve come all the way from…” said Oland.

  The Bastion shook his head. “Spare you the sight. Ugly lady. One eye. Only one. Go. Go home.”

  “We’re going nowhere until we speak with her,” said Oland, stepping forward.

  “No more sleep for you,” said the Bastion. “Ugly lady.” He gestured towards the other side.

  “I don’t know what sleep is,” said Oland.

  “Ah – Decresian.” said the Bastion. “Souls screaming all night.”

  “Yes,” said Oland.

  “Long way,” said the Bastion.

  “That’s what I said,” said Oland. “So please allow us to pass.”

  “Your king… dead king. Good man,” said the Bastion.

  The other Bastions nodded. “Yes. Hate good men. All of us.”

  They laughed and took a step closer to Oland and Delphi. Delphi put her hand in her pocket and threw three gold coins on to the ground behind him.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I’m so tired, I dropped them.”

  The Bastion bent down, struggling to pick them up.

  When he stood again, Delphi took a step towards him so she was six inches from his face. She reached out her arm.

  Oland felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as he watched Delphi’s delicate hand moving towards the face of this huge glinting monster.

  Delphi didn’t take her eyes off the Bastion. He stared at her, motionless. She ran her fingertips gently across his heavily jutting brow, and the row of tiny gold rings that hung over his right eye.

  “Beautiful,” she said. “Beautiful.” She did it again. “Musical.”

  Oland was amazed at how she could get so close to such a man. The Bastion slowly pulled his eyes away from her. He glanced at his friends, a fleeting, troubled glance. Then his stare again met Delphi’s.

  “Let us through,” she said. It was as if she knew that her words would work, that there would be no question he would let them in.

  It seemed that she was right.

  “Warning,” said the Bastion, holding up a finger covered from top to bottom with gold bands. “You see scryer after – when eyes close at night. You see her, eyes open, morning.” He nodded. “Haunt you.”

  He stepped back and let them walk across the swaying bridge to where a row of Bastions sat, like rotten teeth, at the entrance to the scryer’s cave.

  HE SCRYER’S CAVE WAS DOMED AND CLOSE TO FIFTEEN feet at its highest point. The surface was the same inside as out: amber-coloured and pitted. It was, in fact, a dried-out bermid’s nest.

  Delphi gasped when she saw the scryer, lying on the floor like a cowering dog, scarcely lit by the weak flame of her candle. Oland stood, silent and still. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, her form became clearer to him. The scryer’s head spun towards them, and they both recoiled.

  As the Bastion had told them, the scryer had just one eye. In the empty socket was a puckered white stellate scar. Her eyebrows were wild and wispy. She was deathly grey and as thin as the winter branches of a silver birch tree. Every bone pushed against the skin that covered it. Her long, matted grey hair pooled out on to the floor around her. Her dress was a loose grey sheath over her skeletal frame. Frayed ropes shackled her at the neck, waist and ankles, stretching taut to dull metal rings in the wall.

  Delphi took a step towards her. The scryer reached out her wizened arms.

  “Let me see you,” she said. Her voice had a dark lilt. Her breath seared the frigid air, turning it white.

  Delphi’s heart pounded. She walked forward and crouched down in front of her. Without opening her eye, the scryer pressed her palms against Delphi’s face, then traced her bony thumbs over it.

  She shook her head from side to side. “Beautiful girl,” she said. “Beautiful and hiding.”

  Without warning, one of the Bastions charged into the cave, grabbing Oland by the arm and pulling him towards the entrance.

  “One each time, witch!” said the Bastion to the scryer, using his free hand to lash his whip at her. Delphi swiftly raised her arm to protect the old woman, and the whip slapped against her oilskins. The Bastion tried again, and again Delphi blocked it.

  The Bastion growled, then threw Oland from the cave, where he landed at the feet of the other men. They glanced down at him, then reverted to flaunting their gold. Oland sat back against the wall and kept his eyes on the ground, unwilling to indulge their vanity.

  Before long, Delphi reappeared, blinking, into the light. Oland had no time to talk to her as the Bastions beckoned him to the entrance. Delphi’s face was impossible to read as she passed him their flask of water.

  Inside the cave, O
land handed the scryer the flask. He noticed that her hand was shaking. She poured some water into a stone bowl on the floor. She took the candle in her hand, and held it over it. She inhaled deeply and seemed to go into a trance. Eventually, she opened her eye and stared into the bowl. She screamed.

  The anguished, tormented wail was like nothing Oland had ever heard, and it tore through him. As he staggered backward, the scryer’s cries got louder. He ran from the cave out to Delphi.

  A Bastion leaned back into the cave, pulled a whip from his belt and struck out. The scryer screamed again as the leather finally struck her.

  Delphi stepped forward. “She’s an old woman,” she shouted. “How can you treat her this way? You are nothing but users. The only way you know how to make a living is by exploiting someone else’s talents. And she gets nothing in return. Nothing!”

  The Bastion laughed loud and low. “She gone soon. Next one come soon.”

  “Next what?” said Delphi.

  “Next one. Two eyes. Maybe. See more.” The Bastions all laughed.

  “The next what?” said Delphi. “The next scryer? What are you talking about?”

  “Come on, Delphi,” said Oland. “We should leave.” He hadn’t realised how desperate he had been to hear something positive until the scryer had screamed at him. What had he done? He believed that he had been polite and respectful. Yet the scryer had howled as if he had drenched her in burning oil. He had never wanted to come here. He had thought, at worst, he would hear some nonsense. But the worst turned out to be the deep, unsettling feeling that was clawing at him.

  He and Delphi crossed the bridge to the other side.

  One of the Bastions stationed there pointed at them and laughed. “White face. Haunted now. Told you.”

  “Look at you all,” said Delphi. “You have no gifts of your own. You rely on the scryer’s. You are nothing—”

  The Bastion stopped laughing. “Bad girl.” He pushed his face into Delphi’s, but she pushed too, and she seemed to push harder. She struck his forehead and he staggered backward. He howled, and, when he raised his head up again, blood was streaming down his eye, and three of the rings had been ripped from his brow.