He had practically grown up at the palace, having arrived there at thirteen to
live and train as an apprentice knight. His father, Oswald—a Bender and the
Lord of Korbridge—had still been alive then to watch with pride when Ciaran had
received the royal crest that declared him a King’s Knight five years later.
The metal emblem, carved with a golden sun rising from behind a jeweled dagger,
was pinned to the chest of Ciaran’s black coat when Oswald passed away a few
months after the ceremony. That had been six years ago. Malakai had stayed by
his side through the ups and downs, the triumphs and losses. He was a friend, a
rival, a comrade, and the closest thing to a family Ciaran had left.
He would
gladly walk into a raging fire if it were for Malakai.
Now,
Ciaran walked into the decidedly frosty palace.
No one
greeted him in the main hall. The throne room, offices, and foyer were all
eerily deserted.
He could
sense people around, hear their hushed whispers and the echoes of their
footsteps, yet it seemed they were deliberately avoiding him. Ignoring the
strange stillness in the air, he resolutely walked toward his sleeping chambers
in the north wing. Of all the knights in the country, only ten were chosen to
be King’s Knights, the ones who lived in the palace, attending to the ruling
King of Castellon.
Halfway to
his destination, he stopped at the edge of the winding stairs. The stairs
diverged here: one set of steps went up to the royal residence, and the other
went down to the palace dungeons, a place that brought back haunting memories
for him. He tried to shake them off and turned to take the stairs going
upwards.
“I see
you’re back already.” The hostility in the voice of General Atkins standing
before him startled Ciaran. The five knights, who had crept up behind him in
the meantime, didn’t appear any friendlier. Reva, Lucia, Feris, Goran, and Jahir
all held weapons. To make things worse, they knew each other too well.
“General,
where is he?” Ciaran could not stop panic from rising in his heart. The aging
General had gray in his hair, but his height and breadth made him a mountain of
a man. The formidable presence of this experienced warrior was enough to make
grown men wet themselves (most grown men). Still, Ciaran did not break eye
contact with his mentor, his emerald eyes demanding answers.
The
General winced almost imperceptibly before replying, “The king sent him to
Lasceraz.” Ciaran’s blood froze in his veins; he was too late for his friend.
“They’d
such a shouting match that the stewards had to call me from my home in the
city,” Atkins said. “I found Malakai unconscious on the floor, and the only
thing I got from the king was the order to transport him to the dungeons in
Lasceraz. In chains. Ciaran, what’s going on?”
The
General implored him for some explanation.
“How long
ago?” Ciaran ignored the General’s question to ask his own.
“Nearly
three days now. What are you guys keeping from us? Answer me!”
Ciaran
didn’t reply, his mind already calculating his next steps. Lasceraz, the
infamous prison, was in the southernmost corner of the country. It would take
several months to reach it on horseback unless he secured the service of a
space-Bender mage—like the General, for sure, had. Fortunately, he knew one who
used to work for his father, but Bender Farley lived in Ciaran’s hometown
Korbridge, and it would take a few days to reach there from Castle. The longer
he delayed, the more time Malakai would rot in Lasceraz.
Just as
Ciaran turned around to leave, the knights readied their weapons: two sets of
daunting daggers, two shining swords, and one menacing mace pointed straight at
him. The General himself did not carry anything, standing with his arms crossed
in front of him. Not to mention that Ciaran was not a mage, but two of the
knights and the General were. Taking a deep breath, he brushed his sandy hair
back with his right hand; a few locks strayed back over his green eyes.
“You truly
believe you can stop me from leaving?” he asked, smiling for the first time since
entering the palace grounds.
The
knights looked highly uncomfortable, for they were well aware of who they were
up against. People in the kingdom might not know his name, but every knight in
the country knew of Ciaran’s reputation.
“No. I
don’t believe we can manage that…” The General replied truthfully, “But I need
to say that we tried our best regardless.”
Ciaran
gave his mentor a quick nod, steadied his sword, and took his stance. “I
understand.”
***
He
couldn’t understand how he was still alive.
His entire
being ached; his muscles and even his bones were sore.
Malakai
tried to turn on his bed to find an angle where it would hurt slightly less,
and a pained yelp escaped his mouth. The cold iron bit his wrists, sinking its
unyielding teeth into his joints. He opened his eyes to find himself chained to
the walls.
Lasceraz.
A wave of despair overtook him, making it hard to breathe. Was the air always
so stale and thick here? Malakai had toured the prison many times but never
noticed how dark it was. The cells were made of thick granite, without even a
tiny window to allow light to peek through. With some effort, he turned his
head upwards and regretted it immediately. Everything swam before his eyes, and
a sharp pain made him retch, only to realize he had nothing left to vomit apart
from his blood.
After his
body stopped shaking from the shock, Malakai felt a strange emptiness inside
him; the warmth and comfort of his magic were barely there anymore. The panic
that rose through him was worse than the bile he tasted in his mouth. He tried
his best to calm himself, to convince himself that it could not be gone, for
magic was made of prana: the life energy coursing through every living being.
It had to be somewhere if he was here. But the more he searched, the more it
became evident that it was dying.
And he was
dying with it.
Malakai’s
eyes blurred once more. Were they tears of sadness, knowing he had lost
everything he held dear, or tears from the burning torment his body experienced
with the slightest movement? He couldn’t tell them apart.
As his
eyes focused again, Malakai remembered there used to be a window in every cell
once upon a time. The first king of Castellon knew light was a beacon of hope;
it kept the fight alive in people. His descendant, the current king, also
understood what it meant to the prisoners. So, five years ago, he ordered all the
windows to be boarded up. Malakai was the one who had supervised the project
and seen the dejected looks on their faces, caked with dirt and grime, yet he
never fully comprehended. Until now.
Many of
them were murderers, kidnappers, and swindlers, but there were others who
couldn’t pay the ever-increasing taxes; people who had no reason to be in the
infamous jail of Lasceraz.
Yet, they
were.
So was he.
“Get 'im
to eat somethin’.” The metallic tinkle of keys alerted him as the room door
opened. A guard dressed in red and yellow placed a bowl of soup in front of him
while another held a lantern in his hand. Malakai wondered how many days had
passed since he was sent here and if Ciaran knew his fate yet. It was no
coincidence that he was incarcerated when each of his allies within the King’s
Knights happened to be out of the capital.
“Three
days. You’ve eaten nothin’.” The guard brought a spoon with the soup near his
mouth.
“Please!”
the man nearly pleaded and added, “Yer Highness.”
The other
guard looked equally awkward. Malakai understood how disturbing it must be to
treat the second prince of their kingdom as a mere prisoner—torn between their
absolute loyalty to the orders issued by the king and their instinct to protect
a member of the royal family. His older brother might be the ruler of Castellon
(and he made sure to remind people of that constantly!), but Malakai was a
soldier, first and foremost. He had spent time with guards, trained them, and
inspected prisons as part of his duties, something the pampered king never
bothered himself with.
He opened
his mouth to let the guard feed him. Under no circumstance was he allowed to be
free of his manacles. Such was the rule in Lasceraz, where every prisoner was
kept in maximum-security solitary confinement. Sip by sip, he finished the bowl
of soup, and the guards released simultaneous breaths of gratitude, likely
because they had half-expected him to protest, or worse. Malakai didn’t want to
make it any harder on them than necessary, considering they would have a tough
enough time when he escaped. His weak stomach rebelled despite his noble
intentions not to trouble the guards; a dull ache radiated from his core,
spreading out like a volcano spewing lava, and Malakai keeled over in pain.
After they
helped him throw up everything he had just ingested in the chamber pot, one of
the guards tried to say something but couldn’t. Ignoring the grip of fatigue
threatening to suffocate him, Malakai smiled and said, “It’s not your fault.”
He meant it, but they hung their heads in shame and left the room without
checking the chains, forgetting that they’d loosened the shackles slightly to
let him clean up earlier.
He didn’t
doubt that Ciaran would find a way to get him out of here.
But maybe
Malakai could beat him to it.
***
Being
beaten in a battle wasn’t something Ciaran ever worried about.
However,
victory always comes with a price.
As he rode his tired horse away from Castle, the
capital city of Castellon, Ciaran had to admit that while he’d managed to get
out of the palace in one piece, thankfully without killing any of them, it
hadn’t been easy. Every hesitation, every indecision from one side was used by
the other. It was a wonder he’d made it this far.
