"A thought, even a possibility, can shatter and transform us." - Friedrich Nietzsche.
The next day holds another ghastly surprise for me. After hours of attempting to succeed in whatever I need to try and do to satisfy lord Hoyt, he finally agrees to have Ria brought before me. She is ushered in by his scoundrels, her dress torn in places - revealing what should remain virtuous. What shocks me more than this vile breach, is the tear marks on her dirty face.
In all our years of friendship, I have only seen her cry once. It was almost two decades ago - the day after those boys died. After the endless meetings concluded, and father consoled me after all the crying, I arrived in my room to find a bawling Ria. She never told me why she was crying, but I held her as we sobbed together until well into the night.
They rush her out before I could find the words to say to her, which was a surprising while. What do you say to your best friend when you know she is being defiled, and you get told that you could stop it if you wanted to - yet you are utterly powerless? Sure as Darke not all will be right. I can't promise her that I'd even measure out revenge on her sake, because the possibility of me escaping grows slimmer every second. As I start to gulp, she was out of my view.
The knot in my throat and hole in my heart made it difficult to concentrate on obeying Hoyt's commands and lessons for the rest of the day, and Aelfraed suffered unduly.
"On Vayog Donnchadh! He wasn't lying when he said you know nothing! Absolutely nothing! It is like trying to teach a fish how to fly!"
I flinch at his invocation of the Sixth One's name. One simply doesn't invoke a Council Member's name lightly, especially not the cursed name of the Dark One.
"It is so difficult to teach one already so old! Perhaps you should have rather gone all the way to Da-Nel where Haimo could have tried to teach you."
One of his men's voices echo through the cave: "We could always request to have Haimo sent here."
Haimo? I am sure I have heard that name before.
Hoyt traces his chin with his forefinger and thumb. "Perhaps if I fail. For now, I will just need to be more persuasive. Princess, I am going to tell you a tale of how Ardam Vaubadon conquered Ligtland."
His narration unfolds over the course of a week - each day sharing an unbelievable revelation with me. His story seems too far-fetched to be true, and the fanatic edge to his voice makes me doubt his sanity and the truth of his words.
Ardam Vaubadon came from a highly feared and powerful family. My grandfather decided his sons should rule over Ligtland. He was a harsh man who killed off his own brothers when they denied him their support.
Ardam killed his first man at age eight, all while his father was supervising. From that moment on he was merciful in providing quick deaths to all his father wished death upon.
The things Hoyt tell me, are the opposite if what I have been taught and believed. Admittedly I never used to learn much history of Ardamland. My lessons consisted of Ligtland and the Council's deeds, and weaponry. I agree that the second was a rather unusual choice for a princess, but my father used to say that my lessons with him were his only escape from the political cage he built - until he became too sick and frail. Later on, when he was too wasted to move outside his room, and Friduric was the king without the crown, I had my lessons in my father's room. Most of the times he would doze off, a gentle snore reassuring me that he hadn't passed away - yet.
Ardam Vaubadon set his rule in stone. With his iron hand, he executed all the traitors and rebels to his cause. He would raise cities to ashes because their leaders had refused to bow before him.
With every shocking, so-called fact, Aelfraed, blood of Ardam, gets tortured and battered on my behalf. Still, I am no closer to following in my father's footsteps, as Hoyt says. The doubt that doing so is a good path to follow, gnaws away as heated iron sears into my nephew's back.
As every day takes me to the same chamber where Hoyt awaits with more innovative ideas on how to extinguish the flames in Aelfraed's eyes, the routes always differ in length and direction. Some paths are more direct, and other more arduous. With no way of marking the tunnels, and no sun to indicate the direction we go, mapping an escape route is impossible.
"Princess, you are learning to slow. You need to learn faster. We've wasted too much time! You need to master this. Do you not want to protect your family against the Darkelanders?" His shrill, impatient voice drills through my brain. "Put your hand in the flame."
Mad. Absolutely insane. There's no way I'm putting my hand in the fire.
"Do it, or -," he reaches for Aelfraed's hand.
Before he can thrust it into the fire, I clench my eyes shut and put my hand in. The pain I expect to sear into my nerves never comes. Maybe the fire has been extinguished, or maybe I've misjudged the position of the fire and my hand is not in it. I should still be feeling the heat. I cautiously open my eyes, and they widen at the picture of my hand inside the fire - the flames playing around it. I turn my hand palm upwards, and then downwards as it remains unburnt.
"How?" I exclaim in wonder.
"Now, grasp the flame."
"Huh?"
"Grasp the fire. Take it into your hand. Don't think about it princess! Just do it!" Lord Hoyt dips his own hand into the flames and takes it out, holding a ball of flames. "You are failing, because you think about it. Fire is part of who you are. It is your right by the blood of your father and his father and those before him. Your father has done you the greatest injustice by not teaching you this! "
The ball of fire grows until he needs to hold it with his second hand. The fire continues to grow until his arms are fully stretched, and just like that the fire collapses until it is a small fireball spinning at the tip of his forefinger. He snuffs the fire out with his thumb. "See Princess, you should not think. Just do it."
I look at my hand that is still in the fire.
How do I get the fire into my hand?
"Just take it."
So I grasp the flame. I scoop it into my hand and tear it from the fire. For a moment it dances in my palm.
In that moment I see many possibilities. I see it all - and what I see terrifies me to the core. Cities of ash flash before me. A country basked in flames as King Ardam stands on a heap of dismembered, scorched corpses spins in my head. I see myself on a battlefield void of life, lightning flashing around me. Then, as I remember charred bodies in an apple orchard, the fire fizzles out.
Things take a different turn from there. Lord Hoyt teaches me impossible things. Soon I am able to wield flames and form weapons from them. He still groans that I lack motivation and that my progress is too slow as the fire bends to his will in my palms. Aelfraed's beatings grow scarcer, until one day, he remains unscathed.
The same day Hoyt announces that he is satisfied with my achievements. "Aebbé of Ardam, I think we can say that the initial stages of your training have concluded. It is time to set the wheel into motion again."
As he walks towards Aelfraed, my throat constrict, and my breath hitches. My limbs feel like blocks of stone dragging me down the Inwir as I see the glint of his dagger. My mouth is drier than the desert the dwarves live in. Fear makes my mouth muddled as I watch in horror at what is about to happen.
He drags the dagger across Aelfraed's throat, crimson immediately spilling to the dark ground. My nephew gurgles and goes slack. His eyes, battered and bruised, glance at me through his thick eyelids as he offers me a lopsided smile.
My scream echoes through the cave.
"Send the head with the maid to Raven's Peak," Hoyt orders before they hack my favourite carrot curls from his shoulders.