Curse of Kings (The Trials of Oland Born, Book 1) Page 8

  After a long silence, Oland spoke. “I’m sorry for falling,” he said.

  “You should be sorry for jumping,” said Delphi.

  LAND COULD SENSE DELPHI WATCHING HIM AS THEY sat on the ledge. He kept staring ahead.

  “Do you wish you hadn’t come here?” said Delphi. “Do you wish you were home?”

  Oland laughed. “Home?” he said. “No.” He paused.

  “Are things that bad in Decresian?” said Delphi.

  “Where I live, yes,” said Oland.

  Then, despite himself, he began to tell this stranger about Villius Ren, The Craven Lodge and his life as their servant in Castle Derrington. But, as the story continued, he realised what an unpleasant one it was, and he drifted into silence.

  “I can’t imagine how you could live with them,” said Delphi. “From what I saw at The Games.”

  Oland thought of how strange it was to have someone willing to listen to him. Conversation was rare in Castle Derrington. The talk of The Craven Lodge was restricted to the fulfilment of their basic needs: eating, drinking and whatever else it was that put smiles on their ugly faces. During their banquets, it was worse, the same grim stories going round and round like water on a mill wheel.

  Oland told Delphi the story of The Mican Games, and how the Scryer of Gort had told Villius Ren that his downfall would be at the hands of Chancey the Gold.

  “Chancey the Gold is to defeat the ruler of Decresian?” said Delphi. “How come I have never heard anything about this?”

  “Why would he tell you?” said Oland.

  “Just… because we are neighbours.” She stood up suddenly. “Let’s go,” she said. There was an edge to her voice.

  Oland followed Delphi along the low ridge. It was indeed the widest, and much easier to advance along than the others. But, up ahead, he could see the thundering cascade with the row of rings behind it, the one that Delphi warned him he would have to stand under alone, the one that would sweep him off his feet.

  They moved as quickly as they could along the damp rocks.

  “Now,” said Delphi, raising her voice over the water. “Can you see the rings?”

  “Yes,” said Oland. They were spaced out in front of him across the rock face. “But how am I meant to—”

  “Whatever way suits you,” said Delphi. “You just need to use them to get across. Hold your breath, stay as close to the rocks as you can and I’ll work quickly. You can hold on to them with two hands if you like… and move across that way… or you can hold on to one with each hand, and swing yourself across…”

  Oland stared.

  “You can do it,” said Delphi. She started her climb up the cliff face.

  Oland waited, then reached out and, with two hands, grabbed the first ring. He hung there as the intense force of the water battered his body back and forth against the cliff. Not for the first time, he was grateful for the heavy loads he was made to carry at the castle, for the stable work, for the scrubbing and scouring, for the running up and down stairs and across courtyards. His limbs were strong, and he knew they could carry him far. But he was soon dizzy and disorientated. Suddenly, he realised he had forgotten to breathe properly. His head began to loll forward, and it felt like his arms were beginning to tear away from their sockets.

  He found strength from somewhere, momentary strength, and moved blindly from one ring to the next. Mercifully, the water stopped. He took in a huge breath and made his way across to the other side. Before long, Delphi climbed down beside him.

  “Quickly,” she said, pushing him along to the next cave as the dam she had made at the top exploded, and the cascade restarted behind them.

  LAND AND DELPHI SAT DOWN AT THE BACK OF THE cave to rest.

  “There is one thing I’ve heard about Decresian,” said Delphi, “about the screaming. Who screams there at night, Oland?”

  “The souls of Castle Derrington,” he said, and he told her about the failed experiments of Malcolm and Benjamin Evolent and the nine hundred and ninety-nine unsettled souls buried in the grounds.

  “That is horrendous,” said Delphi.

  “And the Evolents are still alive,” said Oland. “They’re somewhere out there, walking the same land as us, breathing the same air.” He paused. “And so is the Thousandth Soul.”

  “There is a thousandth soul?” said Delphi.

  “In Decresian, we believe in the Fortune of Tens,” said Oland. “And, apparently, one thousand turned out to be fortunate for the Evolents: it was the one animal-human experiment that was a complete success. The creature, whoever or whatever it is, survived… but escaped. It’s known as the Thousandth Soul, and the Evolents are desperate to find him, so that they can work out how their experiment was so successful. They want to recreate that success and use it for all kinds of evil.”

  “What will they do when they find it?” said Delphi.

  Oland sliced his hand across his throat.

  Delphi was silenced by the horror.

  “Malcolm Evolent, Benjamin Evolent, Villius Ren…” said Oland. “They no longer speak. Not for years. Even the Evolent brothers have gone their separate ways. No one knows why.”

  As Oland spoke, a rope dropped down at the mouth of the cave and whipped from side to side, scouring the cliff face, sending stones pouring down.

  Delphi reached out to Oland. “Quick,” she said, grabbing his arm, dragging him backwards.

  A man dropped to the ledge outside the cave. A second man followed. They were black silhouettes against the light. But Oland recognised their form and, when they spoke, their voices. It was Wickham and Croft.

  “They’re from The Craven Lodge,” whispered Oland. “They must have come through Galenore.”

  Delphi put her finger to her lips and they retreated into the corner.

  “This is like something out of one of your stories, Wickham!” said Croft. He was shouting over the water, the sound echoing through the cave. “What a surprise!” he went on. “What a dramatic turn of events! A midnight escape! Apparently, the boy was enthralled! What Oland Born did in that arena!” He shook his head.

  Oland had never heard Croft so animated.

  “You can see how it could all go horribly wrong,” said Croft. “I’ll say one thing—”

  “You’ve been saying many things,” said Wickham, his voice weary.

  “I’ll say one thing,” Croft continued, “I have never seen Villius so wild with grief. Absolutely wild.”

  Oland’s eyes went wide. Wild with grief? He waited for Wickham to confirm what Croft had said. Villius was wild with grief? Surely not.

  “Well, I’ve done what he asked,” said Wickham. “Chancey the Gold is dead.’

  Oland went rigid. Beside him, he could feel Delphi do the same. He turned to her and, in that instant, her dark eyes had filled with tears. Why tears? Did she know her distant neighbour?

  “We have sent word back to Villius about Chancey the Gold’s death,” said Wickham. “He may or may not seek mystic reassurance, but I don’t think there is anything more for us to find here. It is time to go.”

  “There’s more to this,” said Croft. “Villius is just not saying.”

  “Whatever it is,” said Wickham, “I don’t expect that you would be Villius’ first choice of confidant.”

  Croft snorted. “Well, if he told you anything, you’d only put it in a story and tell the whole world—”

  “That’s not quite how it works,” said Wickham. “But maybe, to a man like you—”

  “Too busy trying to be the next Archivist Whatever-his-name-is, that’s your problem,” said Croft. “Sitting about all day, making up stories…”

  “Ault was his name,” said Wickham. “Samuel Ault. He wrote facts. Anyone can write down facts. King Micah did this, King Micah did that. I have an imagination. I see things that no one else can see.”

  “That’s how Roxleigh ended up being carted away,” said Croft. His laugh was a carnival of grunts.

  Wickham stood with h
is arms on his narrow hips, swallowed into the heavy fabric of his long cloak. He looked child-sized beside Croft.

  “It’s rumoured,” said Croft, “that the Ault son, Tristan, might be out there somewhere. You’d be no match for him. He’s no pale little fellow like you, that’s what I heard,” said Croft. “He’s built like a warrior, has the dark skin, the dark hair…”

  “You sound enchanted,” said Wickham.

  Croft spun towards him, his fists raised. Wickham pushed him hard in the chest. The breath rushed from Croft’s lungs. In a short terrible moment, both men teetered on the ledge. Croft fell first, but Wickham followed, their cries dissolving into the roar of the churning water below.

  ELPHI SAT, SHAKING, IN THE CORNER OF THE CAVE. Oland walked over to the ledge and looked out over the cliffs. He saw tiny black dots disappearing into the raging white foam.

  He felt a twinge of sadness at the death of Wickham. He remembered sitting beside him at the kitchen table, and Wickham running his finger under the words of a picture book called The Boy Who Had Never Enough. Even though Oland had been just four at the time, he remembered thinking that the book would be about him, because he had nothing. He was disappointed to find out that the book was, in fact, about a boy who had everything and who still wasn’t happy. And Oland had found the story fascinating… and inexplicable.

  Now it was Villius Ren’s grief that was inexplicable. Every encounter he had with his master was a deeply unpleasant one, even the ones that outwardly could appear civil. Was it the absence of a slave that troubled him? The idea that, until he trained another in his peculiar ways, he would be forced to fend for himself?

  Lost in his confusion, it took some time for Oland to realise that Delphi was crying.

  “Delphi,” he said.

  She didn’t reply.

  “Delphi,” said Oland. “Are you all right? I—”

  She bowed her head. “That’s where you live?” she said.

  “Pardon?” said Oland.

  “They’re the people you live with?” she said, looking up.

  Oland frowned. “The people I was forced to serve,” he said.

  “I don’t know how you could have done that,” said Delphi.

  “I am nothing like them,” said Oland, struggling to stay calm.

  Delphi paused before she spoke. “How do you know that?”

  “Do you think I’m like them?” said Oland. “Have I given you some reason to think that I’m lying or treacherous or capable of—”

  “No,” said Delphi. “I’m sorry. I…” She started to sob. She wiped her eyes. “I know… I know… I don’t even know you. But… I have no one now, and—”

  “What do you mean you have no one?” said Oland.

  “Chancey the Gold,” said Delphi. “He’s… he’s my father. He made me swear not to tell anyone.” She turned and looked directly into Oland’s eyes, and he saw, again, how black they were. But, when she spoke, her voice was soft. “Please don’t ever tell anyone. For years, I thought he was simply my guardian. He told me that when I was a baby I was left at the entrance to The Straits, and that he took me in.”

  “And your mother?” said Oland.

  “He has never spoken about her, only to tell me that I was so very loved,” said Delphi. “There was so much pain in his eyes when he spoke of her…”

  “How did he look after you alone?” said Oland.

  “He brought in a wonderful couple: a groundsman and his wife…” Tears welled in Delphi’s eyes. “Then one day, when I was nine, he told me that the couple who looked after me had had to go away. I cried for weeks. He said that there was no one else who could look after me.”

  Their childhoods were so different, thought Oland, but sorrow marked them both. He told Delphi about his own parents and how he hoped to find their names in the Decresian census. He stopped short when he realised how insensitive he was being.

  Delphi let out a heartbreaking sob. Oland turned away. It struck him that, on the rare times he had cried in his fourteen years, he had never felt the comfort of being taken into someone’s arms, nor had he ever heard a quiet word of reassurance or understanding. He got up and walked over to the mouth of the cave, crossing his arms and staring out into the dark. The water of The Straits was sparkling. He glanced back. Delphi was still sobbing.

  After some time had passed, her crying quietened.

  “What you said before,” said Delphi. “About me living so close to The Straits if it was so dangerous… my father was very careful, that was why. He was always warning me to be safe and he had marked out – with ribbons on the trees – how far I could go from the house if I was alone. Every year, I was measured for new oilskins to protect me from the water. He knew the currents of The Straits, so that’s the answer to why I was allowed to live here: I was never in danger.”

  She burst into tears.

  Oland let her cry, helpless in the face of her anguish. Delphi was alone, suffering the loss of the only person she had in the world, someone she loved. Oland knew that that was worse than his loss: a love conjured only from a story, or a vision of the future.

  The following morning, Oland was wakened by the sense of light around him. He slowly opened his eyes and could see Delphi curled in the corner, still sleeping. Oland moved out of the cave and looked down on to The Straits, where a shoal of fish had turned the water to amber, its light radiating up the cliffs.

  “Delphi,” said Oland. “Delphi, wake up.”

  Delphi opened her eyes, and blinked several times, looking at him as if she were seeing him for the first time. “Oh,” she said. “Yes. Hello.”

  “Look,” said Oland. “Look at the fish.”

  Delphi joined him. “They’re like amber waves.”

  Suddenly, Malben appeared from above, jumping down into Delphi’s arms, sliding back the hood of her cape, rubbing her dark hair. She screamed.

  Oland laughed. “It’s only Malben. Malben, this is Delphi.”

  “Is he yours?” said Delphi, trying to pull Malben off her.

  Oland shrugged. “I don’t think he’s anyone’s. But he travelled with me. He… stowed away.”

  “A stowaway,” said Delphi, narrowing her eyes at Malben. He laid his head against her neck and pulled himself closer. Delphi laughed.

  “He disappears, then seems to find me, wherever I am,” said Oland.

  “I’ve never met a monkey before,” said Delphi, “but there’s something about you that I like, Malben.” She ran her finger down his nose.

  “I thought I’d seen the last of you,” said Oland, reaching out to stroke Malben’s head. “Now, get down.”

  “Don’t listen to him,” said Delphi.

  Oland looked back at the network of caves hidden behind the raging waters of The Falls, then out again over The Straits. He glanced at the girl beside him who dared to navigate it all, who could perhaps die if she put a foot wrong, yet whom he stood safely beside.

  King Micah’s words echoed again: ‘Be wise in your choice of companion.’”

  “Delphi…” said Oland.

  Delphi turned to him. “Yes?”

  He frowned. “I suppose we need to get to the end of The Falls, so that I can be on my way.”

  “Yes,” said Delphi. She gripped Malben a little tighter, then led Oland along the ledge the short distance to the end of The Falls.

  They climbed down the rocks, and stood looking at the fish moving through the water. Minutes passed in silence. The temperature had dropped, and the sky was beginning to darken.

  “Those clouds are appearing more and more,” said Delphi.

  And Oland felt, again, the spectre of The Great Rains.

  He strapped his bag on to his back. Malben jumped from Delphi’s arms and slid into it.

  A fleeting look of sadness crossed Delphi’s face.

  “So you’re coming with me, Malben…” said Oland.

  Delphi smiled. “Looks like he is.” She paused. “Well, good luck on your journey,” she said. �
�I have no doubt you will find what you’re looking for.”

  “Thank you,” said Oland. “Thank you for guiding me safely across. And good luck to you…”

  He walked away. Before long, he glanced back, and could see Delphi making her way towards the amber waters of The Straits. He studied her, the tilt of her head, her strange, choppy black hair. He watched as she began to run towards the cliffs. She looked tiny and alone against them. Oland knew that there was no one waiting for her at the other side now, no one there to make sure she was safe. Just as she had made sure that he was.

  “Delphi!” he shouted over the roaring water. “Delphi!”

  Delphi stopped and turned around. She waved to him. The kindness and openness of the gesture blindsided him.

  If Chancey the Gold was dead, Oland decided that he would honour him by honouring the daughter the great champion had so fiercely protected.

  Oland waved Delphi towards him. She ran, her strides light and long, her cape flying up behind her. She stopped in front of him, smiling. He was drawn again to her eyes, dark and bright at the same time.

  HE JOURNEY FROM THE FALLS TO GALENORE WAS across beautiful countryside, made richer by the waters of The Straits and the River Caminus it flowed into. But all the river’s tributaries branched off before they reached Galenore, as though they knew the grey town had nothing to offer them.

  “The deaths of Wickham and Croft will not sit well with Villius Ren,” said Oland.

  “Were they close?” said Delphi.

  Oland laughed. “Like drogues…” It felt suddenly wrong to joke. The line had come so quickly, the story was so fresh in his mind.

  Delphi shuddered. “When I was a child, they were the terror that woke me in the night.”

  “That woke every child,” said Oland. He held his hands to his throat and quoted from The Ancient Myths of Envar, “‘his final indignity was to be drenched in vile secretions vomited from the pit of the beast’s insides; secretions that would quickly dissolve its prey, bones and all, without trace.’”

  Delphi laughed. “I can see how they would remind you of The Craven Lodge,” she said.