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

  “Just my brother and I,” said Arthur. “And… had you considered… whoever left the letter for you?”

  Oland shook his head. “I hadn’t, no.”

  “Regardless,” said Arthur, “you are in danger, at the very least for leaving Castle Derrington – for running out on Villius Ren and The Craven Lodge.”

  Oland did not say that it had been very clear that Villius Ren wanted him dead.

  The following morning, when Oland awoke, Arthur Rynish was sitting in the chair opposite him.

  “Your bag,” he said, pointing to the floor. “You left your bag in the cart.”

  Oland sat up and pulled the bag towards him. He wondered where the little monkey was. Was he still nearby?

  “Eat and let’s go,” said Arthur. “We have many miles to travel before we reach the Dallen border.”

  S THE NIGHTS PASSED, OLAND’S HOPE WANED. ARTHUR Rynish’s often sullen mood brought no comfort. Oland welcomed the brief stops in the deserted houses and outbuildings, and wondered who were the strangers that had left food for the tailor – always for one, never for two. Oland knew that, despite emerging from the shadow of The Craven Lodge, for now, he was still invisible. And when, over a week into their journey, they reached the official crossing between Decresian and Dallen, his invisibility was all he thought of as he buried himself under the canvas.

  There was just one route from Decresian into Dallen, and it was carved through the vast forest that separated them. A group of border guards was stationed in a small wooden building at the official border, but every traveller knew that there were guards hidden everywhere in the trees.

  As the horse slowed, Arthur whispered to Oland. “It’s Terrence Dyer from Garnish,” he said. “A merchant of misery, the greyest of men. Hard to believe he’s the son of Gaudy Dyer.”

  Arthur brought the horse and cart to a stop.

  “The Tailor Rynish,” said Terrence grimly. “Welcome, again, welcome.”

  “Thank you, Terrence,” said Arthur. “How are you?”

  “In the throes of life,” said Terrence.

  “How’s your father?” said Arthur. “It must be thirteen years since he left Garnish.”

  “Was forced to leave,” said Terrence. “And not one day has passed without lament. The mines in Galenore are no place for an old man. Word has come in recent days that the smelting fires on the hills won’t take, so there is much concern about the supplies of galena. Without lead, many territories will suffer.”

  “Let’s hope for a change in the winds,” said Arthur.

  Terrence looked up at the sky. “The clouds are moving in strange ways. They have darkened and thickened. Look where they have blurred in places.”

  “There’s a madman in Derrington who says The Great Rains are upon us,” said Arthur. There was a smile in his voice.

  “Great Rains, indeed,” said Terrence. “Though my father himself would have me believe it.” He slapped the side of Arthur Rynish’s cart. “You must be keen to carry on your journey, but, as I am bound by law, I must inspect your papers, and your load.”

  “Of course,” said Arthur. Oland could hear the rustle of papers as they were passed between them.

  “All is in order,” said Terrence. “And now…”

  Oland heard more footsteps, fast-moving, crunching across the ground towards them. He guessed that there were at least four men, and they quickly surrounded the cart.

  “Your load,” said one of the guards.

  Oland could sense the cold air as Arthur reached around and pulled back the canvas that covered the cloths, and then him.

  “Wools and linens,” announced the guard.

  “Look,” said another guard. “In the corner of the cart. Something is moving.”

  Oland’s heart started to pound.

  “A rat!” said another guard.

  “It’s bigger than a rat!” said the first guard. Oland could feel someone rummaging above his head. “There’s a sack here,” said the guard. He cried out. “It’s… it’s a monkey!”

  Oland felt a surge of panic.

  “A monkey?” shouted Arthur. “In the folds of my fabric?”

  Malben let out a pained cry. Oland could sense movement again, and the smell of warm fur. “My linens!” shouted Arthur. “My linens will be destroyed! Out! Out! Get out!”

  “It’s illegal to bring monkeys across the border,” said another guard.

  Arthur erupted. “The notion! Is it not clear I had no idea he was there? Take him! Kill him for all I care, just get him away from my work.”

  “He’s running for the hut!” said one of the guards.

  The guards’ footsteps moved away in pursuit of the shrieking Malben. Oland felt a sharp tug at his leg.

  “Go,” said Arthur, yanking Oland towards him, grabbing him roughly under the arm as he staggered down from the back of the cart. He handed him a small roll of tarred canvas. “For shelter, now run. Run, Oland.”

  Oland quickly gained his footing, then locked eyes briefly with Arthur. In that one moment, he felt the full force of his encouragement. He whispered his thanks to him, then sprinted for the bushes. He knew he should keep moving, but instead, he waited, unable to leave without knowing that Arthur and Malben were safe. He crouched behind a tree and watched as one of the guards broke away from the others to return to Arthur.

  “What is your business in Dallen?” he said.

  “What was my business, you mean,” said Arthur. “My business, now, is to return to Decresian; my fabric has been spoiled by a pest, and I have important work to take care of at Castle Derrington.”

  “Ah, yes,” said the guard. “Of course. After all, you are the personal tailor to Villius Ren. His loyal and faithful servant…”

  The tone in his voice made the hairs stand up on the back of Oland’s neck and he knew he couldn’t wait any longer. Reluctantly, he turned and jumped for the patches of moss that disappeared into the woods behind him, using them as silent stepping stones to a safer place. But it wasn’t long before the terrain changed and his boots were cracking the twigs on the forest floor and the sound was like thunder. In his panic, Oland ran faster, fighting his aching muscles and the searing pain across his chest. It was only when his legs finally gave way, when he collapsed to the ground, that he had the chance to think.

  He lay on his back, heaving for breath. Parched and disorientated, he watched the dark clouds pass over the narrow branches at the trees’ spindly tops. There was no way to tell whether he had crossed into Dallen, or taken a circular route back towards the border. He thought about Arthur. He hoped that he had been able to leave unharmed, and that Malben, the curious little monkey, was able to find his way back to wherever it was he came from.

  Oland was now utterly alone. He began to wonder whether he should have asked the Rynishes about the Crest of Sabian, or told them about the man in black who had come to the castle to take him away. If he had told them more, maybe he would have more information to help him on his quest. His only solace was in discovering the existence of the census and in the hope that his parents’ identity would be preserved in its pages. He vowed to find not only Chancey the Gold, but also Tristan Ault.

  He got up and walked on, and, as the darkness descended and the trees grew denser, that was all he could hope for. As the temperature dropped, he walked faster to stay warm, but he knew that, before long, the darkness would be complete. He planned to take shelter for the night under a tree, but, up ahead, he saw the outline of a large building, and the tips of eight spires – black against the rising moon. As Oland fought his way through the weeds towards it, he soon saw that, though it bore traces of a grander past, it had long been abandoned.

  He stopped at the bottom of the building’s stone steps, as did the weeds, as if, like him, they were reluctant to get too close.

  LAND WALKED UP THE STEPS AND STOOD IN FRONT of the two tall black wooden doors. On the arch above them, three words were chiselled into the stone – two on top, one underneat
h. Most of their letters had been lost to weather and time. All that remained was an N in the first, an EW in the second and an S in the third. He walked back down and went over to the left-hand wing. Through two huge broken windows, he saw a vast, empty room with high ceilings and ornate floors. It appeared to have been blighted by fire.

  Oland crossed the grass to the first room in the right-hand wing, a ghostly room, strewn with wrought-iron beds. Piecing this together with the letters he had read above the front door, he knew that he was at King Seward’s Hospital. And he knew then that he was in Dallen.

  Oland thought of peaceful King Seward, and how he had built the hospital with the best of intentions. Before the year was out, he was forced to close it. His supporter, the Dallen ruler, along with most of the Ault family and many of the doctors and nurses, were exiled to Decresian where King Seward was generous in providing them shelter and jobs. It was the succeeding ruler of Dallen who severed all ties between the territories and set up the patrolled border. Ever since, the passage of travellers from Decresian had been restricted. Only those deemed of benefit to Dallen were allowed entry. The Craven Lodge were strictly prohibited, on penalty of death. To compound the nations’ tense relations, Villius Ren had managed to poach some of the Dallen men for his army.

  To Oland’s good fortune, King Seward’s Hospital remained an oppressive spectre to the people of Dallen; he had shelter for the night, with little chance of being disturbed. As for The Craven Lodge, they were called craven for a reason. They would not dare to cross the border into Dallen. Oland knew the tortuous routes they took to bypass it on their journeys to other parts.

  Oland pulled himself up on to the stone sill of the shattered window. He had never been in a hospital. The closest he had come to sickness was tending to The Craven Lodge when they had succumbed to the excesses of eating, drinking or fighting. He would rather have tended the plague-stricken. He jumped down into the fire-damaged room and, despite the easy passage of the outside air, was hit with the smell of rot, and rain, and animals. He knew that he was walking through the symbolic core of the Dallen uprising: the desecrated room that marked its darkest night, when a flaming torch was fired through the window and raged through a good king’s dreams.

  The interior was illuminated by the moon. Oland stood, mesmerised; through a huge crater in the stone floor grew a towering oak. Its boughs, rich with leaves, had thrust their way upward, wrapping around the banisters and breaking through the roof; outside the grounds were a wasteland, yet inside, where the dying had lain, was this extraordinary display of life.

  Oland climbed to the first floor through the twisted limbs of the tree, grasping them for support as he jumped the remaining steps of the crumbling staircase. At the top, he walked around the balcony, opening and closing each of the doors that lined it, revealing rows of empty, dust-filled rooms. He made his way downstairs through a narrow back staircase, and found himself in the infirmary hall. At the end, Oland stopped at a large mahogany door. As he opened it, something scraped along the floor, revealing a quadrant of clean stone under a thick mantle of dust. He bent down and picked up a foot-long wooden plaque with holes in each corner, and rusted nails hanging from two of them. The plaque was missing the gold plate where a name would have been. Oland glanced around. He had no doubt that he was in a doctor’s office. All around him, gauzy spider webs stretched from the ceiling to the desk, to the second door frame behind it, to the floor, to the chair, to the bed against the wall, to the glass bottles and candlesticks and weighing scales.

  Oland broke through the webs and cleared a path to the desk, where he carefully laid the plaque, as if the mystery doctor would come back from the dead to reclaim it. But, when Oland looked at the shining doorknob of the door to the rear, he knew that whether or not ghosts existed, he was not the first visitor to King Seward’s Hospital in the past one hundred years. Or, by all appearances, in the previous week. There were large boot prints on the floor behind the desk, and a square clearing where something had once stood, but had recently been removed.

  Slowly, he opened the door into the adjoining room, a smaller empty space that had nothing but more footprints – a trail he had no desire to follow. He stayed where he was and, when he turned around, noticed a large map pinned to the wall. He felt a surge of hope as he approached it. It was a map of northern Envar. The territories were in pale green, their borders marked in broken lines of black.

  The area shaded in brown marked the path of the plague. It ran from the east coast of Decresian, bypassing Dallen, then southwest into the neighbouring territory. Then it ran south through Galenore, and onwards to its furthest point: Gort, mid-west Envar, where the scryer lived. No part of Gort had survived the plague. The bermids had built towering nests there, but they had been unable to breed. Their only legacy were the empty shells of the nests that still stood tall.

  Oland ran his finger from the top left-hand corner of the map to the bottom right, naming each town and village out loud, hoping that he would say the word Sabian by the time he reached the bottom right. But there was no Sabian. Oland folded up the map, nevertheless, and put it into his pocket. At least he now knew where to find Dallen Falls, and so Chancey the Gold.

  He walked into the hallway and passed a small ward of beds that stirred a longing for sleep. But, when he thought of the sick, the dying and the dead, a chill crawled over him and he moved on. When he reached the foyer, he saw, for the first time, an inscription carved into the stone wall, preserved for almost a century.

  To the people of Decresian, of Dallen, and beyond.

  That no sickness, no fear and no death shall divide us.

  Through suffering, may solace be found within these walls.

  Through healing, joy.

  Through open borders, may we find welcome.

  Through compassion, peace.

  In fondness and faith,

  King Seward of Decresian

  (in honour of his son, Prince Roxleigh)

  Oland was struck by a great sadness. King Seward had lost his own beloved son to madness. What solace was there for him to find? Yet still he offered to others the chance to find theirs. Signed ‘In fondness and faith’, like his grandson, King Micah.

  There were men who sought to enrich the lives of others, and those who sought to enrich merely their own. Oland knew who he would rather be. He polished the inscription with his sleeve then made his way around the trunk of the towering oak, discovering a stairwell under which he could rest. But, as soon as he lay down, he felt wide awake to his quest, to his responsibility, and to whatever the next day held, and the day after, and the day after that.

  Despite the bad blood he feared might be coursing through him, despite the fourteen-year shadow of The Craven Lodge, Oland Born vowed to become a man of whom King Micah could be proud. Like the oak tree above him, he had come to life in a dark, forbidding place, and battled now to reach the light.

  HE FOLLOWING MORNING, WITH LITTLE SLEEP BEHIND him, Oland woke to a space alight with morning sun. Specks of dust danced in the shafts. As he made his way into the main hall, birds of all colours were circling the top of the oak tree and through the roof the sky was a dense bright blue. As Oland turned away from the glare, through the silver spots that dotted his vision he saw a small shape moving between the lower branches. The monkey, Malben! Persistent Malben. And he was carrying Oland’s bag on his back.

  Oland laughed, and it sounded loud to him, perhaps because of the acoustics, perhaps because it was rare. Malben jumped on him. Oland took hold of the monkey and held him at arm’s length. Malben tilted his head and Oland found himself doing the same. At close quarters, Oland could see that Malben’s eyes, clear and shining, were not brown, but a dark shade of green. His golden grey fur stood in flyaway spikes, but was soft under Oland’s hands. Malben held eye contact with him and Oland could swear his tiny mouth almost smiled.

  “It’s time to go,” said Oland. “As it is time for me to stop talking to a monkey.”

&nb
sp; The journey to The Falls had to be taken on foot, so they cut through fields and skirted the edges of villages and towns. Oland had decided that the only thing he was prepared to steal was food, though Malben was the better thief. He mostly stayed hidden in Oland’s bag and jumped to the trees whenever he could. Oland missed the comfort of the roof over his head every night. Now, every evening ended with a search for shelter, or the task of building it. He had been wakened by short torrential showers and followed by more of the grey thickening clouds that Terrence, the merchant of misery, had mentioned. As the days dragged on, Oland began to miss even the scant conversation with Arthur Rynish. Unlike food, company could not be stolen. At times, Oland talked to Malben. There were times when he felt he would talk back. They were the times Oland decided to rest.

  *

  A week passed before they reached Dallen Falls. Oland had imagined its full glory being unveiled in daylight. Instead, they arrived at nightfall, and he heard the thunderous water before he could see it. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he saw, against the dark grey of the sky, the giant black shadows of the cliffs, and the cascades that plunged down from them. Oland took out his tinderbox and, with a few strikes of steel against flint, the char-cloth ignited and he could light the lantern that Malben had found discarded on their journey.

  One house stood by The Falls, clearly built from the stones of the cliffs beside it – grey and gold and white. Oland hadn’t expected such a humble home for a man the Scryer of Gort had predicted would destroy Villius Ren.

  The garden was overgrown, not with weeds, but with plants and flowers in bursts of bright colours. It was a curious sight beside such treacherous waters. Malben took to the trees. Oland went to the red wooden door of the house and knocked. There was no answer. He walked around the side. He shone his lantern into the small windows, but the rooms were empty. Then he heard a rattling sound coming from the back of the house. He followed it around and discovered another red door with splintered edges, held to its frame by a thick knotted coil of rope that had been loosened by the force of the wind. Oland knew that his knife was not strong enough to cut through it.