Curse of Kings (The Trials of Oland Born, Book 1) (6 page)

N THE VILLAGE OF
D
ERRINGTON, THE WET COBBLES OF
Merchants' Alley shone. Smoky clouds coursed overhead, masking and unmasking the moon as they passed. The alley was a bleak and empty place after ten o'clock, bereft of the clamour of trade. Over the cries of the unsettled souls, a cough echoed down the street. Oland stepped out from the shadows as a second cough followed. He moved towards the sound and came upon a man curled in a doorway behind a wall of empty fruit boxes. The damp air was filled with the scent of raspberries. Oland looked down as the man squirmed under a shabby blanket that was so small, it would never fully cover him. At the man's neck, Oland noticed a sheepskin trim.

“Excuse me, sir,” said Oland. He waited. “Excuse me,” he said again. “Magnus?”

Magnus stirred.

“I… I came to find you,” said Oland. “I've heard you saying that The Great Rains were coming.”

“Please,” said Magnus, “leave me be.” He spoke quietly.

Oland began to crouch down. “I just wanted to know—”

“My body can't take another beating,” said Magnus, shifting closer to the wall.

Oland stood up quickly. “I don't want to hurt you. Who hurt you?”

Magnus snorted. “The list would be as long as a Decresian night,” he said, “except for the fact that no one can hurt me. Not any more.” He still hadn't opened his eyes. “I know that The Great Rains are nigh; it's a fact. I know they are, and whether people believe me or not is no concern of mine. They can laugh at me, they can beat me in the shadows when no one is looking, but I know.”

Oland lowered his voice. “Did King Micah tell you that?” he said.

Magnus went very still. “No…” He turned slightly and opened one eye to look at Oland. “Ha!” he said. “A spy from The Craven Lodge!”

“I'm not a spy,” said Oland. “And I'm not from The Craven Lodge.”

“I know you live up there with them.” He laughed. “What fool mans my mill now?”

“Pardon me?” said Oland.

“Pardon you?” Again, Magnus snorted. “Twenty-eight years,” he said. “For twenty-eight years, I was the king's miller. Along with my sons, long dead now. And my wife, long dead now. My beautiful Hester Rose.” He paused. “And I no different,” said Magnus. “Long dead now. Dead of heart.”

Oland had no words of reply.

“And my beloved was guardian of the king and queen's one hundred beautiful acres. Every morning, safe from the winds and the biting rain, she would fill the throne room while all were sleeping. Flowers and plants and all manner of fruits and vegetables from our very own garden in the grounds.” He paused. “And then came the craven…”

“I'm sorry—” said Oland.

“At night I lie here and I watch the blades of my mill go round and round up on that screaming hill and I wonder what fool mans my mill,” said Magnus.

“It was a tragedy what happened to King Micah,” said Oland.

“Not for you it wasn't,” said Magnus.

Oland knew that his association with The Craven Lodge would forever taint him. The fact that they had imprisoned him did not matter to a man who had lost his family, his livelihood, his home.

“Curse your souls,” spat Magnus. “A thousand times, curse your souls.” He closed his eyes again.

“Please,” said Oland.

He waited, but the miller said nothing more… until Oland walked away. Then he shouted after him, “She's one of the souls! She's one of the souls! My love lies with the seeds she sowed! And you! You all trample the ground!”

When Oland glanced back, Magnus had his hands over his ears and his face was twisted in grief. Oland was sickened, but he knew he had no words to soothe this broken man. Instead, he walked back and set down beside him the small parcel of food he had brought from the castle, and he left.

 

There was no end to the poisonous reach of The Craven Lodge and Villius Ren's capacity for rage. Now that Oland was his master's focus, more than he had ever been before, the idea that he could perform the miracle of restoring Decresian made him laugh out loud.

I am no one
, thought Oland.
I am fourteen years old, I achieved nothing by my tenth birthday and I will no doubt achieve nothing by my twentieth.

But Oland Born had already achieved more than he would ever know. For somewhere in the filthy, dark and rowdy hallways of Castle Derrington, he had raised himself – a boy with a kind heart, a gentle soul. And, as he had only begun to discover… a fighting soul.

Oland Born, Oland bred.

LAND MADE HIS WAY TO THE VILLAGE SQUARE AND
found a bench under a silver birch tree. A shadow passed across a thin sliver of moonlight on the grass in front of him. Oland leaned forward. The shadow passed back and forth again. Something was swinging from branch to branch through the trees. Then it was gone. Before long, Oland could sense a presence behind him. He turned his head slowly, and was confronted with a monkey. It had golden grey fur and a hairless pink face. Before Oland could react, the monkey wrapped his arms around him and laid his head on Oland's shoulder. Oland slid away from him, and noticed a small silver medal swinging from the monkey's leather collar. A name was etched into it.

“Malben,” said Oland, holding the medal to the moonlight. “Hello.”

The monkey blinked and opened his mouth as if he were going to speak. Instead, he threw his arms around Oland one more time. Then he disappeared.

There was no more rustling in the trees. Oland looked around the square to see if the monkey would reappear. But he soon realised that he was alone. As for human company, Oland knew that everyone in Decresian was afraid of The Craven Lodge and that, from midnight, they locked their doors and hid away, terrified to draw attention to themselves.

As Oland stood up to leave, he sensed a strange vibration underfoot. He could hear the faint sound of metal on stone, and the steady blows of a hammer. It was his only sign that there was life in Derrington. He followed the dull noise through a maze of streets that brought him to a short row of ten cottages. He went around to the back and walked along the ragged laneway.

A red-haired boy burst out of a gate at the end of the lane and ran towards Oland, struggling on his chubby, turned-in legs. It was only as he passed that Oland recognised Daniel Graham, the butcher's son. The boy's eyes were filled with panic.

Oland walked down to the swinging gate and looked into a small backyard filled with a sombre crowd. More people were emerging from inside the house. The noise of the hammers had stopped and the only sound was the urgent whispers of the men in the doorway. Oland couldn't make out what they were saying, and the crowd was too thick to push through. Whatever was happening in this yard, Oland knew it was important enough that any fear of The Craven Lodge arriving had dissolved.

Intrigued, Oland left the yard and went into the neighbouring one. Like all the houses along the lane, it had a small room on each side of the back door. One was lit by the moon, the other by candle. Oland crouched down by the wall that divided the two yards. Through the candlelit window beside him, he noticed a huge shadow stretching up the wall inside. It was cast by a tall, blocky man with a bald, oval head. A row of shiny pins was gripped between his pursed lips. A line of heavy black garments hung on a rack in front of him. The floor was strewn with paper patterns. Oland's heart pounded. It was the Tailor Rynish. Villius Ren's private tailor.

“In a different world, it's a job of which my brother would be proud,” came a voice behind him.

Oland jumped. He turned around and saw a man standing over him. He looked to be in his sixties, and was heavyset with a small round belly. He had thick sand-coloured hair that fell across his full face and bright hazel eyes. He grabbed Oland by the arm and pulled him into the shadow of the doorway.

“You're the boy from the arena!” said the man. “What are you doing here?”

“I… I… followed the sounds…” said Oland. “The Tailor Rynish… is he your brother?”

The man pushed open the back door and held it for Oland to walk through. “Come,” he said. “You're not safe outside.” He led Oland into a small darkened parlour and lit a candle.

“My name is Jerome Rynish,” said the man. “What are you doing, risking coming to Derrington at this time of night? Oland Born, isn't that your name?”

Oland nodded. “Yes.”

“Have they thrown you out of the castle?” said Jerome.

“No,” said Oland. “I left of my own accord.”

Jerome studied Oland's face.

“Why has a crowd gathered next door?” said Oland. “Is that Malachy Graham's house?”

“Yes, but that's not for you to worry about,” said Jerome. “What brings you to Derrington?”

Oland didn't want to give too much away. “I am looking for someone to take me on a blind journey.”

Jerome raised his eyebrows. “You?” he said.

“I need to go somewhere,” said Oland, “and I need someone to take me there without question.”

“And what, at such a young age, do you know of blind journeys?” said Jerome.

“In the castle dungeons, there are special cells for blind journeymen and their passengers…”

“Yet you are not deterred…” said Jerome.

Oland shook his head. “Like those who have gone before me, captured or uncaptured, I have no choice.”

“Where do you want to go?” said Jerome.

“Does that mean you will take me?” said Oland.

“I saw what happened in the arena,” said Jerome. “You defied and humiliated Villius Ren in front of the whole of Decresian. How he viewed you before, I don't know, but today you became his enemy.” He paused. “I too am an enemy of Villius Ren's. And, if you want to get to safety, I will help you.”

Outside, a commotion erupted in the neighbouring yard. Someone knocked on the back door of the Rynishes' house and pushed their way in. The draught caught the door opposite the parlour, and it swung open to reveal the Tailor Rynish scowling at the interruption. Oland noticed something he hadn't seen through the window: a remnant of sheepskin hanging on a peg. The Tailor Rynish must have made the mad old miller's sheepskin. Oland was now in a world where people helped the less fortunate. It felt shameful to have ever served men guided only by personal gain.

The back door closed, and the Tailor Rynish walked into the parlour, his eyes shining with tears.

“Our friend is dead, Jerome,” he said. “Malachy Graham is dead. His heart couldn't sustain the shock.” His voice cracked.

Jerome bowed his head. “His family will be ours now. Seven fine sons.”

The tailor cleared his throat. “And I shall return to work,” he said, “making their father's killer the finest, blackest clothing in the land…” He walked away and closed the door behind him.

“That was why a crowd had gathered next door,” said Jerome.

“I think I passed his son, Daniel, in the laneway,” said Oland. “He must have been running for a doctor…”

Jerome nodded. “Yes.”

“This is all my fault,” said Oland. “I… I was in charge of the animals at the arena. I knew that Villius Ren wanted them hungry, so I… I went to Malachy Graham's stall. I asked him for extra cuts. I told him why, and he gave them to me, all this week—”

“And he was happy to give them to you,” said Jerome.

But Oland didn't hear him, and continued. “Villius must have found out. Malachy Graham was called into the arena because of me. It's my fault your friend is dead. I could see it in your brother's eyes. I could see his disgust.”

“You saved Malachy Graham's life,” said Jerome. “And whatever you saw in my brother's eyes, it was not meant for you.”

“If I hadn't asked Malachy for help,” said Oland, “Villius Ren would never have done what he did.”

“Exactly,” said Jerome. “Villius Ren did it. No one else. You are not to blame, Oland.”

Oland stared into the empty hearth. It had no fuel stacked beside it, and the room was ice-cold. He was struck by the humiliating thought that he would never succeed on this quest without help.

“I found a letter from King Micah,” he said, turning to Jerome.

“A letter? From King Micah?” said Jerome. “To whom?”

Oland hesitated. “To me.”

“What did it say?”

“It said that I am to restore the Kingdom of Decresian.”

Jerome's eyes were wide.

“I know it sounds foolish,” said Oland. “It sounds foolish even to me.”

“Well, not to me,” said Jerome. “This is good news.”

“I don't understand it,” said Oland. “I don't know how, when King Micah never knew me, when he had never met me, when I was only born on the night he died, that a letter from him could come to me all these years later. And with such an extraordinary task. It must be a mistake.”

“I knew King Micah,” said Jerome, “and he was not a man to err.”

Oland shrugged. “So I have heard, but… I don't know where to even start.”

“Well,” said Jerome, “at the very least, answer me this. To ensure that there was even a chance of restoring Decresian… what would you need to bring about?”

Without hesitation, Oland had the answer. “The downfall of Villius Ren.”