The Necromancer

Chapter Seven: Face of the Shadows

  Amidst the roar of the storm outside and the many horrible bumps and splashes, Francesca Trueblood still rested her head on the rough splintered wood in search of some rest. The confines of the merchant's cart seemed much more bothersome to poor Aldrea than they did Frankie; Frankie had known tight spaces most of her life, whereas Aldrea was not so adept in her own castle living quarters. At the very least, the merchant's fresh bread which he transported proved to be some consolation, though the majority had been horribly dampened by the rain. Still, the princesses made no effort to escape. They were fully aware of the dangers that awaited them back at the Cardinal, yet had no clue as to why. Aldrea had confessed that her mother's people would keep them safe if they arrived in the North, but Frankie hoped the merchant was headed West to the Lionskeep. She squirmed for a moment, wishing desperately for a chance to extend her legs or even sit upright, then relented. Francesca wanted nothing more than to be home, in her own bed, her father's chambers just down the hall in case she felt afraid. That feeling of separation—distrust, even—from her own father... it made a part of her feel hollow and chilled, a feeling as unfriendly as the conditions of the cart. Then there was that other feeling that crept to the forefront of her mind; the sense of uncertainty that surely Aldrea felt too. They knew not the merchant's name or face, nor his destination. He and his horse unknowingly led them through the treacherous lands beyond the Cardinal to who-knows-where, and all the while Frankie guiltily ate the poor man's only goods. At last, though, as the storm began to subside, the merchant brought his horse to a halt. Aldrea said nothing, but reached her hand over to clutch Frankie's. Whether it was to console Frankie or for her own consolation, Frankie did not know. A long while passed, and neither the merchant nor Aldrea seemed to move, though her grip loosened. When the rain had stopped and the sun had surely set, Frankie heard a faint snore from the man above.
"Aldrea," she whispered gingerly, careful not to make any more sound than did the crickets. "Now's our chance."
When there was no response, she realized that Aldrea slept too. "Aldrea," she said again, "wake up. We can escape, just for a moment or two. Find some real food, or even shelter. We'll be back by morning." It was no use. She lifted her arm to shake the princess awake, but held herself back.
If Aldrea was finally asleep, why bother waking her?
Surely, she could leave on her own, for just a moment or two. Perhaps she could even find a blanket, or some warm food. At the very least, she could stretch.
Just a moment or two, she told herself.
With great care and caution, Frankie opened the hatch of the cart and climbed out. She placed it down gently again and crept away slowly. When she had a decent few feet of distance, she heaved a heavy sigh of relief and looked around her. To Frankie's delight, she saw an entire town laid out before her, rows of buildings on either side. The merchant had stopped just before it. Though she was still learning to read, she approached the entrance sign to sound it out. "Thieves' Alley," she made out after a few seconds of struggle, then opted out of reading the print below. Her stomach growled, and she shivered as another cold gust of wind blew by.
Just a moment or two. That's all.

Rusty rainwater splashed onto the dingy stone floor as though it were routine, George trying to force his eyes shut for just a moment of rest in spite of it. The droplets echoed through the quiet dungeons; the only other things to be heard were distant wails of prisoners or the scuttling of rats which scrounged for food, much of which George had a sneaking suspicion was compiled of the rotting prisoners themselves. Though it felt like only a few hours had passed, he could feel his diminishing strength and hope along with it. The unmaintained yet impenetrable cell bars had a way of suffocating those feelings, and George felt as though his only option were to hold his breath. Remnants of similarly poor souls lay engraved on the walls, marked by tallies of days waited and days suffered. As dearly he hated this cell, he would not allow himself to become another trapped soul on the wall. He was alive, which meant there was still breath in his body to get back to Frankie and Aldrea. Whether he thought they needed him, or he them, he did not care. All he knew was that he would get back to them—of course, the first order of affairs would be to find his father.
But could he be trusted? After all that happened, all the lies he pulled—what, exactly, had he told the truth about? The necromancers, surely not. He had never uttered a word of truth about the mystery conjuring criminals which lurked in the city slums. The citadel catacombs, surely not either. The King of Kings had said them to be haunted, dangerous, and used only by criminals and sickly thieves. Perhaps the only truth to his words was that they were unsafe; that much was true, though not for the right reasons. George's father made them unsafe. It was his guards, the ones sworn to protect the city, who had chased them and taken them hostage. George wanted to be sure that it had not been under his father's orders, but how could he be? Here he lay, locked up in his father's cell, surrounded by his father's guards, for witnessing a dangerous spectacle of his father's.
As he lay contemplating his feelings of rancour and self-doubt, his emotions hadn't the time to settle and harden just yet. Instead, George found all of these thoughts wash away in an instant as he jolted upright to something that moved in the shadows.
"What was that?" he said, alarm present in his voice.
It was a subtle difference, one most might have missed, but George was sure he'd seen something. The dim shadows that danced along the walls danced a little differently; the temperature and flow of the foul and cold air about changed its song and fragrance; the shuffling of nimble feet through the halls shuffled a little closer, to a new beat—all of these things were as clear as day to George Trueblood. He smelled a new smell, too—the scent of wretched hot breath close to his face. He leapt back to the corner of his cell and raised his fists into a fighting stance.
"Who goes there?" George asked more loudly and assertively than before.
"Hush, boy," responded the shadow with haste. It was as though it was not supposed to be down here.
"Who goes there?"  George repeated with no attempt to lower his voice. "Show yourself.
Gleaming from behind the darkness, George found two bright eyes staring him down. They were not uniform, though; its left eye was a pale, glassy sort of sky blue, whereas its right reflected a bright peridot like the warm green of sunlight through treetops. In contrast to one another, they seemed a pair of the most peculiar gemstones he could imagine—in fact, almost perfectly matched to the gems engraved in his father's crown.
The shadow shifted over to where the pale strings of moonlight seeped through the window. It took form into a ragged old man in tattered cloth which looked hardly presentable, even for a prison. His facial features were somewhat hidden in the darkness of the dungeons, but his scraggly white beard with streaks of black and silver seemed hard to hide in even the darkest corners. He wore no shoes, his toenails and fingernails laid bare and ungroomed, and his posture was that of a serf as he hunched over, sitting against the rough stone walls. He looked as though he may have in fact been a common serf once upon a time, judging by his rough hands; or perhaps he was an unsuccessful merchant in his day. When the man spoke, his voice was soft and raspy. George supposed he was a prisoner there, depraved of a great many things for a long time.
"You're in over your head, George, you know that?" answered the man.
George loosened his fists, but didn't yet lower them. "How do you know me?"
The man scoffed, cracking a broken smile that showed his many crooked, yellow teeth. "Prince George of the Cardinal, first of his name, surprised that someone knows it. How about that?" He looked for some return of friendliness on George's face, but found none. His smile subsided. "How is it exactly that you ended up rotting away in a cell with a senile old man, presumably for the rest of your days?"
"I might ask you how you got here too."
"You might, though you'd have nothing to gain. My tale is too long, and not yet complete. But how you got here, my dear boy, could determine how you get out."
George started to let his arms down to his sides. He'd had no idea how this man came to be in the same cell, but he was clearly too frail to be of any harm. "You act as though you know a way out. Haven't you been locked in here, too?"
"A man is only confined to his mind, and the ambition of a young prince knows no bounds. This cell proves no challenge."
"If it's so simple, why do you still fester here?"
"This is part of my tale. Is it yours?"
"Of course not," George responded proudly.
"I wouldn't doubt it. What awaits you outside this cell?" The man asked this with genuine curiosity. It seemed obvious that he didn't have much friendly company down here.
"My sister," George responded. "A-and Aldrea, Queen Thea's daughter."
The man nodded compassionately as though he'd been in George's shoes a thousand times. "Then why do you not fight?"
"This was my fight. I fought so that they may escape, and I won."
"Then I suspect that they are free from all harm," said the man, almost as though it were a question. George hesitated a moment, to which the strange but increasingly wise man raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "If you are unsure then this is no place for you, dear boy. Tell me, what is it that threatens them?"
George hesitated again. "I'm... not so sure."
The man let out a sickly, raspy laugh. "You needn't hold back, boy, I've got no one to tell but the rats, and time grows thin for me."
George sighed and conceded. "I fear it's my father who poses a threat. He's been lying to us. About the necromancers, that is. And when we found out..." George trailed off and look down, expecting his sentence to speak for itself.
"Now you rot in his dungeons."
The prince nodded.
"Were they under his orders?" the man asked, almost as if he suspected something that George did not. "The King of Kings is not the only one who gives orders, so what is it that makes you so sure it was him?" There was a long moment of silence between the prisoners, livened by the scuttling and squeaking of rats who grew fatter and somehow hungrier. Meanwhile, George slowly paced the room and thought heavily about his answer, thinking back to how Aldrea had recognized one of the soldiers—Harold, as he was called. She had insisted that she knew him. You know my mother, she'd said, the words ringing clear as day in George's mind now, you work for her. At last, the fleeting feelings which tossed about in his mind finally began to settle and harden. He'd made up his mind.
"I know what I have to do now," he said with more self-assured confidence than he'd felt in a very, very long time. "I'm going to find out what my father and the Queen were hiding from me. Then, I'm going to venture East where I'll find where Aldrea and Frankie are hiding. Then I'm going to kill the Queen."
A wide smile stretched across the old man's wrinkled face through his dry, cracked lips. "Then you'd better get on with it," said he, pointing a shaky finger at the cell door. George turned to it to no avail, then heard a wisp of air as the man's foul stench filled his nose once again. He looked back quickly, only to find a rusted brass key in place of where the man sat, underneath which was a small piece of paper. Picking it up, George read its contents:
You'd better find the safe quickly now. I heard the guards will be extra sleepy tonight.
  -A.T.