Marked By the Gods - 7. Part 7

The lamps in the little room were unlit, and the moonlight through the window permitted only a small illumination, so Mouse was forced to wait in the doorway for his eyes to adjust to the dark. Behind him he heard the snoring of two guards, fast asleep at their post. They would be punished for their negligence, perhaps even with their lives, but Mouse found he held little remorse for them. It had been a simple thing to put the men to sleep. They had consented to hear one song from the Emperor’s musician, and as it happened one song was all Mouse had needed.

The quiet of the room and the utter darkness suggested Tytus slept too. Mouse had put away his instrument and drawn his blade. He did not know how to use it, but he suspected that it didn’t require a genius to know how to kill a sleeping man with a sharp weapon.

Inside, the old anger burned inside of him, rehearsing every moment of injustice and torment the Prince had ever inflicted; and not just the Prince, but every master, every man who had given orders and dispensed punishment since Mouse’s family had first sold him into captivity. This murder – and Mouse could not deny that that was what it would be – was the final answer to every moment of pain the world had made him suffer. Afterwards, he would move on. Afterwards, he would start a new life as a free man. But for the slave in him to die, the man who had held his leash must die first.

So at least had he reasoned to himself over and over, attempting to harden his resolve.

With soft steps he began to more fully enter the room. Now he could make out the frames of a large bed and the lump of a sleeping figure upon it. His pulse quickened, and he raised the sword in eagerness for his task.

The figure stirred. “Rannell, is that you?” It was Tytus, his voice slurred and drowsy. “Where have you been, my Guardian? It is no matter. Come to bed, my love.”

Mouse stopped. Love? Tytus and the Guardian? Nonsense. This was just some fevered dream; Tytus the monster was not a being capable of love, of that much Mouse was certain. He knew the Prince to be a beast. He needed that to be true. He took another step forward, this time with a slightly less certain tread.

“It’s my fault,” Tytus mumbled, “I know that now, Rannell. You worked so hard to protect me, but they weren’t even there to kill me. They wanted you. My father took our defiance more seriously than I thought. But I couldn’t bear to lose you.”

This did not sound like the whining, selfish prince that Mouse remembered. He tried to push this new voice out of his mind, tried to ignore his words. It didn’t matter. What use contrition now? Tytus had to die.

“I saw the crossbow and… I acted. Without thinking, Rannell. Do you understand? Without a second thought I was ready to give my life in exchange for yours. I love you…. I love you so much that I would die for you. I love you so much that I care more for you than for myself. And that’s it, isn’t it? The love of the Lightbringer that you said I could only learn on my own, in my own time.”

Silence. Mouse could not move another step. What was this? Words of love when he needed hate? Words of peace when he sought for anger?

“I see things much clearer now. Well, almost dying has that kind of effect on you.” The prince laughed bitterly, more conscious now. “I’ve been such a fool. I’ve been a horror…. a monster. I’ve been too much like my father. As much as I hated what he is, I was becoming him anyway… Well, I won’t be like that. Kent, I swear it. I swear. When I am Emperor I will serve the people well. I will show them the love of the God of the Sun and rule wisely… well, as long as you are at my side to provide the wisdom, I’ll always need your help with that. But I mean it. I swear it, my love.”

Mouse had reached the bedside. Tytus tossed gently back and forth, his eyes closed, a thick bandage at his shoulder where it met the neck. From this position it would be easy to accomplish the deed that had brought Mouse here. A quick stab down and it would be over. Or perhaps he could draw the blade across the Prince’s exposed neck. Then he would lean down until he was staring into his enemy’s eyes, letting his former tormentor see just who had wrought this terrible justice upon him. Mouse raised the weapon.

Tytus giggled and grinned suddenly, his voice taking on a deeper and more sultry tone. “Come to me, love. Come in me, love. We will worship the Lightbringer all our lives, but for tonight let us give the King of Beasts his due.”

At that moment a gust of wind passed the window of the chamber; Mouse could hear it rushing outside the castle walls, carrying with it the sounds of the city at night and the faint suggestion of music from somewhere in the dark. The music passed through Mouse, too, and without realizing it the fingers of his free hand began to flex and move as though he were holding the lute. He plucked invisible strings and sang silent melodies that sprang from nowhere.

The music, he was not surprised to discover, cured his madness. The name of the God, his new God, had been invoked, and without knowing why Mouse found himself leaning down to touch his lips to his former master’s gently, felt their tongues brush together as smoothly as the Prince’s silk sheets brushed his naked skin. The kiss was somehow salty, bitter, and sweet, and Mouse, tasting it, wept.

Tytus pulled from the kiss, a look of fear and confusion on his face. “Who are you?”

Mouse told him his name.

Is this what senility feels like? Damek could help but ponder this question as he struggled to bring his attention back to the task at hand. It was clear that Rannell Kent and the Prince had taken refuge in the Palace, where they were little more than glorified hostages to the enemy. And that was only assuming Kent had not turned, giving his knowledge and skills to his former foes. Nothing could stop the true Emperor’s victory, at this point, but Kent at the head of the enemy forces was a complication that would make that goal more costly. Now more than ever it was vital that the Guardian be removed and, if possible, the Prince recovered; but Damek didn’t see a way to do either on his own. His decision to leave his men behind and complete this mission alone now reeked of foolishness. He had good reason to suspect his own sanity, and he didn’t know what to do about it. How do you think your way out of a problem, as Damek had always done, when the very problem was your ability to think? Despair waited, lurking just out of sight in the corner of his eye, and again Damek wished he was not utterly alone.

Which brought his mind back yet again to Captain Joren.

“The penalty for desertion is death,” Damek had pointed out in their brief conversation, when Joren had pulled the two away from the hearing of his young companion. The threat had little effect. Captain Joren had only laughed.

“And where are your soldiers, old man? Were you formally relieved of your command? I think not.” Joren shook his head. “No, whatever punishment lies in store for me waits for you too. You can’t scare me.”

“I am on a mission for the Emperor,” Damek insisted.

“What mission?

“That’s need-to-know only, Captain.”

“Well, then. I’m on a mission for the Emperor too.” Joren had crossed his arms, his voice mocking. “Need-to-know only.”

“That boy you travel with…”

The Captain’s face darkened. “You forget about him. He’s none of your business.”

“He’s from Nathar, isn’t he?” Damek asked. Joren grew silent. “I see. It may surprise you, but I understand.”

“Understand? You understand shit, Commander. You’re an unfeeling old bastard and you always have been. You don’t see people, you see numbers. You see tools. You don’t understand me, you can’t. You’d have to be human first.”

Damek arched his brow. “Well,” he said wryly, “That was passionately delivered. Should I applaud?”

“Fuck you, you bitter, hateful, heartless old man,” Joren said, turning his back and walking away, muttering, “Gods, you’re just like my mother.”

The Commander had watched his former officer go, not nearly as calm as he appeared on the surface. The man’s words had struck a nerve for he felt his hands shaking and they would not stop even when he gripped them together. He had replayed the encounter over and over in his mind in the hours since Joren had stormed away, something about the whole incident troubling him more than it should. It didn’t matter. Rannell Kent was all that mattered. The mission. Obedience. Return to the core of what you are, he told himself, and all will be well. All will be as it once was. To the hells with Captain Joren, his opinions, his anger, and his bloody mother.

Damek turned a corner and stopped. Suspicion poured over him, making him gasp as though it were a barrel of ice water dumped on his head. He raised his hands again to watch their incessant, knowing trembling.

With a cry of anguish, Damek turned around and ran back the way he had come.

“It smells really bad in here,” Calder said, wrinkling his nose. For so it did, and even pinching his nostrils together couldn’t hide it. You could taste the bad smell, feel it on your tongue, gagging you.

“Well, it’s a sewer, what do you expect?” Joren replied, sounding queasy, “But this is the way the old hag said to go.”

“Are you sure? That’s what you said last time, and you were wrong. And the time before that.”

“I’m doing my best,” Joren snapped. His usual joking tone was gone.

Calder cringed. “I’m sorry. I was just kidding, I…” He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know how to explain that Joren’s jokes were the only thing that made Calder feel normal, like everything was okay. He could still feel dried blood on his face, though he’d tried scrubbing as best as he could. He could feel the weight of the knife at his belt, dragging him down. He needed a little levity, something to bring a smile back to his face. But Joren was not in the mood, hadn’t been since he had met with that strange old man, who he still wouldn’t talk about.

“Never mind,” Joren said distractedly. Calder could hear shuffling nearby as Joren sought for something. “Well, looks like I was wrong again…. wait. What’s this?”

Calder scooted closer to his friend. “What is it?”

“A symbol, etched into the stone. This is the right place.”

Excitement and fear overwhelmed Calder. They were so close, he had sensed it. Somehow, he knew.

“That means,” said Joren, “if the old woman wasn’t making up stories, all I should have to do is press….. here.”

There was a click, and then a rumbling as something nearby shifted, rock rubbing against rock ominously. A breeze of cool air suddenly brushed Calder’s face, and with it new scents that pierced the odor of the sewage: a dank and a humid smell. There was water nearby. Clean water.

The rumbling stopped, and all was silent. In the distance, behind them, Calder heard another sound. He cocked his head.

“What is it?” Joren asked.

“I think we’re being followed,” Calder whispered. Joren’s hand gripped his and squeezed comfortingly. Then, tugging gently, he led the blind boy down the newly opened tunnel to his destiny.

The Guardian of the Flame was already uneasy when the sounds of footsteps outside his door announced the arrival of visitors. Since denying the Emperor his services, Kent had sat alone in the room appointed to him with no news of Tytus’ condition. He had sat for hours, forcing his breath to stay regular, or sometimes pacing about the room. Again and again he convinced himself that the Prince was well. Had the young man died, they would surely have told his Guardian. Wouldn’t they?

When the door opened and three guards entered, Kent’s heart sank. They did not look very happy.

“Where is the Prince?” one asked.

Kent blinked in surprise. “What?”

A guard stepped forward and backhanded Kent with an armored hand, twisting the Guardian’s head and making his ear ring. “Where is the Prince? How did he escape?”

Rannell Kent was silent for a long moment, staring at the floor. “The Prince is missing?” he asked quietly.

One of the guards spoke. “His bedchamber is empty and his guards--” He got no further. The Guardian of the Flame attacked. The three guards were dead or dying within moments, and when two others entered after hearing the conflict, they fell too.

“There,” Calder said, “There’s a turn to the left, go that way.”

Joren was silent for a moment. “It’s pitch black, I can’t see anything.”

“I can,” Calder realized, “It’s so clear, we go this way. Come, I’ll lead you.” And then, taking the man’s hand, he guided him through the twisting tunnel that led further into darkness.

“Well,” Joren murmured, a half-smile sound to his voice, “This is different. You leading me, I mean.”

Calder didn’t say anything. They’d come around a corner and there, spread out before him, was the little cave and the pool of water that somehow, impossibly, had a reflection of the moon shining upon it. Creeping around the edges of the water, Calder finally figured out how - there was an opening above the pool, a kind of crack or chasm that opened straight up to the night sky, but the moon would have to be in just the right spot in the sky to shine through it and make a reflection on the water. And then he knew he was in the right place at the right time.

“Now what?” asked Joren, shifting uncomfortably.

“Help me down into the water.”

“You don’t have to do this.” The older man sounded very serious now.

Calder frowned. “It’s okay. It’s not too deep, I think I won’t be too scared. Besides, this is where I’m supposed to go.”

“Let’s just go. I don’t like this, any of this. We don’t know what’s going to happen. I don’t trust this God, Calder. Let’s just leave, and we’ll find a life for ourselves someplace else. Okay? We’ll just go be a family together, some place far from the war, doesn’t that sound nice?”

“We’ve come all this way,” Calder said firmly, “I have to know. I have to see.” He began to strip off his clothes, not even waiting for a rebuttal.

The older man sighed and then Calder heard him undressing too. Calder thought to protest that this task was his to do alone, but something stopped his tongue. They’d made the journey together, after all. It was only right they ended it together.

Gripping his young friend’s hand, Joren led him into the water, which rose up to the boy’s waist. The feeling of the water against his flesh caused a sudden swelling of panic and he clung to Joren suddenly, pressing his head against the older man’s softy hairy chest. Joren stroked his hands through the boy’s hair comfortingly. He’d never touched Joren skin-to-skin like this before, flesh-to-flesh, and it felt different. More intimate. Like being held by his father. Or his mother, as a babe. Figures he now suddenly felt he could vaguely recall, distantly. But they were overwhelmed by the touch and scent of the man who now held him in his arms here in the bowels of the earth. At some point along the way, Joren had become father, mother, brother, guardian, everything.

They stood together like that in the water for a long moment. Nothing happened, but it was quiet and the water was cool but comfortable, and Calder could hear Joren’s heart beating fast, like the sound of a running horse.

“Lower me under the water,” Calder said at last.

“Calder…”

“Please. Just this one last thing. Please.”

Slowly, Calder felt Joren’s arms tipping him back and lowering him down, and now the water was in his ears and covering his face and now he was under and now he was in a burning building, screaming a woman’s name, and then there she was, his mother, and she was so beautiful even though her face was stained with dirt and red from the flames. She reached for him, beckoned him forward, called his name, and Calder began to crawl forward, wincing from the heat, but then suddenly there were other men there, big and angry men wearing uniforms. They had just killed someone, a man, a man Calder knew, his father, and now they strode towards his mother and the one who led them had a sword in each hand and each dripping with blood and framed by the flames he looked like an angel of death, and when he reached Calder’s mother he struck her hard against the face with the butt of one blade so that she went sprawling, and some of the other man laughed and dragged her away, and Calder could hear her screaming fade as she went, and then the man with the two blades leaned down until his face was level with Calder’s, and Calder screamed and wept and cursed him and saw the man’s face go pale, and then the man looked like he might weep, but instead he brought the hilt of his blade down on Calder’s head and then all was black.

Calder came out of the water sputtering, gasping for breath, shivering uncontrollably but not from the cold.

“I would have taken care of you forever,” Joren was saying, his voice trembling, “I would have protected you from the world.”

“You…”

“I’m not a good man, I told you that. The war made us all into monsters, made us do things we’d never thought…”

“No,” Calder said, squeezing shut his eyes, “No!”

“And when I saw you, when I saw the look on your face, I saw what I’d become and I couldn’t bear it anymore.”

Calder found the edge of the pool and pulled himself out of the water, desperate to get as far away from the horror as possible, but it didn’t matter how far he went. It was always right there with him. “My parents…”

“I couldn’t save them. I couldn’t. But I saved you. I took you to the Temple, I asked the priestess to heal you, I gave up everything, turned my back on my whole life so that I could protect you and make sure no harm ever came to you again.”

“So that… what? Why? For forgiveness? You wanted me to forgive you?” Calder had found his clothes, and his hand wrapped around something cool and hard.

“No,” Joren laughed sadly, coming to stand at the edge of the pool, legs still in the water, “Not forgiveness. We were seeking out the wrong God for that, and I didn’t want it anyway. I don’t deserve it. I got scared when we got here. I wanted to turn back. I didn’t want things to change. But it’s better this way. This is how it should be.”

“You don’t want to be forgiven.” Calder said. He was kneeling over his clothes, very still.

“No.”

“You want to be punished.”

A long silence. Then: “Yes.”

Calder strode forward in two quick steps and thrust the knife into Joren’s chest. The man gasped in shock, but made no movement, did not try to resist. Still holding the hilt, Calder rested his head on Joren’s shoulder and wept.

“Shhhh,” Joren said, voice tight with pain, “Shhhhh, it’s okay. This is right. I’m sorry, Calder. I’m… Thank you. Thank you.”

Calder pulled the knife out and pulled away, then took hold of Joren’s hand and placed it over the wound, which was already leaking blood angrily. “I missed your heart,” he said with certainty, but not knowing how he knew, “If you can keep from losing too much blood, you may live for a while.”

Joren grunted in what sounded like surprise. “Bad luck? Or bad aim?”

“Neither. The God of Night will judge whether you shall live. Goodbye.”

And without waiting for a reply, Calder gathered his clothing. Next his fingers explored the cave floor, where he found Joren's sweat-stained old tunic, drenched in his smell. Calder tore off a piece of the sleeve then wrapped it around his head, over the eyes. Then he stood and disappeared into the darkness, knowing for the first time exactly what he was supposed to do next.

The air was cold and stale and stunk of death.

“Where are we, Ammon?” asked Tytus, limping heavily, “Where’s my Guardian?”

Mouse sighed, still supporting the Prince’s weight and holding up a torch with the other hand. “I told you already. These are the catacombs under the palace. I’m going to go back for Kent after I find some place safe for you to hide and wait.”

“Why are you helping us?”

“Because…” Mouse hesitated. He didn’t really know the answer. He hadn’t told the Prince who he was, who he used to be, but if he had then there would probably only be more confusion about his motives. “Look, I’m the Emperor’s musician, right? He told me he is planning to kill you before your father can take the city and save you, as some kind of final act of defiance.”

“And you didn’t think that was right.”

“Well, I don’t anymore, no,” Mouse said wryly.

“And you’ll bring Rannell to me soon?”

“As soon as I can, now be quiet. I’m trying to think.”

It felt nice to give Tytus orders for a change, and even nicer that he obeyed them. The Prince obligingly fell silent, and Mouse took advantage of the opportunity to look around. He found a small tomb tucked away around a corner that seemed the most unobtrusive spot in the area, then got Tytus settled there and promised to return soon.

“You’re taking the torch?”

“It’s hardly a good hiding spot if the guards can spot your torchlight if they come looking down here! Besides, I’ll be back soon with the Guardian, you won’t have to wait long.”

“But I’m cold.”

Mouse lost his patience. “Well, I’m SO sorry, Your Majesty! I know it's awfully inconvenient to your delicate royal person to have your life saved in this manner, and to see what it's like when you don’t live in a bubble of wealth and privilege protecting you from everything uncomfortable. Yes, it’s cold down here. Life is cold. The rest of us know that already, so welcome to the club.”

Tytus had the decency to look ashamed. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be ungrateful… You are right. I know little of how most people live. I’m… I’m sorry.”

Mouse didn’t expect an apology so he wasn’t sure how to respond to it. He merely nodded. “Alright then. I’ll be back soon.”

“Thank you.”

Mouse paused. Something was still turning over in his mind. “The Guardian. You and he…. you are really….?”

Tytus looked up and stuck out his bottom lip defiantly. “Yes. You have a problem with that?”

Despite himself, Mouse grinned. “Not at all, Your Grace. Not at all.”

Damek had lost the trail, but he knew Joren and the boy had come down here and were around somewhere. It was important that he find them. There had never been anything as important in all of his sad and lonely life.

He heard the sound of footsteps down a corridor, and he rushed forward to catch up to them. He was no longer in the sewers, he could tell, the stone was older and the air was cold and stank of death. These must be catacombs, buried remnants from Kadnaris’ ancient days. He shuddered and wondered what could have possessed Joren to lead that poor lad down here.

Damek rounded a corner, and only years of experience as a military man saved his life as a blade came swinging towards his neck. The Commander buckled his knees and fell straight back, rolling over a shoulder and into a crouch. He drew his own sword in defense, and then he saw his opponent.

“Stay back or I will kill you,” said Rannell Kent, “Where is the Prince?”

“Kent? By the Gods…”

They were in a circle antechamber, with connecting tunnels spreading out in four different directions, and there was just enough light to see even though Damek couldn’t quite make out where the light was coming from. His attention was on the man in front of him, the man he’d originally come to this blasted city to find but who he’d completely forgotten about. The Guardian strode forward and attacked with two precise swings of his sword, both of which Damek barely managed to deflect.

“Rannell Kent, you damn fool, it’s me. Damek. We’re on the same side, damn you.”

Kent paused in his attack and stepped back, recognition flickering across his face. “I’m not on any side, not anymore.”

“Well, then we’re truly allies.”

“What in the name of the Four Gods are you doing here, Damek?”

The Commander laughed gruffly. “Well, I had planned on killing you. Emperor’s orders, you understand. No hard feelings. But plans have changed.”

The Guardian readied his blade again. “So, it was your men that attacked the Prince?”

“Not the Prince, Kent. You. Think, man. The Emperor wouldn’t want to kill his only heir. You were the target. But damn, you must be better than I thought.”

Kent's steely hostility wavered, his eyes narrowing, but his blade didn't waver a bit. “Why are you telling me this?”

Damek took a deep breath and lowered his sword. “To tell the truth, I’m sick of killing. No more wars for me. I’m looking for somebody, somebody very important to me. He’s down here somewhere. Just let me continue on my search and I won’t get in your way. I wish no harm to the Prince.”

Kent seemed to consider, then tightened his grip. “I don’t know if I can trust you, Damek. There’s too much at stake for me here.”

“I understand. For me too. Well, I can’t hope to defeat you. I’m old, and I wasn’t as good as you even when I was young. So all I can do is beg, Kent.” And then proud Commander Damek got down on both knees, and for the first time in the interaction Rannell Kent seemed truly surprised. “I beg for my life. I’m sorry I tried to have you killed. It was commanded, and I have always obeyed. Without thought. Always... Found it a little more difficult lately for some reason, but then from what I hear, so have you, eh? But I can’t die yet, man, not just yet.”

Kent looked as though he might say something, but then there was suddenly the sound of approaching footsteps from one of the tunnels that led to the chamber. Both men raised their weapons to the ready, Damek leaping to his feet, and turned to look as somebody new entered. It was a young man with a lute strapped to his back and carrying a torch, freezing in place and appearing very startled to see them. He opened his mouth to speak but then seemed to have second thoughts and clamped it shut again.

There was another sound, a slight shuffling, and then another figure appeared. Nobody had seen or heard him enter the room. It was the small silhouette of a boy standing at the very edges of the eerie light, half in shadow. He wearing a piece of cloth around his eyes and tied behind his head.

It was silent. The four looked at each other for a very long time.