Cursed

1. The Best Adventures Are The Least Expected-3

It only took a single motion for the crowd to hush—the king raised a hand, the noise fading alongside it. The whole room held its breath. Natural light splashed into the room when the double doors burst ajar.

Jon stepped into the room. Aldor had never seen his goofy friend so serious. His boots clicked along stone as he strode to his grandfather, every eye burning a hole through him. He must have changed his outfit. A silver collar contrasted the fur outlining his cloak as he swept past his family. Long, black hair fell behind him in a refined knot. He knelt before his grandfather and bowed his head.

“We are gathered in the great hall of our fathers today to witness the appointment of a new leader, my grandson, Admiral of Dagon.”

Everyone applauded with a deafening eagerness, drowning out the king. He lifted his hand again and waited for quiet. “Jonathan Kemp, son of Saul Kemp, are you ready to uphold the responsibility of being Admiral?”

“I am.”

“Jon, do you swear to protect your people and country, even if it costs your life or entitles you to a worse fate?”

“I swear.”

“Do you swear to obey every request of your king, even if it means following an unreasonable command?”

“I swear.”

“Do you swear to uphold the law and be just to your people?”

“I swear!” thundered Jon.

“Then by the power vested in me, by the people of this beloved country, and by our Ancestors, who keep watch upon us, I proclaim you Admiral Jon of Dagon.”

There were undistinguished cheers, screams, and applause. It was a good kind of chaos. Aldor caught a glimpse of Jon’s face. He was radiant and happier than he had looked in a long time. Aldor couldn’t think of anyone more fitting for the title.

The king stooped and knighted his grandson with a gentle air. Jon got to his feet and turned to face his family, his robes swirling around his ankles. There was another thunderclap of applause, and Jon was embraced by his parents. The onlookers arose from their seats and began to congratulate him. Jon's face puckered in overwhelmed delight.

At last, a chance. Aldor cleared his throat and casually slipped to the table before Jon could find him in the crowd. No one suspected anything as Aldor drove his fork into way too much smoked pork, corn, and salad. He took an extra roll for good measure, ignoring the raised eyebrows and judgmental stares at his heaping plate as he took it into a spare booth to “gorge on.” If the Royals thought he was a nitwit, a nitwit he'd be. He exaggerated stuffing his face with grapes, pretending to eat the feast greedily as he slipped it into a knapsack… Tempest would eat like a queen tomorrow.

The heat rose to his cheeks a little as he sniffed hard, sparing the roll for himself and tucking the sack next to him so it wasn't in obvious sight. Stealing was one of the things he was good at, surprisingly. He did it as little as possible, but sometimes the temptation to treat himself and Glen to a cake they couldn't afford was too much to swallow. He'd always make up an excuse worthy of fooling Glen. He didn't enjoy lying either, but he couldn't help having a talent for knowing how to manipulate the strings just right.

“Hi. Don't expect me to ask you whether you mind or not, I'm still sitting next to you.” Jon sank across from him, Aldor moving ever so slightly to hide the sack under an elbow.

“Congratulations, Admiral.”

Jon gave him a funny look, like trying to see if the compliment was genuine or not.

“Oh, come on, I mean it. Good job. You've wanted this all along, and now you've got it.”

“Thanks. We'll see.”

Jon mopped his forehead, beads of perspiration rolling down his hairline, probably from all the hugs he'd gotten. If everyone in the room gave Jon at least one embrace, that was a lot of body heat.

Jon leaned forward. “So, did you see them?”

“What?”

“The new wanted posters.” Jon glowered at the far wall just past the opened double doors, wanted posters lining the brick. Aldor hoped he wasn't the only one who'd been noticing them increase…That was one of the things that made him trust Tempest when he met her. She might have some answers, especially about those bandits…Perhaps he and Jon could catch a few before he left home.

Aldor studied the wall, unable to read the words, but the grim faces were still apparent. His heart skipped a beat. One of the faces stuck out from the rest, just as foretold…

“But… I thought Tempest was supposed to be on our side?”

“So did I,” murmured Jon. He clenched his teeth, vision going to his grandfather. “It turns out there's a plot to kill the king. Tempest's an assassin, Aldor. it's just by chance that good people have been paying her wages to go after bandits and criminals. It was only a matter of time before the ruffians realized they could use her for their own devices, also. Scary stuff.”

Aldor's eyes narrowed as he squinted at the hand-drawn picture of Tempest's face. The drawing was pretty… good. The artist caught the rebellious streak in her countenance. Uncomfortable all over like he'd crossed an invisible line of trust in he and Jon's friendship, Aldor stood up a little too quickly.

“Hey, where are you—?”

“Will I see you tomorrow?”

Jon held his gaze like he knew something was up. Slight concern furrowed the prince's brow. “I guess so… Join me for the manhunt?”

Jon gestured again to the twisted faces of fugitives pasted to the far wall, the pictures becoming more real and lifelike as he considered the fact that he harbored one of them. Aldor seized his panic and locked it back in control.

“I'll see what I can do.”

“You must be starving.”

The noises of the forest swelled into a low roar as the day continued to accelerate. It took everything in his power to resist the temptation of meeting Tempest right after he left Jon's ceremony. After an internal struggle, he decided it would be best to allow both a chance to catch their breaths. He awoke shortly after dawn to a muggy morning, braving the slight drizzle. He couldn't let Tempest stay deprived of food for much longer, especially since he needed her willing to talk for questioning.

It was a bit odd having to knock on the door of his own fort. Tempest let him inside, Aldor casting a glance over his shoulder to ensure he hadn’t been followed before shutting the door behind him.

It was difficult to tell whether Tempest got any sleep or not. Her eyes were still puffy from the lack of rest, and she smiled sadly at him. “You have no idea.”

Aldor smiled a little when she tore into the loaf, the desire to cure the emptiness in her belly unstoppable. She pressed the last crust to her nose to get one more whiff of the fleeting delight before it disappeared inside her with a single gulp.

“I don't know how to repay you.” Tempest curled up in a corner of the shack, the floor damp and organic. Her body shook, a mound of exhaustion.

Aldor ran a hand over his forehead to mop the wetness away. The crackle of rain on the trees outside still made him uncomfortable—he wouldn't be able to tell if someone was approaching or not. “I do.”

Tempest looked at him quickly, betraying a hint of mistrust. “Yes?”

Aldor gripped his overstuffed pack and pulled out a scrap of paper. He unfolded it, revealing the reward poster to Tempest. “These just went up last night. Do you know who specifically posted them?”

Tempest let out a hard breath, somewhere between a sigh and a scoff. She took the poster, shaking her head. “it's not even a good picture… They've done way better before. I guess the standards in Dagon aren't too high.”

“Hey!”

“I'm sorry, but it's true,” she muttered. “I mean, look at the quality of this thing!”

“That's hardly the point,” Aldor growled. “Bandits are still hunting you, right? Are they responsible for this?”

“I don't know, Aldor. I do dangerous things that don't just require the risk of my life, but my reputation and others. it's probably sketched by a bounty hunter.”

“Why?”

“Exactly how much do you know about the marauders, Aldor?”

Aldor stopped to think. “Next to nothing. Only what you told me yesterday.”

“Everyone's keeping it hushed up,” said Tempest, shaking her head. “They don't want to cause a panic. We're in trouble. The kings are in trouble—they haven't been in this kind of danger for a very long time—and honestly, they can't bring themselves to accept it. This is what I've been doing all along. Tempest works undercover to try and learn as much about the bandits' doings as possible.”

“So, Tempest isn't your real name? You're like the secret guard or something?”

“Kind of.”

Aldor didn't know what to feel at that moment: either awe or sympathy. “Wow.”

“it's not the life I dreamt of choosing” said Tempest faintly.

A hundred questions came to mind, Aldor slowing his heart rate by deep breaths and deciding which queries were most important. “When was the last time the kings were at risk like this?”

Tempest gave him a look that chilled him to his core. “Right when your father died.”

Astonishment and fear exploded in his belly like hot bulbs of light. He caught himself rocking forward and backward on his seat as the weight of way too much information crushed him to dust. He opened his mouth and closed it again. “You don't mean to say… The last time was because of Farthan, do you?”

Farthan. The man—no, creature—responsible for Rowan's murder and the deaths of hundreds of others. The main advocate to the cause of ridding the world of Eldoran of all things foul, weak, dirty, and… impure. In other words, humans. He quickly rose to power as leader of the entire mission, the cause transforming into a violent cult. Its followers transformed into an army of darkened elves, some guardians, nymphs, and bandits. They'd waged war on King Jethro of Ormshire, King Rolav of Longford, King Locke of Dagon, and Rowan accompanied by his own founded empire. The empire disappeared shortly after it started, as predicted—it was nothing without its self-made king.

“Farthan might've been defeated by the kings, but he certainly wasn't killed,” said Tempest, softly. “People are saying he's been biding his time, waiting for the world to forget him so they won't be ready by the time he strikes again. Unlucky for you… You're Rowan's son. After the kings, you're Farthan's chief concern. You could potentially rekindle Rowan's empire again.”

“I don't believe this.” It was partly true. Aldor stared into space for way too long, mouth hanging open, grinding terror bubbling to life in his veins. It seeped through his skin. The worst thing was that no one, not even Jon, knew about this. King Locke, most likely knew. His mind drifted back to what Jon said the night before, about the plot… The plot to kill the king.

“Answer me this: a friend of mine told me that someone's going to try and murder King Locke soon. Obviously, from this poster, everyone suspecting that you're going to attempt it. Is any of that the truth?”

Tempest sucked in her breath, also very white. Her skin was so stretched and translucent, her veins popped in blue cords from her arms and legs. “There's a chance. it's impossible to tell what information’s been planted and what's true. Keep your eyes open, Aldor. For everyone. Your days in Dagon are more than likely numbered.”

Aldor wanted to cry. He wanted to cry like a sad, small, child. He probably would when he got home before his “study” session with Jon. He needed to alert Jon as quickly as possible. No, he couldn't do that. Then Jon would know he was in league with Tempest—an outlaw people were hunting for.

“What can I do to help?”

“Just keep your head down,” said Tempest. Her voice didn't quiver, but it was raw. “I'll let you know if anything new develops.”

The castle resembled an old man perched on a hillside, gnarled fingers gripping rock on a column of stone. The beautifully crowded outline of the city hunched in its shadow. An abyss wrapped around the citadel, a moat, which rendered the structure reachable only by the two bridges suspended over it. Cracks were etched into the turrets which stabbed their way upward into the sky, the roar of the waterfall drowning out all other noises rushing from the town below.

Aldor skirted around the courtyard without much of a glance at anyone else. He tried not to appear too suspicious, but that turned out to be a difficult thing to do with a hood and cloak of any kind. Dagon itself, lying so far north, was rarely visited when not dealing with official business; there were no strangers here.