The Assassin Child

On the edge of the Realm of Fire, just north of the goblin city of Pilapeli, a storm was brewing. It was everything you could expect of a storm, the rain tore into the night and anyone caught outside would be soaked to the bone in minutes. The lightning crashed to the left and right of the road at irregular intervals. The sky was dark and the wind was heavy. All travelers had fled the roads long ago to seek shelter.
Except two.
The first appeared as an old crone pushing a cart laden with cheap charms and the tools of a midwife. Her skin, hard and thick from a lifetime of living in the elements, served better to protect her from the rain than the ragged cloak and scarf she wore.
The second traveled alongside her, shivering despite herself. Niram was young, a girl of ten years. Tall for her age and well built. In the Realm of Fire where they traveled, her raven-colored hair was a rare sight, but it was her deep purple eyes that marked her clearly as belonging to the Realm of Fire’s western neighbor, the Realm of Shadow.
Being outside pleased Niram, even in the rain, though it chilled her. Outside was safer. She could run, or hide more easily. She wasn’t trapped in by stone walls and wooden doors. As she walked, she kept to the front of the cart, away from the elder, the woman called Nightshade. In the darkness of the storm, the path was lit by a lantern hanging from a pole on the cart. It did not cast it’s light far in the rain, but Niram could see well even in the darkness, her senses were very sharp.
She heard first the crunch of boots on leaves, and warned the crone Nightshade by slowing her pace enough to bump into the front of the cart. Nightshade understood the prearranged signal but pretended not to. She spat a curse at the child for being slow. It was not hard.
In the Realm of Fire, bandits were policed by the King’s army. Large groups were hunted and destroyed; small groups driven off the main road. A large or protected party was fairly safe from attack, but they, in all appearances merely an elderly grandmother and child, seemed easy prey.
Just as Niram had warned, three bandits emerged from the small woods bordering the road. They were dirty and large. One carried a spiked club, one an axe, and the last a rusty sword. Nightshade gave them no time to issue their challenge.
“No magic, no weapons,” she said, her voice like a snake hissing. She meant, of course, that the girl should kill them without using magic or weapons. It was a pointless exercise, these untrained brigands weren’t enough to test her. She sighed dejectedly. Unlike her master, she would get no joy from killing weaklings. It was a bore. It was cheap, easy, and wasteful. She walked slowly forward, dragging her heels and hanging her head.
“Hand over your valuables!” grumbles the bandit’s apparent leader, “Before I split the little one’s skull!”
By little one of course, he meant the girl now approaching him. In his eyes, she was no danger, but had he been paying attention, he would have seen the corners of her lips twitch upward in a brief smile. It was so much easier to kill someone who was trying to hurt her. He had only himself to blame, after all.
He made a grab at her, realizing that his threat would be far more effective if he actually had a hold on the child he threatened to destroy.
Niram dodged his clumsy attack effortlessly, contemptuously. She took a step closer and he tried to grab her again. This time she ducked under his grab and lunged forward, delivering two swift jabs to his stomach, fat from the livelihoods of others.
The bandits had not been expecting this response, and that gave her time to land two more blows. One kick to his groin, to double him over, and the second smashed his nose into his brain. The bandit with the cudgel charged angrily, shouting loudly.
He held his club high over his head as he came, exposing himself to attack. Had she so chosen, she could have killed him at least three times as he ran at her, but instead she let him bring the club crashing down as she dodged it, keeping one eye on the last bandit, who was circling warily. She launched a series of light, swift strokes against the bandit’s left leg, smiling inwardly at the feeling of her hands striking against his flesh. Suddenly unable to stand, the bandit fell sideways, spouting curses.
She took his head and wrenched it sideways, snapping his neck. The last bandit was quivering now, unable to hold his sword straight. The sword was rusty, and the child found that contemptible. She always kept her blades in pristine condition. Filled with disgust, she smashed his rib cage, leaving him to die gasping for air.
“This will be troublesome if the people of this realm can be preyed upon by such weak predators,” she said, more to herself than anyone else.
“Worry not Niram,” her master laughed, “This realm has an interesting history. You’ll be needed. I guarantee it.”

The Errant Prince

Prince Daren first came to know Jessica by a flash of blue cloth that caught his eye as he was surveying his father’s estate. The King had allotted most of his kingdom to be run by various nobles, lords and barons. But the Palace Mountain, the city, and the valley at his feet belonged only to him. Daren knew he would one day inherit his father’s estate and was eager to learn how to run it.
Olive groves, apple orchards, figs, vineyards, all the fruits of the earth grew rich and large in the volcanic soil which had spewed out of the mountain when Daren’s father first became king. Since then a Mageschool had been commissioned. It was funded primarily by the King, and each year they drained the excess lava from the volcano to prevent its eventual eruption.
The rich lava was then ground up, accelerating the natural process of erosion. The diamonds would be removed and sold, and the dust used to fertilize the fields again. Many of the noble families had adopted this practice, transforming the Realm of Fire from a blazing wasteland to a bountiful kingdom which supplied more than half of the world’s food.
Learning to run his father’s estate was part of Daren’s lessons, and today he was watching the shepherds tend to his father’s sheep. The blue cloth he had seen belonged to a cloak far too elegant for a shepherd to afford, a stark contrast to the other shepherd’s dull brown garments. Daren approached the shepherd, who was sitting and tending to a ram lying on the ground. Daren knelt by the young shepherd and asked,
“What is wrong with him?”
The shepherd stood and brushed off her hands. Now Daren could see that she was in fact, a young girl. Aside from the cloak, which was fastened with a bronze clasp in the shape of a dragon, her clothes were no better or worse than the other shepherds, and she was barefoot. Up close, Daren estimated the cloak to be worth at least 200 era, almost a year’s wages for a shepherd.
“He’s sprained his foreleg, my Prince. It isn’t serious so long as it’s treated.” Daren noticed that her voice lacked the gruff tones and slang of the other shepherds. Her fair skin and bright blue eyes also set her apart from the darker, heavily tanned shepherds.
“How old are you?” Daren asked, thinking out loud.
The shepherdess pushed back her hood, revealing long, chocolate brown hair, and shrugged.
“I don’t know my Prince. thirteen or perhaps fourteen.Who can say?” When Daren did not respond she asked,
“Is there anything I can do for you?”
Daren sat down on the grass decorating the mountain’s slope.
“Just talk to me for a while”, Daren sighed. “I got away from my tutor while he was talking about the sheep, and I’m going to stay here until he finds me.”
The girl laughed, putting her hand in front of her mouth. It was a soft sound, like bells or wind chimes.
“What shall we talk about, my Prince?”
“Anything at all, but don’t call me Prince. It’s tiresome.” Daren replied.
“What shall I call you then?” she asked softly, sitting cross-legged with her staff across her lap.
Daren noticed that a pink ribbon was tied to the end of her staff, like a flag.
“Call me Daren.” He said.
“My name is Jessica.” She offered.
“You are a shepherd?” Daren asked, matching her soft tones.
“No, no, not a shepherd. I’m staying with the shepherds today. Yesterday with the hunters, tomorrow the stable hands.”
Daren thought about this for a moment.
“You are a healer then?”
“Yes,” she nodded, “animals mostly, but I can heal people too.” She picked up the staff. “The pink ribbon is the mark of my trade. I carry it so I can be easily identified at a distance.”
“Do you use medicine or magic?”
“Both. The court physician says I have instinctive talent.”
“Did he give you that cloak?” Daren asked.
She laughed again smiling joyously. “No, this was a gift from his Majesty.”
Daren was visibly shocked.
“But aren’t you afraid of soiling it?” he stammered. Jessica gave him a strange look.
“Why should I be? If stained, I’ll wash it. If torn, I’ll mend it. But if I don’t wear it, then it’s useless.”
Daren, coming from a different background, struggled to wrap his mind around this concept.
Before Daren could formulate a response, his younger brother, came running along the mountainside in great leaps and bounds. Draykno Daren’s twin, born a minute later than he’d been. He was fiercely loyal, energetic but also serious. Daren thought he would make a great knight one day.
“Tutor told me to tell you that if you make him come and get you again, he’ll make you transcribe two chapters of the Book of Jund,” Draykno warned. Daren stood up slowly.
“All right, tell him I’m coming.”
Draykno ran off with just as much energy as before. Daren gave Jessica a hand up, only to be polite as he was sure she needed no help, and said goodbye. She was confused by his visit at first, but then decided that princes could do whatever they liked and the affairs of nobles were none of her concern.
Daren and Draykno’s tutor was a strict but kind old man on whom was placed the burden of preparing the future king for his throne. Some days the stress of such a responsibility got to him and he was prone to cranky fits and headaches. Fortunately, today was not one of those days.
“Draykno has run off again,” the tutor observed, rubbing his scalp and noting with alarm that the number of hairs up there was decreasing.
“But it doesn’t matter”, the tutor continued, pointing his cane at Daren.
“He is smart and not nearly as far behind in his studies as you.”
The accusation stung, but Daren knew it was true. Both princes had a habit of eluding their aging tutor, but he could be appeased if at least one of them was present. Recently however, Daren had been making more of these excursions than usual. He resolved to work hard to make up for lost time.
* * *
The King was sitting at his desk in small, but out of the way room which he often retreated to think. A large inkwell and various feather pens occupied one corner of the desk, and a thick volume of an ornate book dominated the other. The rest of the desk was taken up by various documents and scrolls detailing the trade disputes that threatened to break out into a war between the Realm of Sound and the Realm of Water. He was acting as an intermediary between the two and desperately hoped to finish the rough draft of the peace treaty before the delegates arrived. He was leafing through the book, which was written in starsign, an archaic language based on constellations, when his servant Simeon, peaked into the door and announced the crown prince was here to see him.
The King pushed aside the mess of papers on his desk and folded his hands.
“Send him in”. He said.
Daren entered tentatively and closed the door behind him. The King gestured for him to sit.
“Father, I…” he stammered, “I was wondering about something.”
The King raised his eyebrows.
“I should hope so, he said. Those who don’t wonder remain fools. Even a child knows better. Now, what were you wondering about?”
“Why did you give Jessica such an expensive gift?” Daren blurted out.
The King frowned, scratching his head as he tried to place the name.
“Jessica…the healer girl?” He asked at last. Daren nodded.
King Nicholas stood up and walked over to a painting on the wall. The woman in the painting had bright red hair and a brighter smile. The King stared at the painting for a long time. Daren waited respectfully, knowing better than to interrupt his father at such a time. Finally, the King spoke.
“I have been asked that question often. Different names, different words, but the same question.” He said, still looking at the painting.
“What did you answer?” Daren asked.
“There are many reasons to give.’ The King said distantly. “Rewarding those who do well affirms them and encourages the others to do the same. Giving without asking anything in return creates a loyalty that cannot be bought. Jund calls us to bless those less fortunate, whatever way we can.”
“Like the poor? Daren asked. The King smiled.
“Especially the poor.”
Daren thought about this for a moment, one hand on his chin, and asked,
“But why do you give?”
“Because their smiles bring me joy.”
“I should like to do this also,” Daren decided.
“There are rules for giving.” The King said. “The gift must fulfill a need to show that you understand. It must not be something they can easily acquire, and it must be beautiful to show that you care. Lastly, you must ask nothing in return for it is not a gift otherwise.”
Daren stood, “I will think about this Father.” The King nodded.
“See that you do. It is not so easy as it seems. Few things are, but I have confidence in you.”
“Thank you Father.” Daren said, closing the door behind him as he left. The King returned his attention to the mess of documents on his desk.

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Texte: Luke Pontbriand
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 10.10.2012

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