Prologue
The winter nights that drifted across Abellium were always cold, but Angor felt the chill especially that night. He was staring out across the King’s lands; out to the treacherous Black Forests and plains beyond, the wilds that he had tried incessantly to tame over the long years. Those years had long passed him by and the forest had only grown more dangerous with each lost winter.
The war had rotted away the majestic scenes he had often spent hours trekking to, his horse unable to get by the landscape like he could. Each stone he clambered over, each tree scaled made his muscles ache and his thirst for adventure only growing more desperate. But that was when he was young, and the world had become darker since the King sent him to claim the south. He remembered the days of plenty, when his body was fitter, when he wasn’t so used to his court, when he was naïve and foolish enough to think the world would bow at his feet. Despite everything, he missed those days. He wondered why despite all he had done for his King, all he had accomplished in aid of saving countless men from a slaughter, why the Gods would forsake him now in his gravest hour of need.
His eyes slowly moved to the people in the streets so low beneath him, the men and women who continued with simpler lives, dismissive of the grander picture. They didn’t care why the King wanted to have the South claimed, they didn’t care about politics from those who towered in their great keeps. He couldn’t say he envied them, but in that moment, he would gladly have switched places with any one of them in an instant if it meant he could rid himself from his purgatory, the prison that was supposed to help rather than entrap. He watched as a guard and servant met; drinks in their hands as they spoke quietly to one another, flirtatious words and smiles being exchanged. He made judgement as he often did, deciding with bitter jealousy that they were not in love as deep nor as complex as the love he held for his late wife, or his precious daughter.
“My Lord.” He recognised the voice, but Angor couldn’t respond to him. He didn’t wish to hear the news from whichever lady or lord warring in the north or east, he couldn’t bear to. But the voice spoke louder the second time, too loud to ignore. “Excuse me, my Lord...”
Angor’s head lowered, the pair were kissing and his heart sank at such a sight. “I can’t listen to what you have to say, Percil.” He replied.
“This is important, sir, it cannot-”
“It will wait.” He decreed sharply. “Each moment from the past twenty years Abellium and the King has had my service, my blood. For this... For this they will all wait.”
Percil was an older man who had long ago been a fine colonel in the King’s army, but had quickly grown as a favourite by the sovereign in his youth. Once he came to power, he was given wealth and an honoured position at his king’s side, an advisor who had a decade more of his present king. Unlike many before him, he held his posture tall and his sword remained as supple in his hands as any, still able to cut down overconfident men in their prime before their sword could strike a blow. He had taken the often-mocked position of advisor to the King and made it honourable and respectful once again, a feat that many would not be able to accomplish without a few white hairs in their beard. Yet his calm and collected disposition held a darker side in its wake, his eyes could be sharp like an icicle through the soul when something was done below expectations; allowing many to resent him.
“Angor...” Percil said, losing the official title as easily as a worn leather glove. “Even now you do not see past the end of your nose. Estille has much from her mother, but one quality she has from you is her strength.”
“I’ve heard that too many times over the last few days.” He mumbled. “That her strength has waned before and again she’ll stand up and live through it. But such words are curbed once they have seen her.” He finally turned to him. With him repeating what many had tried to convince him, he wasn’t as encouraged as Percil had hoped. “I hear the doctors talk. The damned cowards believe she won’t last the night.”
Percil went closer to him, standing beside the man he had seen grow from an overconfident boy and looked out across the King’s city of Goldstone alongside him. He had fought alongside him and comforted him when he lost his friends and eventually his wife. He hoped that he wouldn’t need to give away his kind words for his daughter as well.
“I should dismiss them... Send them away.” Angor continued, attempting to swallow his anger, to remain composed before an official of the King. “But I would be branded a hypocrite, would I not?”
“Hypocrite?” Percil repeated, his eyes cold as stone. “You acted for the kingdom, and it was the right decision.”
“Was it?” Angor asked. “Because I think the gods mock me for such a choice. Maybe lives would be saved.”
Percil allowed a smile to cross his face as he spoke his mind. “If the gods were so rooted in politics then we would all be doomed to an unlife of purgatory.” Any other time, he knew Angor would smile at such a joke, but these were not moments to be merry. He would be the first to laugh but no joy came from his lips. “You lowered your sword. That is not a coward’s act.”
“The Gods beg to differ.”
“But they are also merciful.”
“Merciful? If our Gods had any amount of humanity they wouldn’t have allowed a fool to reign.” He replied, ice in his voice. “To curse a child simply because he names me traitor.”
“She isn’t cursed, Angor, and you are no traitor.”
“Then how would you describe it? Day in and day out she fights for what little life she has, she barely eats, each medicine they give her only seems to drain her, she’s barely my little girl anymore.” He shook his head, as if he could shake off the accursed tone in his voice. “There was a time when I could watch her play in the gardens, climbing trees or riding her pony. But now she barely moves an inch from her bed... She cannot be a child, she cannot be anything! And the King sits in his throne and mocks my pain!”
Angor’s thoughts drifted as they often did to his wife, to the beautiful woman he had found like a rose amongst thistles and chosen without hesitation to be his. With each passing year her face seemed to fade more and more, and he knew that one day he would find her name to be a ghost. All that would remain would be her portraits, that hung like angels to keep away the darkness of his heart. He felt his harsh words pierce him and a cold grip crushed his spine, but he did not regret them.
The room was already dark but with such a heavy subject to fill the air it became stifling. The fire couldn’t provide heat or light and every inch of Angor’s prison seemed to suffocate. He was beyond anger anymore, beyond the point of no return – he was growing to finally accept what was inevitable. It made him sick to think of the next hours, all he could do was wait, pondering when he so desired to act.
“My prayers are with you, my lord.” Percil replied, straining at quiet kindness. “And I hope you find the strength to sit by her. For both your sakes.” The rough hand of his superior officer went to Angor’s shoulder and stayed there. He allowed him the time he needed, before he found the moment to deliver his news. “But the boy, my lord… The one captured, his sentence must be decided.”
Angor paused, contemplating what was said. The child was young enough to be naïve of his foolish actions but just old enough to be responsible for them. There was no father to speak of who could save him from the inevitable fate he had weaved for himself. There was no forgiveness that came with the heinous crime of necromancy. But as he considered the crimes of the half-blood, he realised that perhaps the gods had answered his prayers, in a strange way.
“I wish to see the boy, to see if he wishes to repent his crimes.”
Percil wasn’t expecting that response, and for a moment watched him to see if he was in some way joking with him. When this appeared to be untrue, he spoke up. “I-it doesn’t matter if he repents before dawn or not, Angor. He is a magician, and attempted an art that has no place in this world. By our King’s laws he is to be put to death.”
“He is a criminal.” He agreed. “But if he can save the life of another, then perhaps his sentence could be revoked for something less harsh.”
“Angor, don’t-”
Angor turned stiffly to the old soldier, set on following orders still even when children’s lives were at stake. “The King is many things but he will be sympathetic if he can be and this child does not deserve death for his naivety.” He could see the man being torn between what was right and what was his duty and would see him to the edge of this. “Allow me this, Percil. A few minutes with the prisoner.”
“The boy has no allegiance to you or your daughter. He is a wild, unnatural child who has gone against each law we hold against magic. You cannot use him and you certainly cannot save him from his foolish actions.”
“You believe that doing nothing will help her? That pondering the impossible would cure her rather than dabbling in it?” Angor was stripped of his lordly demeanour in an instant, this desperate act was not of the wise, level-headed leader of which Percil knew too well, these were the acts of a man willing to play the role of the Gods if it meant saving his child.
“Don’t be so blind or selfish, boy!” Percil snapped. “Don’t speak to me of these heinous treacheries.”
“Percil-”
“I am the King’s advisor. I advise your King and I advise you in kind – if you go to the dungeons, if you speak to the boy, you seal your fate.” His stony eyes fixed upon him and delved deep within Angor as if he were an upstart footman once again. “Abominations breed abominations, Angor, heed my words and stay away.”
