"Fair morntide to you, my old friend."
Roth's gut twisted with repulsion. It had barely stopped writhing since all he had witnessed at the Trial and Lord Dageor's presence only served to add to the nausea that seemed to constantly flood his throat like the oncoming tide.
You look the type who doesn't have many friends. If any at all.
Roth would never have admitted it to Bazel or anyone for that matter, but the rat's words had nagged at him. His mother had once told him that to travel through life without a friend was not much of a life at all. And here Roth was without even a wife to call his friend. At least his own father had had that.
Dageor was a man who neither possessed nor even needed friends and to think that Roth held any similarities to the priest was somewhat unsettling.
He had known friendship, of course, something he doubted Dageor could ever claim. Aleina had been Roth's friend before she had become his lover. And while he wouldn't have referred to Eva Victori as his friend, he'd felt closer to her in those few tides before her death than he had with anyone since joining The Order. The idea that a Naiad would consider him a friend was preposterous, but she had trusted him and that had been enough for Roth.
And then there was Juda. Not a friend, but something else. Something more.
He could deny fatherhood of Juda until it choked him—and well it might, for the boy was a nuisance and a concern always—but Roth knew his heart had claimed him as his own many moons ago. He'd always tried to fool himself that any affection was influenced only by the fact he could see Aleina in the landscape of the boy's face, but the truth was while Juda had oft been like a poison-tipped thorn in his side, he'd also rid Roth of the loneliness that had cleaved at his very bones for so very long.
The possibility that the boy could be lost to him and the thought of his world descending into that same loneliness once again had kept him awake past moontide, until the first glimpse of dawn.
He had not seen Juda since the King's Trial, but he'd seen what had been left of him after and it had not been Juda he'd seen in his eyes, but an empty, cold thing—far colder than the difficult, angry child he'd once been, and the oft detached, aloof man he had become. There had been no way to see him, no possibility of getting word to him or from him. Indeed, Roth had no idea whatsoever if Juda had even passed the trial. Any tentative enquiries had been rebuffed by The Grim, and Roth was not going to approach Dageor for answers. He'd let the old vulture come to him instead. Yet when the priest had, by way of the King's mail runner, Roth had studied the message with the weight of the sea stacks in his stomach and a nausea that had instantly exploded from his mouth as soon as he'd dismissed the messenger from his door.
Instead of confirmation either way, Roth had been summoned to the barracks, and led to the balconies lining the bloody square. He knew all too well that to be invited to the spectacle of the training yard meant only two possibilities—either he was to witness a battle here this tide, or an execution.
Had the Trial uncovered secrets that had condemned Juda? Was their plan known? If it was, then Roth could see no reason why he would be here in the watching towers and not treading the dust below, but he wouldn't have put it past Dageor to ensure he witness Juda's demise first before Roth endure his own. He had no doubt the priest would relish the opportunity to drink in Roth's agony in every possible way, such was the darkness of his soul.
"And a fair morntide to you also, Lord Dageor, by Ban-Keren." Roth barely even afforded Dageor a glance and kept his gaze fixed on the yard below. The dust had long-since darkened. An ever-present reminder of the blood that had seeped into the ground and remained there, an eternal shrine to the dead. "You seem keen for my company of late, my Lord."
Dageor came and stood next to him, his long robes brushing close to Roth's ankles. Had the sun dimmed? To stand in the priest's shadow was surely to feel the death of light and warmth and joy, not that Roth found much joy in anything these tides.
Dageor's mouth twisted into a grin of sorts. "It is always most pleasing to indulge in the company of one of the King's most trusted subjects. We once stood side by side, you and I, in our service to His Most Exalted. To do so again fills me with a deep satisfaction that I have not felt since the time you were our Special Commander."
Roth inwardly shuddered. He knew the satisfaction of which Dageor spoke and it had little to do with Roth being Special Commander and everything to do with the blood-drenched mosaic floor of the throne room. Blood would not seep into the tiny porcelain tiles as it did into the dust, but that did not mean it stained any less.
"I am honoured you would think so, my Lord," Roth said. "And while I yearn to serve the King, I confess, I am unsure of the purpose of today's summoning, and to the esteemed barracks of The Order no less."
Dageor peered down into the bloody square and back to Roth, gesturing around them with a sweep of his bony hand. "I would have thought a man such as yourself would relish the opportunity to stand on these very balconies once again, my friend. To see what you yourself sowed, nurtured, and moulded, all in the name of our beloved King. It is quite the achievement."
"I am more than aware of all that was achieved here, my Lord but I need not see it to know that my service to the King surpassed that even of my own father, and his father before him. Your nostalgia surprises me, and yet I do not think you have summoned me here for nostalgia's sake?"
Dageor stared at him, unblinking. That wide, all-reaching look could unnerve even the sturdiest of men, but Roth refused to look away. Eventually, the dark priest inclined his head in agreement.
"You know me too well, Master Librarian," he said, a small smile curling the corners of his mouth and stretching the pale skin over his cheekbones. "You are right, of course. Nostalgia is for those who refuse to acknowledge the future. After all, how does one even begin to plan the way forward if they are forever stuck in the binds of the past? This tide, I hope to see a glimpse of that future, my friend, and what better way to determine the future of our great Kingdom than by ensuring only the better men endure?"
By the dead gods, Roth despised these fucking word games. To parry back and forth was a pointless endeavour and it was doing nothing to ease the nausea that continued to haunt him so. The longer this went on, the more it tortured him, but he was certain that Dageor knew that.
"Lord Dageor, I have much business to attend to at the Library. The King has bid me..."
"The King bids you to be here at my side, Vi-Garran." Dageor's tone was cutting. "Would you not wish to see Novice Vikaris succeed in his final trial?"
Roth's heart thudded. "Trial, my Lord? But Juda has completed the King's Trial, has he not? Was there some irregularity of which I am not aware?"
Dageor turned fully to face him and while Roth had a good head's height on him, he still wished he could step back out of the priest's reach. "No irregularities, my old friend. The King merely wishes to vigorously test those who would follow your worthy path, and his grace wills one final trial."
As if on cue, the novices of The Order began to file along the overlooking balconies, the march of their footsteps sounding strangely ominous to Roth despite having heard it many times before. They lined the yard on all four sides, uniform and still—like silent statues of obsidian stone.
The Grim moved behind the ranks of soldiers until he reached Roth's side, stopping to acknowledge the man who had once been his superior with a sharp, perfunctory nod of his head.
"By Ban-Keren, noble Vi-Garran."
"By Ban-Keren, Commander Grim."
Roth's chest tightened as he watched the gates open below, the slow grind of the black doors dragging through the dust.
As the two novices appeared, marching side by side towards the centre of the training yard, Roth studied the Highguard who was to be Juda's opponent and it was then he finally understood why Dageor had insisted on this final trial.
In the time Juda had been in training, Roth had made it his business to know exactly who his fellow novices were. Most came from noble families. It was the way of things. Very few came from common birth and those that did had to be sponsored by a noble. The Grim himself had been such a one. Juda, of course, had been raised by a Vi-Garran, and the previous Special Commander at that. But the rest were noble through and through. All of them spoilt, brattish cunts supposedly the best the mid and upper echelons had to offer the King.
All except one.
Argo Demas had joined The Order on the same day as Juda, having been sponsored by his mother's lover, the art dealer Aaran Sarr-Jairus. A southern quarter lad, his forefathers had been fishermen once, their trade eradicated when the Naiad curse fell upon Druvaria. Mara Demas had done what she could for the boy, but like most mothers of Grimefell, she knew all too well what life awaited her child. Taking a noble-born as her lover had been the only way to secure young Argo a place where life would still be hard, but his belly would never be empty, and he would always have a place to lay his head. The boy had been fortunate.
Until now.
From what Roth knew, Argo was an exceptionally skilled fighter, but he held a unique weakness, for whatever softness he possessed when he had entered these barracks, The Order had yet to fully extinguish. It lingered still for the one novice whom he now faced in the bloody square.
Juda had told him of Argo, of the novice who would seek friendship if he could. Of the novice who looked at Juda with stars in his eyes. In fact, Juda had spoken so much of Argo that Roth had seen beyond the disdain in his voice to see the danger signs—signs that had clearly been obvious to others and it was for that very reason Argo had been specifically selected to face Juda.
By the dead gods, Aleina, if you have ever stood beside him, stand beside him now and guide him in the dark, for he has never needed you more.
The Grim raised his hand and the moment he let it drop, the bell resounded from the tower, deep and ominous, like the distant rumble of thunder rolling in over the Setalah.
Drenched in the silence of those who watched them with dead eyes from the balconies, Juda and Argo began the slow act of circling one another, each with their double-bladed scimitar in hand.
It was Argo who attacked first, crossing the divide with a sweep of his blade and a skilful leap to the side to avoid Juda's counterattack, which was too far off the mark to make contact. Bolstered by this, Argo struck again, closer this time—not close enough to slice into Juda, but close enough for Juda to have to dodge low, arching back and spinning to propel himself away from Argo's advance. Dust billowed up as the toe of his boot skimmed the ground and he used the advantage of diminished visibility to flip backwards, landing perfectly poised as Argo retreated to let the dust settle.
Argo spun, his legs spiralling through the air, his body twisting as he spun the blade deftly. He was good, this one, for all his foolish heart, he possessed an adept way of moving his body that appeared effortless, as if he weighed practically nothing. There was an art to the way he fought that Roth could not help but admire. He leapt and kicked, swung his arms, and dodged Juda's moves as if he could tread the very air itself.
On any other tide, Roth would have felt his heart surge with pride to see Juda fight, but he could only watch with a weight in his belly and a bind around his heart as the battle intensified. Juda had never been an emotional boy, even less so as a man, but Roth could always rely on Juda's anger and ferocity to know he existed in there somewhere, even when the cold emptiness would consume his eyes and drain his face of all expression. Roth knew the anger would always return, even if he had seen less of it of late, and yet the Juda he saw in the training yard appeared entirely soulless. Numb. Hollow. Devoid of anything that Roth would have found a way to nurture back to some form of life.
Argo leapt high, but swept low with his scimitar, almost catching Juda across the face. Juda twisted just in time, and arced his own blade through the air, slicing into the top of Argo's thigh. It wasn't a deep cut, but enough to make the lad stumble as he landed, his footing not so sure. He recovered quickly, knowing that Juda would attempt to use his instability against him, which he did, breaking forward with such savagery and power that even Roth's grip tightened on the hilt of his dagger.
Dageor leant forward—not bound by any rules of The Order—and curled his long, bony fingers around the ebony balustrade, grasping the wood.
Argo attempted to bat away Juda's onslaught, but he was being backed into a corner, dust pluming up from his feet as he aimed kicks that failed to hit their mark. Familiar with the dimensions of the yard, and obviously knowing where he was headed, Argo's expression was becoming desperate. His skill was embedded in his agility, and it relied on having space to move freely about the bloody square. He needed to either push Juda back, land a solid hit with his fist, foot, or blade, or somehow escape from the enclosing space in which he had found himself.
Roth almost pitied the lad, but pity was for the weak, his father had first told him that and The Order had then beaten it into him. He wasn't even sure what to feel as he watched Juda block every endeavour by Argo to free himself. It was like watching a snow hare trapped in a box with a dragerine bear. The hare could leap and jump to avoid its foe, but what could one tiny creature do against such a beast with its long talons and brutal force?
By some miracle, Argo managed to slice his blade across Juda's chest, enough to pause his advance and seizing the chance, he leapt upwards, using the wall to propel himself over Juda's head.
Juda had already anticipated this move, just as Roth knew he would.
Leaping up, he met Argo's rise, grasping him by the waist and deftly spinning around him, bringing his opponent crashing down, their bodies slamming into the dirt ground. Both lost grip of their blades with the impact, but Juda lost no time. Straddling Argo, he clasped his throat and, using his other fist, he began to reign punches down upon him. Argo struggled beneath him, frantically trying to kick out, and use his own fists to fight back. There was a sickening crunch of bone and blood burst from his nose, but still Juda did not stop.
From his place in the watchtowers, Roth could hear the thud of fist upon flesh, the pained gasps, and grunts of Argo. Juda's onslaught was merciless, brutal, but controlled. Was this the man he had feared he would become? Or was he something else now? Something forever drained of his humanity, twisted beyond all recognition by whatever the borer-worm had done to him?
Argo's struggles soon ceased, his legs splayed, his arms limp by his sides, but there was still life within him. His chest heaved as he took in ragged breaths, his face a mask of blood and swollen flesh.
Clearly exhausted by his assault on the other novice, Juda climbed to his feet, swaying slightly as the late morntide sun hit the training yard. Turning his head, he searched for his lost scimitar and began to take slow, unsteady steps towards it.
No more, boy. He is done. No more now.
But it seemed Argo was not quite as done as Roth had thought.
With much effort, Argo heaved his body over onto his side and began to crawl, agonisingly slowly through the dirt, his fingertips scraping at the ground as he pulled himself towards his own scimitar. His gasps tainted the air until Roth felt as if he were breathing the lad's pain into his lungs.
No sooner had the lad's fingertips reached his blade, than Juda was upon him again, flipping him over and grabbing at the collar of his leather vest so he could pull him to his feet.
With their bodies touching and faces so close together, any other time, any other situation, they may have looked like two lovers about to embrace. And yet while Argo's eyes told Roth everything, he could see nothing in Juda's. Argo's bruised lips moved, mouthing words, inaudible to those who watched, even though the arena was grave-silent.
Whatever Argo said to the one he would call his friend if he could, Juda calmly, and without emotion, raised his blade and pushed it into the side of Argo's neck. There was no quick thrust of the dagger. It was a slow action, the metal disappearing bit by bit into the other man's throat. As the blade sunk deeper still, their eyes remained locked—Argo's as wide as cartwheels—even as the blood began to pump from his open mouth and ooze down his chin.
When it was finally done, and Argo's life had drained from him and dripped down into the dust, Juda slid the scimitar from the dead novice's neck and released his grip, letting Argo's body slump to the ground.
Juda turned to face the balcony where Roth, Dageor and The Grim stood and raised his blood-drenched hand in salute.
The Juda he had known, the one he had raised as if he were his own flesh and blood, the one in whose face had once housed the look of his lost love Aleina, the boy—his boy, and fuck anyone who dared say he wasn't, fuck them—was nowhere to be seen.
Roth was still staring down into the bloody square as Juda left, and the ranks of novices and The Grim began to silently march from the balconies, until finally it was just he and Lord Dageor left standing.
The priest turned to him, a jubilant smile curling his thin lips in a way that repulsed Roth to the core.
"I would say congratulations are in order, my dearest friend," he said, his hand covering Roth's which still held tightly to the hilt of his dagger. "Impressive from a slum-born. What did I tell you? Such devastating power from the most unlikely of creatures. You have done well with him, Roth. Very well indeed. I very much look forward to his advancement to the Elite Guard of King Aldolus Ban-Keren."
He leaned in closer, until Roth could feel the priest's chest pressing against his him. How easy it would be to grab him by the throat, to choke the air from him, to see the light fade as it had from Argo Demas. Instead, Roth turned to face the priest, returning the ghoulish smile with one of his own.
"Your service to the crown continues to be most generous and exemplary," Dageor said. "The King will not forget this. Rest assured on my name, he will not. I'll bid you a good morntide. By Ban-Keren."
"By Ban-Keren," whispered Roth, but the High Priest of Druvari had already gone and Roth was all alone.