The Radiant City

The Act

Alkanion wasn't allowed to leave until the early evening. The calthionar spent the rest of the day training him relentlessly on the exact words he was to say, the exact motions he was to make. They threatened him with beatings--and the royal family with death--if he deviated even one hand gesture or syllable. He believed them; limping home, he felt hidden eyes watching as he trudged through the marble streets.

He kept his own gaze fixed on the castle. There was no getting out of this now.

People stared at him as he walked past, muttering to themselves. Is that the heir-apprentice? they whispered to each other. Why is he so filthy? For once, Alkanion didn't care what other people thought of him. If he was a mess, so be it. By tomorrow everyone would have forgotten all about it.

The castle was a flurry of activity: servants rushing this way and that, scribes dashing off notes, soldiers clamouring over each other to make reports. Pedilas sat on the throne, face contorted with concern, and Maraleine and Co paced circles around each other.

All of it stopped when Alkanion walked in.

"Oh, thank Erfeirin!" Maraleine cried. She ran across the room and flung herself into Alkanion's arms. He tried not to wince.

"Hello, Maraleine. I'm back... I'm sorry," he breathed. He felt the first pang of heartbreak as he peered down at her rapturous gaze--he would never be able to look her in the eye again.

Co ran up behind her. As soon as she let go, he pulled Alkanion into a vice-grip of a hug. Alkanion's ribs screamed their protest, but he ignored them.

"Where have you been?" Co demanded, grabbing him by the shoulders.

Alkanion glanced past him at the king, who was swiftly making his way over, long cape flowing out behind him. He desperately prayed the guilt didn't show on his face.

"I'm sorry," he said, turning back to Co. Now the show began. He only hoped he could perform well enough to fool everyone. "I was... kidnapped."

"What?" Co cried. He drew his sword, just as Alkanion had known he would. "By who?"

Alkanion shook his head. "I don't know. I only managed to get away with my life."

"What did they want?" Pedilas and Maraleine asked in unison, their faces bearing twin grave expressions.

Alkanion shrugged. His shoulders were shaking. He hoped they would take it as shock. "They wouldn't say that, either. I think..." He furrowed his brows, pretending to hesitate, "I think they may have been... anarchists."

Long years of habit wouldn't let him speak the word above a breathy whisper; any association with the anarchist movement, even a negative one, could be enough to get him sent out of the city--out of Amral itself--for good. But the moment the word left his lips, he knew it was true. The calthionar, in their exile, had turned to anarchy. Once again, he berated himself for his foolishness; why had he ever agreed to such a stupid plan?

Father, son, and daughter gasped, casting furtive glances around the room. The servants and soldiers were buzzing with excitement, rejoicing in their heir-apprentice's safe return. None of them appeared to have heard.

"Are you sure?" Maraleine hissed, grabbing Alkanion's shoulder and leading him down a hallway. Co and Pedilas followed close behind. "That's a heavy accusation, even for a situation like this."

Alkanion nodded. "Yes, I'm sure."

She pursed her lips. Then she looked at Alkanion's face, at the dried blood streaming down his forehead and cheeks. Her gaze moved to his clothes: torn and tattered, dirty and bloodsoaked. Her eyes widened. "We need to get you to a healer!"