Broken Crown

Elspeth knew what the tolling of the bells meant. An hour ago, she would have cared. They rang out behind her, echoing in her wake as she walked away from the castle. Dong… Ding – Ding… Dong… Ding… Around her the streets of Tamor came to a shuddering halt as everyone looked towards the castle. Elspeth didn’t bother turning around. She pushed through the crowd, blocked her ears to the murmurs and mutters and whispers. She kept her eyes glued to the cobblestones, shouldering her way past the carts and the now restless people. Behind her, the bells continued their steady toll. Ding… Dong – Ding… Ding Dong… She forged on towards the apothecary. The whispers were getting louder now, panicked hissing in her ears like snakes, and Elspeth could feel eyes starting to watch her. She was, after all, still wearing the colours that denoted her servant’s position in the royal household. Maybe she would sell the fabric for scraps – she was sure Romina could make good use of it, and she needed all the money she could get, now. Stupid, i***t Prince and his arrogant cruelty. A spiteful part of her hoped the bells were for him. “Elspeth!” Romina called, and the girl looked up. Romina was an old woman, the crevices in her face as numerous as her years lived. She had grey hair that fell in ropes down her back and her eyes were as sharp and bright as a hawk’s. “What’s happened girl? Those bells -” “I know what the bells mean, Romina. And I don’t care. The lot of them can go hang. Do you have the medicine?” Romina studied Elspeth with a practiced eye. “Don’t you work for the palace, girl?” “I did. An hour ago.” Elspeth could feel her jaw clench and her hands shake. “I don’t want to talk about it. Will this cover the medicine? It’s all I have.” Romina picked up the copper coins and inspected them, throwing occasional glances between Elspeth and the castle, where the bells still tolled their steady beat. Dong… Da – Ding… dong… “It’s enough for half.” Elspeth closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. “Will this cover the other half?” she asked, indicating her tunic. “I won’t be needing it anymore.” Romina felt the fabric between her fingers, carefully evaluating its worth. “It’ll do. Clean it and bring it by this evening. I’ll give you the rest of the medicine then.” The tension in Elspeth’s shoulders relaxed a little. “Thanks Rom.” Romina’s eyes softened. “How is she?” Elspeth swallowed heavily, the tension returning in the set of her shoulders. “The same. I just – I just need to get her out of here. Once I have enough money – she – it’ll be better when we’re out of the city. I just need to get enough money saved up and then she’ll be better.” Romina offered her a tight smile. “I’ll keep an ear out for work for you.” “Thanks Rom.” She shoved the small bag Romina offered her into her pocket and didn’t quite manage a smile. “I’ll see you later.” As she turned and headed home she didn’t once looked back at the castle, where the bells still tolled in mournful song. Ding… Ding Dong… Dong… ***---*** Tristan was not having a good day. First, the girl he’d spent the night with – Alidia? Samia? Idahria? – had actually stayed the night rather than leave before he woke up. She seemed to think that meant something. Something beyond his incompetent servants being incapable of doing their jobs, at any rate. When he had finally managed to rid himself of her, his breakfast had been cold. Cold! What was the point in employing a chef if they couldn’t manage the simple task of keeping his breakfast warm? They were lucky he was a merciful Prince, otherwise they would be bereft of work. Then his tutor had stupidly thought that he should learn about the social classes of Tamor, and the people in the wider province of Terra. “Sociology” he had called it. Tristan had scoffed and left the class early. He was the Prince. What need had he to learn of those lesser than him? So long as they paid their taxes and didn’t infect his castle with their drool and dirt he saw no point in learning about them. It would one day be his job to rule them, not know them. His arm had been off during his fencing lesson, and that had carried on through his archery lesson. His horse had been in a temper when he had tried riding him. And some i***t serving girl had spilled a pitcher of wine down his new tunic, making him late for lunch. That one he had fired. As satisfying as her grovelling had been she had ruined a tunic worth more than her pitiful life. She was lucky he didn’t demand she pay him back the value of the tunic. “Burn this,” he instructed a servant as he threw the spoiled tunic at them. “And bring me a replacement.” The servant knew better than to talk, and bowed their way out of the room. Tristan rolled his eyes and looked at himself in the mirror while he waited. At least the wine hadn’t gotten on his skin. The servant returned, bearing a new tunic, and after deeming it acceptable Tristan threw it on, along with the Royal Signet Ring his father had gifted him on his eighteenth birthday, before striding down to the dining hall. By the Seven he was starved. It wasn’t until the dining hall was in sight that he realised something felt wrong. The castle was silent. The hairs on the nape of his neck stood up, and his breath caught in his throat. There were no servants scurrying through the halls. There was no chattering or laughter coming from the dining hall. The air around him smelled metallic. Tristan wiped his hands against his trousers, suddenly hyper-aware of his surroundings. He looked behind him – nothing – before creeping towards the ajar door of the dining hall. His breath stuttered out in short, sharp bursts, and his heart seemed intent on beating its way out of his chest. His gut was roiling, and that sense of complete wrongness made him want to sprint in the opposite direction. He pressed his hand against the stone wall, grounding himself, before he dragged in an unwilling breath. Breathe. He needed to breathe. He opened the door. Tristan didn’t register the sight before him, at first. His mother, father, and uncle sat at the table, servants twisted like ragdolls on the floor. They were all so still his first thought was that they were playing a prank. And then his uncle raised his goblet to his lips, dragging in a deep mouthful of wine before turning to look at Tristan. Finally, Tristan saw the blood. It stained the walls, the flagstones, the rugs. It had spattered on the table, the food, was pooling beneath the dead servants on the floor, and – Tristan’s legs gave out from underneath him. His mother and father’s throats. Open to the bone and still dribbling blood down their clothing, staining the intricate golden threads a deep red. “Tristan, so good of you to join us,” his uncle’s voice was as jarring as being thrown from a horse, and Tristan’s eyes darted to his as he rose from his chair. “Uncle Melas,” Tristan stuttered, barely able to draw breath. “What – what -?” “Oh… yes… nothing personal, dear boy. Well – a little personal. It was quick, if that’s what you’re wondering. And I’ll make it quick for you too.” Tristan looked sharply up at his uncle, at the face almost as familiar as his own. But Melas wasn’t looking at Tristan – he was looking to the side, at someone hidden behind the door. “Kill him,” he said simply, before turning and resuming his place at the table. It felt as if Tristan was caught in a vacuum. All the air left his lungs and he was numb, the earth crumbling out from beneath his knees. What? he tried to gasp, but no sound passed his lips; instead, a strangled whine ripped itself from his throat. Before he could think, a pair of bloody leather boots moved into his line of sight, and candlelight hit the cold steel of a blade. Tristan didn’t think, he just moved, instinct taking over before his mind could catch up. The sword sliced his chest, but it wasn’t deep and it wasn’t his throat, and that was all that mattered. Run, a voice in his head screamed at him, and Tristan stumbled to his feet, running as fast as his legs could carry him. He didn’t look back; he darted and weaved through the passages in the palace, trying to lose anyone and everyone who might have been after him. Heavy footsteps thudded in his wake, voices barking orders and demands, and Tristan couldn’t make out the words over the blood pounding in his ears. Somewhere, he heard the bells toll. Dong… Ding – Ding… Dong… Ding… The bells signalling the death of a royal. The death of his parents. At the hands of his uncle. Tristan rolled his ankle on a loose rock and crashed into the flagstones. No… No no no no no no no – He had to go back for his parents. He could save them. Maybe they were still alive. If he could just get back – The image of their necks, gaping wide maws dribbling blood down their expensive clothes had him gagging up the remnants of his breakfast. His uncle – his uncle Melas had done it. But why? Why? Tristan would never have believed it if he hadn’t seen it for himself. Kill him, his uncle had said. As if he had been asking for more wine rather than ordering the death of his only nephew. He couldn’t go back. He shook the fogginess from his head and used the wall to drag himself onto unsteady feet. He had to get out. He had to escape. They would find him. They would kill him. He wasn’t sure how he managed to escape without being seen, but it was nightfall by the time he left the castle and stumbled his way down to the city. The streets were, for the most part, empty. He kept his eye out for any patrols, and when he saw one he ducked into a dirty dark alleyway and hid himself behind some trash. By the Seven, but it was cold. The stones beneath him sapped what little warmth he had, and his breath ghosted before him. His fingers and toes tingled and his lungs ached with every breath. He raised his hand to his chest, trying to rub the discomfort away, and when he felt something wet his hand came away stained red. Tristan’s legs shook and crumbled beneath him, and his breath couldn’t seem to reach his lungs. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sticky dark blood staining his hand. His fingers trembled and his eyes drooped, his vision blurred. He could hear footsteps, but couldn’t tell if they were close or far; friend or foe. He was too tired to care. “Please just make it quick,” he croaked out, using what little dignity he had left to stop himself slumping on the rancid cobblestones. The footsteps stalled. “Oh you have got to be kidding me.”