Ritual of the Stones (Ballad of Frindoth) (9 page)

“Did
he believe you?” Delmut said.

“Are
we free to talk?” Jefferson replied, glancing at the cells.

“Of
course, my lord, these filth aren’t going anywhere ever.”

“The
plan continues as I intended.”

Delmut
nodded at this. He seemed troubled now the scheme was in motion.

“What
about the Order?”

“They
won’t be a problem,” Jefferson said, before adding, “I don’t like to be
questioned, Delmut.”

“Forgive
me, my lord.”

“Leave
the Order to me. You just continue with my instructions and you will be
handsomely rewarded.”

“Yes,
my lord.”

“What
about the scroll?”

“Gyotpa
has not reported back since following the witch to the Marshes of Night.”

Jefferson
nodded. Farther down the corridor the man still whimpered from where Jefferson
had broken his arm.

“No
one must know of my involvement, Delmut,” he said at last. Delmut grinned.

“As
always, my lord,” he replied.

Althalos
could barely lift his arms to parry the assortment of blows Fyfe rained down on
him. Every muscle throbbed in protest, his teeth rattled as he blocked another
strike that jarred his body.

Eventually
his trainer vented his fury by swiping Althalos’s legs away and kicking him in
the ribs. The prince’s face hit the dirt before he could even register he was
no longer standing.

Winded,
he allowed himself the pleasure of shutting his eyes and resting whilst he
tried to get his breath back.

“You
are sluggish today. You fight like a novice,” Fyfe said.

“I
am a novice and the reason I am sluggish is because you sent the others to the
baths two hours ago,” Althalos murmured.

“You’re
the one that requested the extra lessons, yet you whine like a mule.”

Althalos
allowed himself to smile. He had requested the extra lessons, it was true. As
the Prince of Lilyon, he wanted to be among the best swordsmen in the kingdom.
Fyfe, the master of arms, had been reluctant to oblige at first. He
emphatically insisted his daily sessions would be gruelling enough. Althalos
was determined, however, and so they had conducted extra lessons after the
others were dismissed.

He
heard Fyfe crouch down next to him.

“Are
you hurt?” Fyfe asked.

“No,
I have just reached my limit today. I don’t think I can lift a muscle. You
better send for a wagon to carry me indoors.”

Fyfe
grunted his response, ignoring the teasing.

“I
do push you hard. Sometimes I forget you are green with a sword.”

“I
put Royo to shame this morning. Not so green there.”

Fyfe
smiled.

“I
did not mean to insult. You have come a very long way in a very short time. It
is clear you are an excellent swordsman. It is your wits that you will need to
survive in battle. At the moment you are too eager to finish fights early. You
need patience. You need to bide your time and know when to strike. This only
comes with endurance and experience.”

Althalos
groaned. He had heard this lecture many times before. His endurance was
improving every day. Each day he woke up and ached a little less than the day
before. He was now well above the level of the other students, to the point
where Fyfe no longer paired him with a sparring partner but set two boys on him
at once.

The
two of them stayed next to each other for a while, easy in each other’s
silence. Althalos enjoyed the sun’s warmth on his face, the heat making him
sleepy. It had always been this way between the two of them. With Fyfe he could
speak and act naturally. There was not the pressure of being the prince and
living up to his father’s standards. In the training yard he was nothing more
than a student. It was the only public place he felt truly at ease and not as
if he was performing some formal ceremony.

“I
heard about the stone,” Fyfe said, pretending to examine a crack in one of the
wooden swords they used to practice with.

“Kind
of makes all this training pointless, doesn’t it?” Althalos said.

Fyfe
frowned at this.

“Not
at all. I’ve seen many Rituals over the years and one thing is for certain. No
one can guarantee which stone comes first out of that waterfall. I’ve seen a
four-year-old boy sacrificed in the name of the blasted Gloom.”

Fyfe
stood and spat at the memory. Althalos had heard the story. People still talked
about it in hushed voices. It was purported to have been the worst sacrifice in
memory. It was said the boy’s wails could still be heard echoing around the
city square. Nonsense, of course, Althalos had never heard them, but the
thought of that horrible day still left his stomach churning.

“I
would love to kill the Gloom,” he said, more to himself than to Fyfe.

“You
are not the first person to say that. Unfortunately, it appears it is
impossible.”

Althalos
nodded. At five years old, he had been too young to witness the last Ritual.
Jacquard had sent him away to Rora a few days before the solstice. He did not
remember too much of the visit but he did remember coming home to Lilyon. The
city was eerily subdued. People went about their business, but they did so in a
sluggish fashion. There was no life to the city whatsoever. It took a good
month before the city began to return to its former vibrant self.

He
wondered if it would be the same this time. Would he even be around to witness
it?

“What
is it like to kill someone?”

“It
depends.” Fyfe stopped examining the sword and looked him in the eye. Althalos
knew he would not be fazed by the question and waited for him to continue. “In
battle it is easier. You are focussed only on staying alive and who is
attacking you next. Adrenaline does not allow for you to contemplate the life
you have just dispatched. When the fight is over, you are mentally and physically
exhausted, maybe even euphoric if you have won the day. It is only much later
when you seek the comfort of a wench’s arms that remorse kicks in. The horror
of those lives you have ended dawns on you. You begin to wonder about the
victims’ lives. Did they have families? Young ones? The taverns are full of
wenches who will tell you how the bravest of warriors have sobbed in the night
whilst holding on to them.

“To
assassinate someone is completely different. It is a premeditated act, you can
convince yourself that you know what you are about to do, but until you are
actually in sight of that person and see them going about their lives, you
don’t know how you are going to react. Maybe they are eating dinner with their
friend or strolling through a garden. Something to make you realise they are
just the same as you ...”

Fyfe
trailed off. Althalos was surprised to see him frantically wipe a tear away
from his eyes. He decided it was best to pretend he hadn’t noticed.

“You
won’t hear any wench tell a story of how I have cried in her arms,” the prince
said.

“Oh?
Fancy yourself as having a cold heart, do you?”

“Not
at all. I fancy myself as having a good heart and one I will not waste on some
wench in a tavern or worse.”

Fyfe
laughed, “We’ll see. You are still young. I doubt your heart has been broken
yet. Come,” Fyfe said, offering him a hand up, “Your lessons are done for the
day. Go seek out that bath you’re so desiring.”

Later,
Althalos was still soaking in the bath which had begun to turn cold. He was
enjoying the weightlessness too much to move. He lay on his back and pushed
himself off from the tiled side and floated across the surface of the water.
When he reached the other side, he pushed off again with his hands.

As he did so, a
wave of water washed over his face, causing him to stand up spluttering like a
child dunked for the first time.

“If you are
going to soak in the big bath, it would be preferable to learn how to swim.”

He whirled
around to see Shana standing at the edge of the pool. She held a set of towels,
pristinely folded and wore the jade tunic traditional for a maidservant in the palace.

“I was wondering
how long I was going to have to wait for you to come,” Althalos said, making
only a token effort to cover himself. Shana smiled shyly, she tucked her hair
behind one of her ears and tilted her head, as if trying to determine whether
he was teasing her or not.

“I had to swap
duties with Madeline. I think she is getting suspicious, you know.”

Althalos dipped
his mouth under the water and then spat it out so that it formed a long stream
in the air.

“Let them be
suspicious. I am the prince, I can see who I like,” he said.

“Ah, such
bravado when your father is not around. But when he tells you to marry the
daughter of some warlord, you will oblige.”

“He is not like
that, thank the moons. He believes in love and not arrangements.”

“Are you saying
you are in love with me, young prince?”

Althalos felt
his cheeks instantly colour. “That is not what I said.”

Shana, however,
appeared not to care. She placed the towels on the side of the bath and stood
up to leave.

“Wait, come in
and join me.”

“You must have
taken a large knock on the head from Fyfe this morning to suggest such a
thing,” Shana said, but she smiled at the idea.

“At least stay
awhile, we haven’t seen each other in three days.”

He hated the
pleading in his voice but he did not care. It had been too long since they had
spent any time together. He missed her. She formed another part of his world
that did not consist of being a prince.

“I can’t. Morag
is expecting me to help with the rooms. We must prepare them for the warlords.”

Althalos pulled
a sulky face but it had no effect as she turned away from him. He didn’t expect
it to, in truth, and instantly felt foolish.

“Look, I will
try and get away tomorrow night. I finish early and can meet you at the grove?”
she said.

“Tomorrow night?
What about tonight?”

“I could, but I
assume you will be expected at the greetings feast.”

Althalos
instantly felt stupid. It was a tradition to welcome the warlords with a feast
before the council. The idea was to enjoy each other’s company before the
serious business of discussing Frindoth began.

“Tomorrow night
then,” he said disappointedly.

Shana laughed
and began walking towards the door.

“Hold on. Do I
not even get a kiss to tide me over?”

Shana hesitated.
She poked her head through the door to see who was about before turning back to
him.

“I can’t. You
will get me all wet.”

Althalos raised
his eyebrows and smiled.

“Oh, don’t
flatter yourself, you know what I mean,” she said in mock annoyance.

“How can I get
through another day without a kiss?” he said and sent a gentle splash in her
direction. She squealed as she hopped out of the way and then instantly clasped
a hand over her mouth. She checked the door again and then returned to the
room.

“Hopefully this
will tide you over,” she said and then pulled her tunic to one side to reveal
her breast. Instantly, he hardened. She laughed at the shocked expression on
his face and then left the room giggling.

Althalos groaned
and submerged himself under the water, his head filled with the potential of
the next secret liaison.

A shadow fell
across the water causing him to smile. He knew she could not resist him for too
long. She had shown too much restraint already.

“Couldn’t resist
looking at the good stuff for long, could you?”

“I assure you
that is not why I am here, my prince.”

Althalos choked
on the water and felt himself go red for the second time that hour.

“Jefferson!”

“You sound
disappointed?”

“No, no, just
surprised, that is all.”

Jefferson raised
his eyebrows, a bemused expression on his face. It was clear he knew Althalos
had been talking about a girl but thankfully did not pursue the matter.

“Am I needed
anywhere?” he asked. He had been in the bath a long time but could not think of
any duty where he might be expected.

“Is that all you
see me as these days? A messenger to summon you to events?” Jefferson sat
himself on a stone bench and stretched out his legs. His knees clicked in the
process, causing Althalos to shudder.

“No, of course
not. You just do not usually seek me out in the bath, that’s all,” Althalos
said.

“Just as well,
it seems,” the old man replied with a twinkle in his eye.

Althalos made a
show of rubbing the last of the dirt from his body and then exited the bath.
Jefferson handed him a towel.

“I want to talk
to you about the Ritual. Your father seems unable to bring it up with you and
you are just as awkward around him about the subject.”

“What about the
Ritual?” Althalos said, drying his hair. He did not bother to deny Jefferson’s
slight. It was true, his father seemed to want to avoid the subject altogether,
which was fine by Althalos. Why worry about something you have no control over?

“I want to tell
you what to expect.”

“I know what to
expect.”

“No, you have
read what you should expect. Reading about it and experiencing it are two
different things.”

“Maybe I don’t
want to know anything beyond that,” Althalos said.

“Then I will
tell you anyway,” Jefferson said, a note of impatience in his voice. Althalos
threw the towel down and picked up another. It was always like this between the
two of them. Jefferson would start out pretending to treat him with the respect
owed to a prince, but would soon descend into admonishing him and treating him
like a little boy.

He took a couple
of deep breaths and dried the water from his ears.