The Broken Realm

3. Drummond’s c**k

3

Drummond’s Cock

Darrick stretched his legs into a sprint for the last hundred yards. Law paced him and together they ran toward the beckoning white cliffs and that monstrous statue that before he’d only seen from the sea. Carved from an immeasurable amount of stone, Drummond Rutland, Erran’s ancestor, towered over two hundred feet into the sky. It was the largest shrine in the kingdom. Even the vainglorious Lord Quinlanden and his kin did not have a monument so massive.

Darrick paused at Drummond’s feet—the soles of which were even taller than Darrick—and doubled over to catch his breath. Law was right behind him, decidedly less winded.

“Better,” Law said. “Quicker. And soon, further.”

He’d put on weight. It felt strange to no longer feel the hard cut of his ribcage when he braced himself. His belly no longer concave. But other effects lingered. Many of the muscles below his abdomen had atrophied. Willing them back to life had been a feat, one led by the exacting ministrations of Samuel Law twice daily.

Law handed him the waterskin, and Darrick downed a generous gulp. As he opened his eyes again, he witnessed the morning sun breach over the horizon. He once feared this sight. It left an eroding sensation deep in his belly, of dread and resigned despair. The familiar clench seized his bowels, but nothing followed. He was remembering how he’d viewed many things, before they’d all been taken.

There were worse places to convalesce. It was said Whitecliffe was the most beautiful town in all the Southerlands, and, standing at the top of the miles and miles of jagged alabaster cliffs, the sea lapping upon the glimmering sand, Darrick was willing to wager this truth.

“They call him Drummond’s c**k,” Law said, leaning his head back to regard the scale of the Rutland ancestor.

“I can’t tell if that’s a compliment or a slight,” Darrick said. “He is massive.”

Law smiled. “When a man sees fit to raise something to heights larger than need necessitates, it is said he may be doing so in compensation for an absence elsewhere.”

Darrick’s mouth parted in a curl of amusement. “Right. And Steward Erran. What does he call it?”

“I rather think he’s embarrassed by it.”

“Why not have it removed?”

Law turned to him. “For the same reason we will restore you to your rightful place as king. There is comfort in tradition for many. Those who sail past may jest about Drummond Rutland and what did or did not dangle betwixt his legs, but it is a beacon of familiarity. A landmark of hope, one might say, in a world ever changing. Even those who claim they would return to a time before the Rhiagains would not raise their hands to see it done.”

“How hated have we become?”

“Quite,” Law replied. “Your brother is a less polished replica of your father. He has his cruelty, but not his cunning. Not his head for politics. Even Khain grasped the value of compromise and concession.”

“My father was an old man by the time we came of age,” Darrick said. He watched the glare of the rising sun glisten off the waves, creating a sea of shimmering dots. It was almost blinding. “He’d already raised two daughters to maturity. He needed us, but had nothing left to give.”

“He had you, and you had nothing to learn from a man like that,” Law said. “He didn’t foresee a day where it would be Eoghan rising into his place.”

“You perhaps give him more credit than is deserved.” Darrick took another drink from the skin. “I believe my father had a hand in Eoghan’s betrayal of me. If not directly, then in planting the seed that took root. He could have undone the plans my father laid for the Right of Choosing, but yet, he pushed forth. Had we not already forced our will upon the Reaches with the Epoch of the Accordant? Had we not already taken their ancestors, swept our fist across their beloved histories? We’d made our point. To ask for their children was madness.”

“You were, of course, right.”

“Even I didn't foresee the degree of chaos that followed.”

Law clapped a hand on his back. “Well, we are not seers, are we? We are men of reason, who take what we know of the world and apply what wisdom we have to determine expected outcomes. It is enough that you were right. That you'd have put a stop to that madness, had it been you ascending the throne. And your future ascension will no doubt curtail future madness Eoghan has devised.”

“And are we closer to a plan? Has there been word?”

“Lord Khallum reminds us we've waited five years to see you free, and it will be a sliver of that to see you restored. But our patience will win this. Impulsiveness will sink it. There are many layers, and we are privy to only some.”

Darrick nodded. He looked away, again, toward the sea. He had no skills to captain a ship capable of sailing north, but perhaps he could chance it. He could put down anchor at Eastport, as his wife had weeks earlier... as his son had. He was a father. Anabella had survived, and she had carried his son in terrible conditions. Had grown him, fostered him, sheltered him from the fate that would’ve awaited him had Assyria not stepped in.

He’d given up believing she’d deliver. His faith in her hadn't wavered as much as his faith in her power at Eoghan’s court. When Darrick and Eoghan were born, taking their first breaths as their mother took her last, Khain had demanded his older daughters take the place of the mother and raise them to men. Correen had been assigned Eoghan, and Assyria, Darrick. He’d always known he’d gotten the better deal in that exchange. Assyria was tough, but loyal. Strong. Others would have said she had a man’s intelligence, but Darrick didn't subscribe to such antiquated views on women. Assyria was capable in her own right, and much of who he'd become had happened under her careful but serious nurturing. When she’d come to him that night on the cliff, it was only his fear that had driven him to doubt. Once washed away, his faith in her had been doubly restored. She would do as she promised, if she could.

But while Darrick languished under the unforgiving heat and dust of the Wastelands, Assyria had fed and protected his wife and son. He would spend a thousand years in the Wastelands to know they were safe. Now they were free.

“You’re contemplating the difficulty of commandeering your own ship and sailing north.”

Darrick laughed. “Was I so transparent?”

“A Southerlander prefers the view of the land from the sea.” Law slipped the waterskin back in his trousers. “Also, those are the thoughts I would have, were I you.”

“I know I must be patient. Only I... I never expected to see her again. Now that she is free, and I am free, I struggle against my own iron will to go to her. To take into my arms the son she had held tight for both of us, for five long years. To take from her the incredible burden she’s carried.”

“I may hold you back from doing so, Prince Darrick, but it isn’t because I don’t understand the desire.”

“I haven't asked you, Law. Are you a married man? Children?”

“Aye,” Law responded. “One son and four beautiful daughters. They’re all married and starting families of their own. All except my son.” He reached his hand into the soft ground and dug up a handful of dirt. He stood again and then let the dirt seep through his fingers. “We had hope he would’ve wed Lady Esmerelda, Guardians bless her.”

“Guardians bless her,” Darrick repeated. “What a terrible loss.” He would never betray Ryan’s confidence; that Esmerelda yet lived and awaited him to come to her.

“A shame about Hamish’s lad,” Law said. “A death sentence, for a lass whose promise is already spent.”

“He isn’t dead,” Darrick said, more forcefully than intended. “The Guardian of the Unpromised Future will find himself disappointed should he come to collect. We’ll rouse him yet.”

Law didn’t look convinced, but he nodded. “You’ll be famished after that run, and I’ve some business with Steward Rutland. Shall we?”

They were housed in the old keep. The new one, so grand it could be seen from the sea, much like old Drummond, had been built under Erran’s grandfather. The castle, as they called it, was so grand, it was, Darrick thought, a vision of what a court under a competent and princely king should represent. Not the crumbling, grimy rocks of Duncarrow and a castle devoid of light and joy.

But the smaller keep, nestled back toward where the forest began, was no beggar’s quarter. It was here that Erran’s wife, Mariel, tended to the men who streamed in from nearby towns and villages, sick, destitute, or simply without name or aim. She had a tender heart, one Erran rightly let loose upon those who could most benefit. He’d gifted her the keep when she’d finished bearing children, and it had become her new child. One of her daughters, Agnes, aided her. Agnes wouldn’t have a family of her own. The hunch in her back decided things. Many of the maids tending the lost souls in the old keep were daughters unfit for the marriage bed.

Although Darrick came and went for his daily exercises and sunshine—Godfrey, he was known by, when others asked for a name—his quarters were separate from the others. While most men languished in rows of cots, he and Ryan had a private room on the top floor. He assured the men that he needed no special treatment, but they insisted it was less for his station and more for safety. A false name wasn't enough protection against prying eyes and curious questions. Mariel’s patients were transient; it would be nigh impossible to control the spread of information if one came upon even a whisper of the truth.

Law had left him at the entrance to the keep. Darrick continued on inside, flashing kind smiles at the ladies who bustled about with their pails and rags. He wound up the stairs at the back, leaving the noise and bustle of the infirmary below behind. By the time he reached the door to his room, there were no sounds at all, save the low rumble of snores from Hamish Strong, perched at the bedside of his son.

Hamish stuttered back to life. He wiped the drool with the back of his meaty hand, struggling to regain his bearings.

“Don’t trouble yourself, Steward Strong. You need your sleep. Guardians know, you’ve had enough stolen already.”

“Oh, aye, uh, I dinnae need sleep, your... Prince Darrick. I jus’, ye see—”

“It’s all right. When have you eaten last?”

Hamish exhaled. “Oh, aye, I dinnae. But dinnae fuss yerself, sire.” His belly jiggled when he gave it a hard pat. “Reserves to spare.”

Darrick smiled. “None the same. I can sit with him for a spell while you find some food.”

“Oh, I donnae know, he’s my son and my responsibility.”

“And he’s my friend and brother. It would be my honor.”

Hamish flushed purple. He bowed his head and used the bed to help him stand. “If ye say it is so, well, I cannae argue against brotherhood. I willnae be long.”

“Take the time you need. Grab a better sleep than the chair can offer you, too, if you wish. I’ll not leave him, Hamish.”

Hamish nodded. As he left, he muttered something that sounded like, good lad. Darrick smiled.

When he was gone, Darrick settled into the chair left warm by Hamish’s colossal frame. He looked down upon Ryan, who had never seemed so at peace. He didn’t appear to be sleeping, or even dead, only completely, serenely still. There was color in his face, but it was a false hope, for he’d lost mass since arriving in Whitecliffe, not gained it. Darrick felt if he traced his finger over his cheekbone, it would feel sharp and uninviting.

“Just us again. I daresay that I never foresaw a day where I’d miss your crazed ranting, but here we are, and here I am, missing it all the same.”

Ryan gave no sign he knew Darrick was there. No twitch of understanding. He hadn’t expected one, but he’d held to the hope that this time might be different.

Darrick’s memory of their escape from the Wastelands hadn't been fully restored to him. Once they’d taken the herbs, a strange dizziness had come upon him, and his next recollection was of jostling around in the back of a wagon. The decaying stench of moldy wood, mixed with the lingering remnants of rotting cabbage. Something wet, sticky, pressed against his cheek. Days, it must have been. Days lost. From what he knew of the herb, meant to bring a man near death but just shy of it, he might never possess knowledge of the events following their “death.” Of how they came to be escorted out of the wretched lands that would have killed them, had they not found another way to use death to their advantage. He’d whispered for Andy with no response. He’d even called him Ryan in his delirium.

When he was next conscious, he was no longer being jostled along an uneven road, but was still, lying against something unrecognizable at first. Fresh linens. Behind his head was a pillow; a real pillow, not straw bundled together. He heard voices; men he didn’t know. A strong smell. Bone broth, he’d learn later, when a young woman ladled the hot relief into his mouth.

You are safe. Be well.

He remembered those words. So curious. Did she know who he was? Or was it simply something she said to all the men she tended? You are safe. Be well.

“Who are you?” were his first words spoken. The bustle of energy in the room shifted, and all the voices from before swarmed around him. He’s awake. He lives.

“They call me Missy,” she said. She patted a damp cloth around his face.

“Missy. Curious name.”

“It isnae my name. Tis only what they call me.”

“I see. Missy.”

“And yours, sir?”

“Godfrey,” a man said, answering for him.

“Godfrey,” she repeated with a smile as she wrung the cloth in the basin. As Darrick drifted away, he heard her soft voice say, “What a stately name. Like a prince.”

When he awoke next, Missy was gone. In her place were two men. He didn’t know if this was fewer men than before. The same ones, or different. So much of the world was in pieces.

“He’s waking,” one of them said.

“I am awake. Unless I'm dead, and this is the Unpromised Future?”

“Welcome back to the kingdom, Your Grace.” This was who he later learned was Erran Rutland. “We have never been so invested in a man opening his eyes.”

Law gathered at his side, speaking, about the future, about all they would accomplish. But all Darrick remembered was the sound of Hamish’s cries as he waited for Ryan, too, to wake and join in their joy.

They’d done it. Those were the words Darrick grasped to, for the first time, after a week of delirium. He was free. They were free!

But only he was free.

Ryan was in a new prison; one they’d not yet figured how to break him from.

Now, weeks lost to it, hope was waning.

If he will not wake, why does he not die? Law had asked Missy.

I know not, but there’s a fire in him that isnae so easily extinguished. He is at war with the darkness.

Who will win?

I cannae say, sir. I pray it is him. I beseech the Guardians each night, as I do for all men I look after.

Can’t we bring in a healer? An Enchanter? Darrick had asked when she’d left to refill her basin with clean water from the stream.

It isnae a risk we can take, they’d said, but what they meant was, it isnae a risk we can take for the one who will not be king.

And anyway, they said his body was healed. It was his mind refusing to return to them.

Darrick leaned close to Ryan and whispered, “Did you know... well, yes, you probably do know, but it sounds like something you would say. That statue? They call it Drummond’s c**k. Is that your handiwork? I can see you spreading that around the Reach with glee.”

Ryan remained impassive.

“Ryan, I will not, I refuse. I abjectly refuse to believe the Guardians have weighted my life to be worth more than yours. We both know how you love a good jest, but you have to know when a joke has run its course, brother. It’s time to wake up.”

Would he have done it, had he known this outcome? Darrick toiled over this subject daily. Would he have sought his freedom at the price of Ryan’s life? It was an impossible quandary. The kingdom, for his friend. One life, against many. A question with no answer; none that left his soul anything but restless.

He wrapped his hands through one of Ryan’s and brought it to his mouth. Pressed his lips against Ryan’s still warm flesh. “Esmerelda is waiting for you. Your beauty with the emerald eyes and fire on her tongue. If nothing else stirs you, draw deep upon the memory of her in your arms. Your joy doesn't have to be what it is for these men who conspired to send you in and bring me out. Yours can be as simple, as powerful as love.”

A bright light flashed outside the window. He’d been so consumed he didn’t notice the darkening skies, or the din of fresh rain peppering the earth.

“Please find your way back to us,” Darrick pleaded. “You are my true brother, the one the Guardians should have sent me.” He bowed his head. “If the cost of my freedom is your life, it will not be a debt I’m capable of paying. Nor will it be one I can live with. We are both only men. No matter what the others may say, my life has no more value than any other.”

Darrick looked up just as lightning struck. “And this belief has brought the kingdom to its knees for too long.”