Sigilian 30

30

Laerian sat on a crossbeam high in the rigging. The wind whipped his scarf out behind him, two ribbons of red trailing in the sky.

Tomas thought him thoroughly foolish.

The magician was a fop, a fool, and a murderer. He was too unreliable, too flighty, and far too easy-going. Paranoia was what was required to survive. And Laerian didn’t have it.

Tomas glared at his companion for another moment before turning back to the rail. The ships had made good progress in the past week.

Two changes of vessel, each time to one that would get them closer to Faron Rek, and the pirates.

This last one would be arriving in port tomorrow morning, and then they’d board, by Laerian’s count, the final ship.

“Sails on the horizon! Four of ‘em!”

At the cry Tomas turned and searched with his own eye, bad as his vision was. Glancing up he saw Laerian standing straight on the beam staring in all directions as well. He was wrapping his scarf back up into a coil around his neck.

“Pirates”

The cry sent the boat into frantic movement, everyone running to the sails, to the lines, doing all they could to ready the boat for a fight should the flight fail.

Tomas was just glad he was already in the State, already had Sketched earlier, set himself ready.

“Captain, what’s the call?”

“Pray!”

Hiros stood in the center of the chamber.

He’d been in the inner city of Faron Rek for just over a week now.

It was much as he remembered it; dim, dangerous, and dank, a hive of scum, and a den of evil, the lair of the depraved and the deprived where anything was legal, and nothing was safe.

He hated it as much as the other times he’d been here.

But, the time had been necessary. It has given him time to link the three body guards and the King to four prisoners.

Now he was here, standing before the first of them, a large man with a sword that was almost longer than Hiros was tall.

He hoped that the assassin would be able to keep him alive. He hoped that the prisoner was even able to lift the sword they had gotten to match the guards.

But then again, it was not the prisoner who would be doing the lifting. Because of the link, it would be the guard who was lifting both swords.

Hiros permitted himself a small grin. Hopefully it would work.

He couldn’t afford for it not to. He’d die.

His supporters were gathered behind him, the King’s loyal followers behind the guard. These ones were either his most devout, who fully believed that this body guard would triumph, or they were the most likely to switch sides, hoping to see a show of strength from Hiros before they backed him.

“Now, let us commence the opening ceremonies of this ancient ritual. Since Faron Rek was first founded…”

Hiros tuned out the mumblings of the official. He had more important things to do, like look around. The walls were hung with trophies from ages past, from the conquests of previous KIngs, and trophies taken from the bodies of those Kings who failed.

Lower down it became bare, giving the fighters a clear stretch of wall, ensuring that neither could grab trophies to use to their own advantage.

At either end of the room stadium seating had been carved into the cavern walls, which was where the spectators sat.

Above them, far above, was the ceiling. The cavern was roughly cylindrical, with a wood roof put in above. There were balconies just below the ceiling, with a storage room above for extra trophies.

That storage room had been cleared out by the assassins over the past few days, and set up as a mirror of the fighting space down here. That is where the taller assassin and the prisoners would act out Hiros’ fights.

Hiros pulled his attention back to the present as the speaker wound down. He quickly Sketched a few small Sigils on the back of his hand, activating the links between himself and the assassin, and the prisoner and the guard. The nice thing about the ceremony was that they had to stand in exact positions, and stay standing that way. It meant that both links would be synced, none of the bodies being made to do impossible things by the magic.

As the speaker finished Hiros completed the last Link and worked his jaw. That was still his own.

“Are we ready to start then?”

“Yes. Begin”

The prisoner lifted his hulking greatsword from the ground and began to spin it around his head. With each spin he took a step closer to Hiros, each step bringing the blade closer to Hiros’ face.

But he didn’t move. He couldn’t move. He felt the Link sinking into his skin, binding him to the assassin. And the assassin had not yet moved.

Had it all just been a plot to get him murdered here? Would the assassin let him die?

No, but they could have killed him at any time. He needed to trust the assassin, or the State would slip, and then he would truly be doomed.

The greatsword swung around again, this time perilously close. Hiros’ muscles moved without his accord, and he took the tiniest step back. The blade passed mere centimeters in front of his nose.

He had still not drawn his own blades.

“Fight back you coward!” The hulking guard roared in frustration and changed tact, swinging his greatsword down in a chopping cut.

The ringing crash of it hitting the ground echoed throughout the chamber as Hiros stepped a foot to the left.

Aa the greatsword changed direction with startling speed, coming across in a sweep to trip him, his legs seemed to simply fold up underneath him, and then land on the edge of the blade.

The crowd gasped as Hiros sprinted up the blade. The guard’s eyes went wide as the assassin smashed his knee into the prisoner’s face.

Like puppet, like master, and the guard's nose splattered equally well under the studs in Hiros’ leather armour.

A quick flip put Hiros behind the guard, and then a roll took him out of reach of that deadly sword.

After a moment the crowd burst into cheers. Coin changed hands as bets were lost and won, and new ones were made.

But Hiros didn’t notice. He was too busy dodging the strikes again. The guard was actually coming on now, fighting as well as he could.

It was no match for the assassin. Hiros was still only taking minimal motions, dodging just barely, which meant that the assassin could perfectly read the guard’s intentions and movements through the prisoner. Neither Hiros nor the assassin had broken a sweat.

As Hiros ducked under the greatsword for the third time he finally drew a weapon.

The dagger slid free of the sheath without a sound. The assassin kept Hiros’ hands curled, kept the dagger pressed up and back against his forearm, hidden from both the crowd and the guard. The next time the blade swung down at him, Hiros rolled ahead. As the guard tried to bring his leg around in a kick, Hiros rolled between the man’s legs, and then sprang back to his feet on the other side.

Hot blood dripped down the blade onto his wrist. He’d severed the femoral artery on the guard. He’d bleed out in a few minutes, less since he was fighting.

That wasn’t enough. As the guard swung the blade around again, Hiros darted in and grabbed onto the man’s hands, using that momentum to swing around onto his back. As he flipped up to stand on the man’s shoulders, his hands rose up to catch the falling greatsword. Slamming them together at just the right second, he caught it between his palms. His leather gloves skidded for a moment, then caught.

The next action was one Hiros himself wanted to take, so he was glad when the assassin did it.

The guard stared up at Hiros, his eyes slowly going wide with the realization of pain. Hiros stared back with a predator’s smile.

“If you surrender now we might be able to bind the wounds before you bleed out”

Eyes narrowing with rage, the guard began to force the greatsword down even harder, but he was at a bad angle. Hiros easily held it in place.

“No? No surrender? Are you sure?”

The crowd fell silent as first one, then all, noticed the red foam starting to bubble from the guard’s mouth.

“Yep. Drivalen Lotus oil. Will kill a man in just a few seconds. Also terribly painful I’m told”

As the pressure on the sword stopped, Hiros flipped out backwards, pulling the guard along with him as he did so.

With a thunderous crash the guard fell to the ground, and all the crowd could clearly see the dagger protruding from his chest, the dagger that Hiros had planted when he spun around to his back.

There was a moment of silence, and then cheers and boos broke out in equal measure as coin, once more, changed hands.

“And all without drawing my swords ladies and gentlemen. Thank you, thank you very much”

Hiros dropped out of the state and his limbs returned to his control.

Bowing deeply, he drew the dagger from the guard’s back and returned it to its sheath.

If this was what it was like to be a hero, a King, this acclaim and these accolades, then perhaps being Blood Red King would not be so bad after all.

A small secret smile decorated his face as he bowed once more to the roaring crowd.

Sigilian: Interlude #2: Assassin's Guilds

Interlude: Assassins Guilds

There are several assassins guilds in the Torin Islands. Three are based in Lomwar, two in the Free Islands, and only one in Destria.

Each of these guilds employs all types of assassins, yet each has its own specialty.

The six guilds are: The Blackened Dagger, Midnighters, and Tumblers from Lomwar, the Cold House and the Silent from the Free Islands, and the Sigil Bearers from Destria. The Beshadowed, elite soldiers and killers created by the royal house of Lomwar, are sometimes considered to be the seventh guild, yet since they do no contract work, scholars agree that they do not rightly count.

The Blackened Dagger are straightforward. There name says what they specialize in. While the members are not all poisoners, rumour has it that each of them carries at least four lethal poisons on them at all times.

However, the Blackened Dagger has earned its name for having some of the most deadly poisons known to humanity. Drivalen Lotus oil, Macabre Meeting, Death Dance, Scorpion’s Tongue…the list goes on. If one wants access to these deadliest of poisons they either need to be a member, pay exorbitant fees to get a dose on the black market, or kill a Blackened Dagger carrying these poisons.

The Midnighters specialize in blades in the night. They are sneakers, stealthy men and women who will hide in their targets homes unseen for days, weeks, until the target is alone, at night. The Midnighters claim to fame is that their best assassins can get to anyone, anywhere. They will kill that person in the dead of night, when they are alone. They will enter and exit without leaving a trace, and the only evidence of their presence will be a dead target.

The Tumblers are less subtle. More a mercenary guild than an assassins guild, each assassin is a superb fighter, one of the best in their field. A single Tumbler can turn the tide of a battle, or wipe out a small garrison by themself, if conditions are not set completely against them.

The Cold House is built in the center of a frost geyser field, thus earning its name. The monks who train there can do things that no mortal should be able to, achieve feats that would even stump most Sketchers. They do not come cheap, and they take only specific jobs, but when they take on a job it can almost be guaranteed to be completed.

The Silent are an order of priests. They worship their goddess of death, and pray for the deaths of their victims. Nobody knows how they do it; the common thought is that they use natural herbs to create poisons that kill, or set up circumstances such that the target dies, but no mortal hand is ever seen killing their targets. Yet, within a week, a month, never longer than a year, the target will die an unfortunate, and unavoidable, death, whether by disease, heart failure, sudden accident, or something less normal.

The Sigil Bearers are the most terrifying of the assassins. Rogue Sigiled Knights, they use their Sigils to destroy their targets in their own unique ways. While most assassins strive for anonymity, Sigil Bearers are known, at least because of their unique abilities and roots as Sigiled Knights.

The three most famous Sigil Bearers are Zexcen Stormbrow, a descendant of Alanna Stormbrow the great hero, Aramos Deephollow, bearer of the Sigil of Momentum, and Exas the Betrayer, fatally wounded eons ago, yet still “living”, and killing, courtesy of his Sigil of Bodily Desires.

There are three rules that all assassin guilds follow: Kill all assassins who are not members of one guild or another; kill anyone who fails to pay you, and aid your fellow guild members in doing so if necessary; never, ever, take out a contract on royalty.

The third rule dates back to the reign of Eo the Vengeant, a king of Lomwar. His father was killed by assassins in a failed bid at the throne by a noble.

Eo mustered his soldiers, his Sketchers and Beshadowed, and declared war on the guild that carried out the hit, the Accusers. The Accusers at first fought back, killing time and again, but Eo pursued them, destroying their safe houses, killing their members one by one, until they were forced to flee Lomwar.

In his rage, Eo appealed to the other monarchs of the Torin Islands. Appealed not only to their sense of justice and greed (for he offered a reward for each dead Accuser), but to their fear; what would happen if it was known that assassins could kill monarchs with no penalty?

The Torin Islands united under one cause for the second time in as many millenia. The Accusers were hunted to the last, the final member finally being caught thirty years after the death of Eo’s father.

Since then no assassin has attempted to murder a royal, and anyone who brings such a contract is delivered to the royal they wanted dead, to face justice.

Only two men are exempt from the first rule of assassin guilds: the brothers who now serve Natasi.

Disclaimer

Hey all!

So, it has been quite a while since I've updated this.
Now, I doubt that is an issue for many of you (if any of you). If it is, I am terribly sorry.
But my point is, my writing style has changed a bit in the past year.
So, if you're reading something ongoing (Like Sigilian, my only ongoing thing to my knowledge), and suddenly the style changes, then that is why. Up until around chapter 30 (not including interludes) was written last summer; new content starts sometime after that.

I'll be posting other things as I write them, but most of the posts are going to be from Sigilian for the time being.

Sigilian: Interlude #1: Destria

Interlude: Destria

Destria is an island nation forged during the Aeon War.

When Gandon the Ravager brought his fleet to the shores of what was then the Independent Duchies of Trial, Lady Tasha Destria, the current Duchess of a small mountainous area known for its abundance of Sigil Bearers, decided that she would not let the island fall so easily to the hordes.

Gathering the independent Sigil Bearers of her land, she forced them to swear allegiance to her, utilizing the Sigil of Links to bind them to their word.

In this way the practice of Sigil Bearers being lords and bannermen was begun.

The in-fighting that so plagued Sigil Bearers set aside, she began to train her now loyal servants as the first company of Sigiled Knights. The highly disciplined knights started out in the gardens of Lady Destria’s estate, reciting poems and scripture in concert to learn about timing.

While she trained her Sigiled Knights, Gandon was tearing through duchy after duchy, the knights, soldiers, and independent Sigil Bearers of the nations falling before his barbarians like wheat before the scythe.

Tasha had counted on the Ravager to follow his usual pattern; raid a coastal area to a depth of five days march inland, then retreat to his ships; weigh anchor, move along the coast, and begin to raid again. If he had been willing to leave his ships behind and strike further inland, he would never have been defeated. But he feared mutiny, and so was never too far from his ships that he felt he could not catch them before they sailed.

This meant that there were territories that those fleeing could find safe haven in. The inner duchies were swamped by refugees, many coming to the “safe haven” that Tasha Destria’s realm was rumoured to be.

As the swells of refugees grew, so too did Tasha’s domain. Mobilising her soldiers she declared war on the nearest Duchy lest they aid her by sending supplies. They refused, and she field tested the new Sigiled Knights, herself leading the assault from atop her charger.

After she cut her way through three ranks of her neighbours soldiers without taking casualties, she accepted his surrender, and had him, and all his independent Sigil Bearers (who were coming to be called Sketchers), swear their allegiance to her, bound by her Sigil of Links.

Each day her armies and domain grew, and each day new Sketchers came into her service, either to create items, use their skills to help pass messages, or to join the Sigiled Knights.

One year later, Gandon had gotten tired of the coast. However, loathe to leave so much of the island un-ravaged, he did something he had rarely done; he marched further inland.

As he began his march towards the heart of the island, Tasha Destria sent messengers to those Duchies in his path. The messages were simple; bend the knee and I’ll save you.

When the replies came, begging for her help, the Sigiled Knights were deployed.

Three hundred Sigiled Knights, along with three thousand soldiers trained to Tasha’s exacting standards, met the Ravager’s thirty thousand on the field of battle three days after the last duke swore his allegiance.

Tasha had chosen the battlefield well; a narrow ravine that removed the advantage of the Ravager’s larger numbers and had high enough walls to prevent flight or ambushes by either side.

At first the Knights held back, Destrian soldiers holding the valley against the charges of the horde.

But as casualties grew, Tasha called for a fighting retreat as her Knights arrived in their specially crafted conveyance.

Castle Destria, her ancestral home, had been converted into a flying fortress using permanent Sigils on the foundations stones. Pieces of rock fell away constantly, outbuilding and the smaller towers sloughed off like snakeskin. But it held together.

As it flew over the edge of the valley the skies darkened, both with the castle, and with arrows, loosed by bowmen and multiplied again and again by the Sigil of Duplication.

The horde began to fall beneath such an onslaught, and then the castle landed in the middle of the battle.

With the newly landed fortress to rally around, the soldiers surged back to the fight, but they were not needed.

The gates of the castle opened, and the Sigiled Knights flowed forth, armoured rider after armoured rider, raining fire, arrows, death and steel on the Horde in equal number.

Great heroes of legend were born that day; Darrien the Many, Wielder of the Sigil of Duplication copied himself a thousand times, each one that fell only one of many; Alanna Stormbrow, Wield of the Sigil of Lightning called down a storm to rival the greatest tempests of the world; Karzas Swordmane, Wielder of the Sigil of Blades sending his many swords spiralling around himself, a living whirlwind of death; these and many more legends began that day as the horde of Gandon, that which broke the greatest fortresses of Dunesain and The Continent, itself broke.

Gandon himself was cut down by Exas the Betrayer, his wounds superficial when compared to the Sigil of Bodily Perfection; with its leader dead the horde split apart into squabbling flocks that fell to individual armies, both on the islands and wherever they fled to.

Of the island itself, the Independent Duchies were no longer independent. Many of the dukes and duchesses owed fealty to the Lady Tasha Destria.

In fact, many began to call the island “Destria’s Domain”. When the united armies and her Sigiled Knights began hunting down the slave ships out of Lomwar and burning the crews to death, the common folk began to cheer for their saviour, calling her Queen Tasha.

Tasha died without any official heirs; she had never been bothered to find a husband, though she bore many children, each of whom inherited one of the many Sigils she had accrued during her life. The family of her second in command, her most trusted general, ascended the throne after a brief Succession crisis.

Three generations later, the island was called simply “Destria”, and was firmly established as a kingdom.

Sigilian 29

29

Laerian stood at the end of the dock and stared ahead. The waves were lapping against the pilings calmly, gently, and he was enjoying the moment of peace.

"Laerian"

The magician turned. Steffan, the boy from the day before was walking towards him.

"You're leaving?"

"Yes. My boat is setting out when the tide turns. It was supposed to be going earlier today, but there was a delay. What are you doing here?"

"Looking for you. I've been checking all the docks. I just wanted to say, thank you. Again. And to apologize for yesterday"

"Angeline's idea?"

"Yes. But that doesn't mean that I don't mean it. I really am sorry for how I acted"

"No apology necessary Steffan. You saw something that was wrong. And you tried to fix it, refused to accept it. That makes me glad. Its that kind of dedication to what is right that gives me hope for the future. That maybe, if there are more and more people like you who refuse to accept injustice, maybe there'll be a better world someday, and no need for war, fighting, soldiers, and death.

"So no Steffan, there is no need to apologize. And you can thank me by still standing up for others, so long as you're not risking dying by doing so. Does that sound like a fair thank you?"

"As fair as I think either of us will get. I'll try and repay you someday Laerian. Until then, keep the Red Scarf safe"

Laerian blinked as the boy turned and ran off waving.

He...he had figured out that Laerian was the Red Scarf.

Although, he supposed, after being part of his act the day before it had likely not been too hard to figure out.

He finally waved to the boy, now at the other end of the dock, and turned to board the ship. It was time to leave Belnor behind, for better or for worse.

The gangplank creaked as he climbed it, and the smell of the salt filled his nostrils. Laerian needed to just…enjoy the world more. The call of gulls overhead and the sound of the sails snapping in the breeze as they were put in place. The sun sparkling on the water and the sounds of the town no longer touching him as he tuned them out.

It wasn’t yet time to get going. There were a thousand and one things to do before they could set sail, but just being aboard the ship made him feel like he was doing something. Something heroic, good, something to wash out the deeds that stained his soul.

“Captain! Anything I can do to help us get going faster?”

The captain, a big man with bleached hair cropped short, turned to stare down at Laerian from atop the sterncastle.

“You a sailor?”

“No”

“Then no. Go to your cabin. We’ll be off with the tide”

Laerian shrugged and headed down the ladder to his cabin, and Tomas’.

As befitted bandit kings, they had booked passage aboard a nicer ship, and booked the two nicest rooms aboard it. It was an extravagant expense that they couldn’t really afford, but it was what they needed. Without a good impression they would be killed before they ever arrived, butchered and thrown to the dogs. This at least gave them a chance.

Striding down the hall, boards creaking under his feet as the ship swayed, Laerian thumped once on Tomas’ door.

“Tomas!”

A hand fell on his shoulder and Tomas pulled him around with surprising strength.

“Don’t use my real name”

“Are you in the State?”

“Yes. Can’t let our guards down now”

“What about when we’re sleeping? And don’t suggest a watch. Nothing is more suspicious than two people with money staying awake all night watching over one another sleep. It is asking for trouble”

“I can bar the doors”

“No. Just forget about it Tom-sorry. Mardas. Forget about it Mardas, and relax. We won’t be challenged until we’re much closer, let me assure you”

“And if you’re wrong?”

“Then we die. Why don’t you trust me?”

While Laerian had originally wanted to give the younger noble the benefit of the doubt, Tomas was too sour. He was a miserable man who cared for very few things beyond himself. Yes, he seemed to care for Juniper and saving Destria, but that was just because he didn’t want his family's honour to be sullied. It wasn’t even for a particularly good reason.

But, he had decided to put up with the man, and he did need him around in order to save Destria. So he didn’t have much choice but to suck it up.

Tomas glared at him for another minute, and then pushed past him to get to his door.

“Fine. But if I wind up dead because of you, you’re going to regret it”

Plastering a fake grin all over his face Laerian started after the younger man.

“That’s excellent news then Mardas! See, this is the first step to developing a long-lasting and profitable partnership! After this perhaps we can go save a different-”

The door slamming in his face cut off the rest of his thought.

“Eh” Laerian spun towards his own door and continued what was now a monologue “You don’t really have magician material after all. No sense of humour, no emotion really besides anger and rage, and your face is enough to make the younger children scream”

The door opened into a slightly cramped room. The bed was built into the far wall and had rails on the one side to prevent the occupant from rolling out. There were all kinds of silly devices and paraphernalia hanging from the ceiling, and very little room free on the floor for him to walk in. Apparently the best rooms were still not all that good, although at least it had a table and chair as well as the other stuff.

Then again, it was a room, with a real bed, which was a huge luxury aboard a ship. So, he really should not be complaining.

Laerian tossed his bag onto the table and tossed himself onto the bed. It was a painful experience, the bed being thin, but he wasn’t really worried. He was just here to wait.

The shadows swirled. And burned.

They were cold, and too warm, and dark, and bright. They were everything and nothing.

The man slipped between a waking nightmare and a dreamless oblivion. He preferred the oblivion, wished for the oblivion when he had the facilities to wish. Most of the time it was just the cold heat and dark light. Contradictions inherent in the flaws of the universe.

No.

The world was pain, and death.

No. There is more. There is friendship and loyalty, respect, love, your best qualities. Arrogance, pride, recklessness, and fear, your worst. You are not shadows.

“Time to start today shadow-man”

The sibilant voice was always there. The voice of command was sometimes there and sometimes not, but the sibilant one was his tormentor. His slave driver, the whip cracker, the one who controlled his life, who dictated everything.

The man stirred, tried to get up.

“Ah, so you are awake already. That changes things then. Perhaps you have healed faster than I thought”

It was the voice again, the sibilant hissing voice that brought pain. The voice that brought the shadows.

The man settled for opening his eyes instead of standing.

The shadows settled over these too. A veil of darkness, turning the world a pale grey. Tints fell through the edges, fell away and out of his awareness. The colours he did notice were dulled, muted, lifeless. Shapes flickered at the edge of his vision, and in the shadows playing on the ceiling he could see things, hear words coming from them, almost make out what they were trying to tell him.

The beams of a boat cabin. He recognized them now. And the rocking…that must be the boat on the sea. So. They had taken him out onto the ocean. That was bad because…

There was a reason why it was bad, but the man could not remember it. That was almost worse.

The shadows also made everything sharper, clearer. Looking past his tormentor; he refused to meet the man’s gaze, he stared at the windows. They were larger than most ship-board windows and had good quality glass. Beyond them the man could see the waves cresting, and far above a lone bird circling. All of it was clearer, sharper, more there, than ever before.

“Where-”

His voice startled him into silence. Deep and raspy from misuse it sounded almost like the sibilant man. He could feel his tormentor looking at him for a long moment before finally continuing.

“Where are we?”

“Where are we? Well my dear shadow prince, we’re in the middle of the ocean. As I am sure you can tell. Aboard the ship Darker Deeds. It is a pirate vessel. We’re on our way to Faron Rek to find healers for you, but perhaps that isn’t needed now. It is fortunate for all of us that we found you when we did. You were in a bad way”

No.

It was the voice again, the voice he remembered from before. He did not remember where it came from, whose voice it was, but the man, the Shadow Prince, knew that the voice was important to listen to.

Maybe. He could also not afford to trust it. He could not afford to trust anything after all. Not after what had happened.

He remembered…he remembered a betrayal, or an ambush, a surprise. And there was a half-remembered conversation from between oblivions that made him feel like there had been a greater betrayal by far.

“I…was?”

“Ah, yes. Your memory has perhaps not yet recovered. I assure you though, that in time it will. You had been ambushed by soldiers of Destria. They dealt you a grievous blow, the one you see on your chest”

The Shadow Prince looked, and saw it. A long cut from his stomach up to his shoulder, it was leaking shadows like blood. They pooled around it, sunk into it, danced in and out of it…it was a cesspool, a breeding pit, a hole for them to spawn in.

It’s a lie. The soldiers of Destria would never hurt you.

“That’s right. They wouldn’t hurt me would they?”

The Shadow Prince closed his eyes as he tried to remember why, and so he didn’t see the look of anger and annoyance on the sibilant man’s face.

“No, no, they weren’t supposed to. You were dressed as one remember? It was your job to find out where they were going to be, and how to avoid them, as well as to find a way into the village. You did both very well”

“I…remember that. Yes. Being dressed as a soldier”

He opened his eyes again and looked up at the sibilant man. The man had a narrow face, slightly puckered, with high cheekbones. His eyes were sunken, sallow, and shadows seemed to cling to his flesh, much like they did to the Shadow Prince’s. The man’s eyes were completely black, pools of shadow.

“Who are you?”

Then the more pressing question floated to the surface of the Prince’s mind.

“Who am I?”

“Ah. I was wondering if you’d remember that. Well, in the order you asked it then. I am Weeros, a Sketcher out of Lomwar. I’m a cousin of the royal family of Lomwar, seventy fifth-”

Weeors did not finish his sentence. At his declaration of being out of Lomwar the Prince felt something click. Lomwar was the enemy. Lomwar was always an enemy. And if this man leaked shadows and was a Sketcher he was royalty of Lomwar. He must be killed.

The Prince tensed muscles and sat up as Weeros stopped dead, surprised at the recovery.

And then the Sketcher began to cough and choke as hands closed around his throat.

“You are a Lomwar. You’ll die for that”

The Sketcher began to struggle as the Prince’s grip tightened. The man’s fingers flailed wildly, began to Sketch before the Prince closed his other hand around the man’s hand. He could hear bones crack.

He had never been this strong before. Had he?

No. He knew he was never that strong before. Nobody could be normally, especially not after being asleep for so long, being healed, for so long.

The Prince opened both hands and Weeros fell to the ground, his legs giving out as they were suddenly placed in the role of supporting him once more. The Sketcher began to gasp as he lay there crumpled.

“What did you do to me? Why am I stronger? You may answer me, or I can kill you. It is up to you. And I want the truth this time. What did you do? Who am I?”

The man looked up at him as he struggled to draw breath. His left hand cradled the ruins of his right one, and bruises were already forming on his throat where the Prince had grabbed it.

“Speak. Now. I am losing my patience”

“Of-of course” The voice was no longer as sibilant, no longer as sinister. Yet even hoarse and rough, it still held the same undertones, if tainted by fear.

“You-” his speech was broken by a coughing fit before he continued “You were dying. You had been dealt that wound. Because of who you are, because of your service and because you are the Blood Red Prince, he had me save you. I Sketched at first, just a simple one to maintain your life. But the wound was too much and wouldn’t heal on its own before you died. And it won’t heal if I’ve Sketched a Shadow into you. So the captain had me Permanancy it, made me bind the Shadow into you permanently. It fixed what was wrong with you, healed your wounds and fixed anything else. It’ll have sharpened your vision, improved your hearing, made you stronger, faster, tougher. You can go longer without sleep, and you’ll be able to eat less, hold your breath longer. Everything. You’ve heard of the Beshadowed?”

“No, I don’t, what-”

Killers. Murderers. Assassins rumoured to exist but never proved to be real. The enemy.

“…Yes. Yes, I have. They’re monsters. They serve at the bidding of their masters, the Sketchers who created them, their controllers. Ruthless killers, assassins. And servants of Lomwar”

The Prince swung his legs over the edge of the bed and grasped Weeros’ shoulders. He lifted the Sketcher upright and stared straight into his face. The black black eyes were inscrutable, revealing nothing.

“You have still not explain your connection to Lomwar. Explain it now or you die, regardless of how much I do not know”

“I was a minor cousin and I left. Became a rogue, a killer for hire, a bandit. I rose through the ranks and was assigned to this ship as its Sketcher. So although I have the powers of the royal family, their Sigilian, to call upon, I am not affiliated with them. Now then-”

“Finish explaining about me”

“Ah. Yes. Well, the Beshadowed are puppets. But they are deadly, effective in every way. You are the same, but you are not controlled. You have your own free will, as per the captain’s orders. After all, the Blood Red Prince can be beholden to no mere ship’s Sketcher. And so-”

“The Blood Red Prince. What is that? Explain it to me. I know of the Blood Red King” The ruler of pirates, of Faron Rek “He is a pirate king, the king of bandits and scum. But what is a Blood Red Prince?”

“A Blood Red Prince…well, they are the secret enforcers of the Blood Red King. They do the missions that the others cannot, the jobs that others cannot, they are his hands. Some Kings replace the last Prince while others keep the old one on. Usually they are the toughest of the tough. They are trusted with the tasks that are too sensitive for the others to do. You are one of them, the current King’s Blood Red Prince”

This time Weeros waited to see if the Prince would ask another question. But, luckily for the man the Prince was busy.

Lies. Lies. You are no Prince of Shadows, no Prince of Blood, no Prince of Death. You are a Prince of so much more.

A prince of more? But, a prince of what?

His thoughts were interrupted by the door swinging open.

“What’s happening here?”

It was the voice of command. The Prince turned to look. The man was wearing a fine red leather coat, patched with scraps of fine and once rich clothing. But they’re torn, cut, and ripped from where they had once been, and sewn onto the coat.

The result was a horrible patchwork of an outfit, complete with a lacy bit at the end of the right arm but not left, and am old style ruff around the neck. The outfit was completed by an over-large hat in a faded purple.

Lanky blonde hair fell out from under the brim of the hat, partially concealing the face behind.

“Ah, Captain, the Prince was just-”

“Quiet Weeros. I can clearly see that the Prince is awake. Prince, how are you feeling? I am Captain Dashiel”

The man extended his right hand as he pulled his hair away with his left hand. Two baleful eyes stared out at the Prince from a lined and weathered face. Thin lips and thick eyebrows only added to the effect.

“I…don’t know my name to give to you”

The Prince grasped Dashiel’s hand. It was hard, callused, and had a firm grip.

“That is fine. We would not dishonour you by doing other than calling you Prince regardless. You are lucky that the Sketcher recognized you, or you would have been left for dead. Now then, have you remembered your own Sketching abilities?”

“My own Sketching abilities?”

But even as he asked it the knowledge flooded into the Prince’s mind. He had never been a good Sketcher, but he had been able to do so. His Sigilian had been especially powerful, encompassing things like Air, Fire, and many other powerful Sigils. He also knew that so powerful a Sigilian was a symbol of great importance.

“Who…who was I? Who was I to command such power, such might? And why did I squander it?”

Weeros and the captain exchanged glances, as if unsure as what to say. Misreading their hesitation the Prince took a lunging step towards them.

“Tell me!”

Prince, royalty, one to rule, one to protect. A truant, wasted talent, an arrogant fool.

“How?” His voice was lower, quieter, less angry, but just as desperate, as he spoke to the person in his head, the one who knew the answers “How do I know that you’re telling the truth? How do I know?”

“Prince?” The captain stepped forwards and placed a hand on the Prince’s shoulder “I apologize, but I do not know. You were, are, a mystery, except perhaps to the Blood Red King. He would be the one who knows who you are, who knows why you are, how you are. And there is no way to know if we are telling the truth. You will just have to believe, or not. It is in your hands regardless”

“So, I am someone who does not remember their past. And nobody can tell me what my past is”

That is a lie. One is a liar. One knows. One knows.

The two exchanged looks again, and if there was guilt in their stares, it was understandable.

“That is right Prince. Now, we are heading to Faron Rek as we speak, at best speed. You should rest more, as the shadows will still take a large toll on you for the first few days. We shall leave you to it”

They left and the Prince lay down again. The rocking had never gone away, but was more obvious now. Now he could feel it again, the gentle swaying of the ship. It did not surprise him that he had not recognized it while barely conscious. He was more interested in where he did recognize it from now. Where had he been in his past life? Who had he been?

A better person than they will ever be.

And what was the voice inside his head?