Chapter 11

Somewhere, water dripped and splashed. At first the sound was distant, soothing even but after a while, it grew tedious. Eventually, the sound drew Rory out of the deep slumber she'd fallen into.

It took Rory a few minutes to regain her bearings, to assess her surroundings but a life of being responsible for her own survival at all times had taught her how to quickly assess a situation without much information at all. Immediately, her senses sharpened to the dank, musky smell of stone that saw no sun. She breathed in the damp air, inhaling the earthy scent, and caught faint notes of mold and urine and her throat tightened with recognition.

In her unconscious state, she had been taken to a dungeon. What Rory wondered as she rubbed her eyes and tried to make out the darkened features of the cell, was who the dungeon belonged to, and what they wanted with her.

Slowly, the events of Agres pounded back into her, one more painful than the next. First, the sound of Nicolas' body cracking against the fountain. Then Albert, the Harkscalen's claw dragging out his final breaths as blood poured onto snowy cobblestone. Bianca had been devastated, and her cries still echoed sharply in Rory's skull. Something heavy pulled at her chest, a sense of mourning that she'd felt so few times in her life, which suddenly felt quite empty. Silently, Rory hoped that Bianca now faced a better fate than herself or her brother.

As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, Rory shuffled to the barred door of the cell. In her weakened state, it seemed that her captors had found it unnecessary to bother with a guard or shackles. Taking advantage of this small freedom, Rory cleared her dry throat, intending to make her presence known should any others be locked away in the murky gloom. But where she searched for answers, her mind only spun with questions and fear.

Had the Arcodytes caught her working with others? How this was possible, Rory had no clue. For a Skepmadyr, the punishment for working with others without Hedryk's approval, mirrored that of treason. Especially considering that it was non-Arcodytes and no extra coin had been yielded... the best scenario was to be stripped of her Skepmadyr title and a public beating.

Absently, Rory looked at the Serpant and Blade that was inked into her wrist. Even in the darkness of the cell it seemed to glare back at her, marking both skin and soul. In many ways, that tattoo held her prisoner as firmly as the bars and stone that now hid her from the rest of the world.

But could she really be sure that it was the Arcodytes that held her? She inhaled through her nose, gauging whether she could catch the salty aroma of the sea air that shrouded Drao'hain. To her chagrin, she was only met by the heavy, rotting scent of the dungeon.

Rory tried to will herself to stay calm. From a perspective of survival, panicking certainly wouldn't improve her situation in any way. But her mind continued to swim with questions and it overwhelmed her.

And then another memory from Agres struck her. It was as if her conscious had been protecting her, allowing her to catch her bearings, before unloading this new weight upon her soul. But the image struck nonetheless, its impact as strong as a knife to the gut.

Jewel.

Suddenly, Rory's body trembled and she sagged to the ground, ignoring the filth of the dirt floor on her body, which was already a canvas of cuts, bruises and mud. Part of her had wanted to believe it was a dream. After all, the moment had been so crushing that it had felt like watching through glass, as if it were so terrible that it couldn't be real. But the metallic tinge of blood still stung her nose and stabbed at her soul. The image of crimson red staining the mare's white hide as it flowed out of her too fast, glistening beneath the torchlight as it pooled on the ground, suddenly seemed so vivid that she clutched her knees to her chest and sobbed.

Taking on the Harkscalen, losing the only friends she'd ever had, watching the only loyal companion she'd ever known die in front of her; it was all too much. Rory rocked back and forth in filth, that night in Agres threatening to crush her completely. And suddenly she felt sick. So sick that she unfolded herself and emptied her bowels on the shadowy floor, the taste of bile ripe in her mouth and triggering a new wave of nausea.

When the sound of creaking metal echoed against stone as someone opened the cell door, she did not look up. Hardly bothered to wipe the vomit from her mouth with a torn and bloodied sleeve. When footsteps shuffled closer, led by a dim lantern, she did not move. She had nothing left to move for. For all she cared, she could rot in that cell.

But then a soft, female voice lulled her out of her misery.

"I do not envy the ordeal that has brought you here", the woman said, voice gilded by the smooth accent of central Calydon. The same region that housed the High Court, Rory realized with one sharp breath. "But", she continued, taking a tentative step closer, "the king wishes to see you. I wish we could clean you up first, but his majesty doesn't like to be kept waiting."

At first, the words did not hit her. Instead, they landed on her numbly, like rain on a rock. But then, she began to make out what the woman had said, the sentence sinking in word by word.

"The k-king?" She asked hoarsely, confusion and shock fumbling her speech.

The woman simply shuffled out of the cell, guided by the dim light provided by her lantern. With no other choice, Rory pushed aside her aching body and her weary soul and followed the woman.

"How long have I been here?" She tried.

"Almost three days", the woman answered bluntly.

"And we're in the High Court", she fumbled, the words not making any sense even as she spoke them.

"Right now we're underneath it." Her tone had the crispness of youth, but there was an air of wisdom to it, as if this woman had seen a great deal.

Rory swallowed hard, her mouth dry her throat raw from a lack of water.

"Who... who are you?"

The woman didn't answer right away, leading Rory through a series of winding staircases and dimly lit hallways. Several times Rory nearly fell, either from tripping on uneven stairs of dodging the occasional rat that scurried by. In front of her, the woman continued to glide through the stony maze as if guided by a phantom wind. Had Rory been in a better state, she might have recognized her as a Windsinger but instead, she only plodded along, too shocked to be truly afraid.

Only when they reached a broad wooden door, illuminated by two torches, did the woman turn to her, revealing her face. Her skin was a rich shade of olive, and her eyes were bright with curiosity but wisened by the wrinkles that surrounded them.

"Survive the Clade", she answered at last, "and you'll find out."

Rory's breath caught at the mention of the Red Clade. The king's hallowed Cladesmen were revered throughout the kingdom, to the point that it was hard to decipher truth from legend and myth. Banished to the shadows, Rory had done everything she could to avoid ever coming remotely close to the king or his Red Clade. But now, it seemed, she had been dropped directly into their laps for a reason which she was unaware.

In front of Rory, the wooden door, polished and carved with the sigil of Calydon opened. For a few seconds, she wondered if she was dead, or perhaps trapped in a very strange dream. But before she had any more time to process any of the last several minutes, boots clattered, and she was seized by two guards. Not that she had the energy or strength to resist anyway.

Overwhelmed, Rory hardly felt the grip of the guards' hands around her arms, the aching of her body or the grime on her skin. Instead she only stumbled forward on the narrow red carpet that ribboned over the stone floor. The great room smelled strongly of frankincense and polished wood, and the sudden influx of light stabbed her eyes. All around, great walls loomed, ones that could only suit the majesty of a king. And the walls were lavishly decorated, acting as canvases for great murals that must have taken months, if not years to complete.

Each of the walls told part of a story, like pages in a book, Rory realized as she was prodded on by the guards. She also realized that somewhere deep down she remembered this story, was made to remember it word for word during her years at the convent. It was the tale of Calydon, of Sŏnne and Dirk, the twin angels born from womb of Virydus, a land of pure legend where light and darkness existed in a perfect balance. The twins were meant to guard the sacred balance nurtured by Virydus but instead they grew at odds with each other until one day a great battle amassed, painted on the walls with no shortage of blood, lightning and the shining steel of swords and armor.

The final wall, looming high behind the king and his Clade, told the final part of the story, where Sŏnne rose high over the blasted ruins of Virydus. He was shrouded by light that outshone the sun itself, and crowned as the god of light and creation. Beneath him, descending down into a pit of blackness was Dirk, the black crown on his head marking him as the grim faced god of darkness and chaos. In the space between the gods emerged the realms of earth and sky, and all that existed there.

Mind swimming as she struggled to take in the massive room, Rory's eyes darted about, seeming to land anywhere but in front of her. Eventually, they settled on a massive red square of red fabric that billowed on a phantom wind. She had seen it many times before, the field of red that bore the Flame and Star of Calydon.

At last, the guards marched to a halt and bowed low but Rory hardly noticed. Instead, she was looking at the Flame and Star, the sigil crafted with the most luxurious fabric she'd ever seen. And then her eyes trailed down until fabric met stone and at last, she swallowed hard and faced the semi circle of cloaked figures that sat before her. All but one were cloaked in a deep crimson red, their faces shadowed from plain sight. Instead, the one who was not hooded wore something far different: the crown of Calydon.

Body numb and unsure what else to do, Rory joined the guards and bowed low enough that she could make out the individual strands of the carpet before her.

"Guards", the king's voice boomed with the confidence of one who was never challenged, "you are dismissed."

The air shifted as the guards shot up and swung towards the door that led back to the dungeons, and part of Rory wished that she could go with them. Wondered if rotting in a cell would be better than whatever fate awaited her here. But before she could dwell any longer, the king's voice echoed through the great room again.

"I assume you know who you bow before, boy." Rory's heart pounded and her mouth had gone bone dry. Some delirious part of her even thought it was funny that the king thought her a boy.

"Y-yes", Rory forced out, her voice shaking with fear and shock, "King Morgan hyr Sŏnne, reigning Lord of Calydon."

Rory bowed lower, as if doing so could somehow shield her from the prying, ominous eyes that scorned her like an ant beneath a magnifying glass.

"Good", the king said as if he were praising a dog, "now rise and tell me how someone so...measley as yourself nearly killed my Harkscalen."