Back to the Source

"For the Fantasy Prologue II"

‘The river ran backwards on the day the Queen vanished. Water returning to its source flooded fields and forests, villages and towns of the realm. Then the faraway ocean tumbled into the empty estuary. Its waves reached the lands ravaged by the river’s passage, and eradicated what life remained. When merciless sunrays dried the flood, only patches of salt shone among inhospitable sands. Survivors were conquered by drought and hunger, and cruelty took reign in the kingdom.’

The one-eyed bard plucked the strings of his lyre one last time and fell silent. A few strands of his long white hair fell across the strip of black cloth concealing his right eye.

Richly clad guests sitting at the long tables held their breaths. The bard’s last words were almost too bold, and likely not to sit well with the King. Nobody dared draw attention to themselves in fear they might become an excuse for the monarch’s wrath.

Sharp laughter sliced the uneasy silence like an assassin’s blade. With an almost imperceptible movement of his arm, King Avel sent a gold coin flying across the hall. It struck the strings of the bard’s lyre, producing a short, jarring sound, then jingled on the stone floor. The King smiled with just one corner of his mouth and narrowed his eyes.

‘Old, morbid tales…’, he growled. ‘Regale us with something more enthusiastic, old man.’

The bard sat still for a moment, his weathered face unreadable. Then he bowed his head as a sign of respect and raised the instrument again. This time, he sung a ribald song about young ruffians going out for a drink, very suitable for a party like this one. The nobles behind the tables breathed a collective sigh of relief and the feast proceeded without further disturbances.

Zaric stood watchful behind the backs of the eating nobles. There was no place at the tables for the likes of him. Like other servants, he was here to make sure that the distinguished guests got everything they needed. Responding to beckoning hand gestures and raised brows, he would dart here and there with a flagon of wine. He fetched meats, fruit, and bread, he kept collecting soiled plates. His forehead, high beneath a dense mop of shiny copper hair, was dripping with sweat, but green eyes remained vigilant. The royal court was not a place to get too relaxed, especially not in public. Those who allowed themselves to slack off didn’t pay attention. Inattentiveness could cost a life.

He caught the gaze of a young noble sitting at the royal table close to the King. The lad was roughly Zaric’s age, had the same copper hair and lanky body. His eyes were dark though, almost black in the shaky light of the chandeliers. His outfit was also different than Zaric’s sensible brown uniform of a royal servant. Made of slick velvet and richly adorned with precious stones, the other boy’s clothes were fit for the King’s son.

The boy behind the table held Zaric’s gaze, then his eyes darted to an exit leading to one of the corridors, and back to Zaric. The young servant blinked quickly and turned to approach the table again. He filled the glass raised by one of the lesser barons and gave the nobleman a clean plate. Then he took the soiled one, piled high with chicken bones, to the wheeled garbage container standing close to one of the exits. Sliding the plate onto an enormous pile of empty dishes, he took a furtive glance around the packed hall.

No one seemed to be looking at him. Other servants were busy attending to the guests. The bard kept singing, drawing the nobles’ attention to himself. At this time of the night, most of them were slipping into the drunken gayety that would produce a stupor at dawn and headaches tomorrow afternoon. The king was talking to one of his advisors. Zaric could only see his broad back covered with the royal blue cape.

Two careful steps, and Zaric was out of the hall. Striding purposefully as if on an errand, he reached a bend of the corridor and, after a careful glance around, darted behind one of the many tapestries hanging from the palace walls.

He found himself in a deep empty niche. Invisible to any passers-by he sat down, making himself comfortable on the wooden floor.

The boy didn’t have to wait long before the tapestry moved again. The newcomer slipped into the niche like a nimble desert rat. He snapped his fingers, and a feeble blueish light appeared in the cup of his raised hand, illuminating both young faces, reflecting off two pairs of eyes: one green, one dark brown.

‘How are you doing, Zazzie? Is the Chamberlain running you off your feet tonight?’, the young prince whispered with a lilt characteristic for the royals of Raqdalijal.

‘It’s not that bad. I can take care of myself, you know.’ Zaric smiled.

‘Listen, I need a favour. It’s important.’ There was a hint of urgency in the prince’s voice.

Nothing new, thought Zaric. He and Darien knew each other all their lives and, despite the difference in status, were best friends. As they reached their teenage years, it became obvious that a servant could be invisible in the way the king’s son might only dream of. Zaric became not only Darien’s confidante but also his right hand in the palace, running errands and completing tasks the prince could not pursue without serious repercussions.

‘It’s the bard,’ Darien whispered hurriedly. ‘I’d like you to talk to him. He’s staying next to the stables, very convenient for you. Tell him to leave immediately. Warn him against eating anything here.’

‘But the King didn’t look concerned,’ Zaric protested. ‘He just laughed it off.’

‘Yes,’ Darien nodded without a smile. ‘I know that laugh.’

‘Are you sure? It didn’t look like…’

The prince pointed in the general direction of the reception hall.

‘He’s safe as long as he’s in there. But he will be dismissed after this song ends, and then...’ Darien shook his head. ‘He doesn’t deserve to die because of a few careless words. You need to find a way to lead him out. The guards at the gate will have been ordered to keep him in.’

Zaric nodded. The ancient palace was full of secret passageways and concealed exits. Even both of them didn’t know all these paths, despite having been born here. But they knew enough.

When Darien left their hiding place, Zaric patted the top right corner of the niche. A small door opened in the wall with a muted click. The boy entered a passage narrow enough for one person to walk without touching the walls. There was little time and he was lucky to know a shortcut.

The passage led him to a courtyard behind the stables. With many guests in the palace, the area was pretty busy even at night, and he had to wait for an opportune moment to get outside. The wait made him jittery. He could feel precious time slipping by while he stood looking through a well-concealed peephole.

Having finally stepped into the open, Zaric moved quickly through the dimly lit courtyard, keeping his eyes peeled for any movement in the vicinity. He reached an outbuilding adjoining the stables and knocked on the wooden door. An indistinct grunt told him that there was someone inside so he entered without waiting for a more obvious invitation.

Bare walls of the shabby room were dark with soot from all the candles that used to burn here over the years. A narrow bed and a wooden table with a single stool next to it were the only furniture. A large metal platter piled high with meats, fruit and cakes looked out of place on the table next to a solitary oil lamp.

The bard was alone, settled on the bed with a tin cup in hand. His only eye looked steadily at the intruder while his free hand rested on the dagger at the old man’s belt.

‘I apologise for this intrusion, venerable uncle,’ Zaric spoke the customary greeting and bowed politely. ‘I come with a warning. Please don’t drink this!’, he added hastily, pointing to the cup held by the old man.

The bard frowned.

‘You are in danger, uncle! You need to leave immediately. The King… Please don’t eat or drink anything here. I can… I can lead you out of the palace…’

The old man’s calm demeanour made Zaric uneasy. He stammered his explanations while the bard looked unperturbed. He even raised the cup to his lips.

‘No! Uncle, you must understand…’

A raised finger interrupted Zaric’s flood of words. Despite the simple attire of a desert sappar, the old man had an aura of natural dignity about him.

‘I may be old, but not stupid, boy.’

The bard’s voice was hoarse �" not surprising after hours of singing. He shifted slightly and pointed to a dark green bottle lying next to him on the bed.

‘I always carry my own drink. No one but me touches this bottle, so calm down and tell me how you can help.’

* * *

When they entered the stables, two burly men stepped out from the shadows. Their wide leather belts and bald heads identified them as the Havari, fierce desert people famous for their swordsmanship and bloodthirstiness. Zaric’s heart skipped a beat but the bard stopped them with a single gesture.

‘Change of plans. We are leaving early. The boy will lead us outside.’

The men didn’t look surprised. One of them smiled leisurely.

‘Has your tongue carried you away again, imhal?’

The bard didn’t answer. Zaric led the entire group past the boxes where drowsy gryplions stood munching on their feed or slept sprawled on the cool flagstones. He hesitated.

‘You will need mounts. Shall I…’

The same Havari who spoke earlier dismissed his unasked question.

‘Don’t you worry. Just get us out of the fortress.’

The boy led them through the western wing, the shortest route outside. They moved swiftly. Zaric was impressed with the old bard's ability to walk as soundlessly as the Havari. With the feast going on in the opposite part of the palace, the corridors were empty as expected, and they soon reached a small wicket gate masked with ayra vines. Zaric made sure his companions couldn’t see the sequence he tapped on the stones to open the entrance to a hidden tunnel.

They emerged from it into the dark desert, far from the walls of the fortress. The Havari looked at each other and chuckled. The bard turned towards the boy.

‘Thank you for your help, lad. Would you care to tell me your name?’

Zaric hesitated. He wasn’t sure whether to trust the old man with something as intimate as his real name. The presence of the Havari made him uncomfortable.

‘Zazz,’ he said.

The bard nodded slowly.

‘If you ever need my help, ask about Yeef the Singer. You will always have a place at my table,’ he spoke the traditional words of gratitude using the formal tone reserved for official oaths. ‘Both you and the one who sent you. Be careful back there in the draak’s den,’ he added.

Zaric frowned. Before he had time to respond, the bard added:

‘I will give you a piece of advice in return, gudul. Sooner or later, you will have to leave if you want to survive. There is no disguising your face, Zaric the Misbegotten.’

With these words, the bard followed his companions into one of the narrow passages between the outcrops. They disappeared among the rocks like silent ghosts while Zaric stood motionless, his mouth hanging open.

The boy decided against returning to the fortress straight away. Instead, he climbed the nearest outcrop and made himself comfortable as much as possible on the uneven surface. He needed to think.

Rocks and sand surrounded him as far as the eye could see. The night painted them dark grey. What, in the light of day, would be a rocky landscape with narrow gorges winding among red outcrops, loose boulders protruding from the sand, and pools of surface salt deposits glistening from afar, now looked like a dull blanket of greyness with black patches sewn in.

In contrast, the sky above was a lavish display of lights splashed upon the dark canvas. Dense clusters of stars hung deceptively close on this moonless night. There was no wind, and the stones have retained the day’s warmth. The air smelled of dryness and grit.

Zaric stared in the distance. Was this unhospitable landscape really carved by the river flowing backwards like the legend said? Deep trenches in the rock did resemble dry riverbeds. However, the feeble stream of Laar that trickled southward, cutting the kingdom of Raqdalijal in half, was no mighty river. Its slightly salty water often disappeared underground during the hottest months. The stream had its source in the ocean that marked the northern border of the kingdom but no one knew where the mouth of the Laar was located. Its route took it far beyond Raqdalijal. Could it be true that it used to be a river spreading magic throughout the realm?

Zaric found it hard to believe that the power of old magic had ever been as astounding as the legends maintained. Everyone knew that it was but a curiosity, a sophisticated pastime of the royal family. They were the only ones with enough idle time on their hands to learn how to conjure balls of light or make little knickknacks invisible for a short moment.

Legends reminded Zaric of the bard and his parting words. The man knew his name. With so many people living in the fortress, the boy had always relied on his anonymity in the crowd. But the bard was right: Zaric wasn’t one to blend in easily with the Raqdalijal folk. Local people were usually short and lean, their hair black, their skin light brown. He had the copper hair of the invaders and their green eyes. The eyes of the King.

Zaric did not like the direction in which his thoughts were taking him. He wished he could have bounced them off Darien. Problems felt smaller when they faced them together. He sighed.

Reluctantly, he traced his steps back to the fortress and once again entered the familiar corridors of the royal palace. Still deep in thought, he was choosing his way automatically, paying no attention to his surroundings. This was why he registered a faint sound of footsteps a moment too late. There was no time to react when something blunt collided with his head. In an explosion of pain, Zaric’s world went dark.