Alex Barclay - Curse of Kings

“That was the night they stormed King Seward’s Hospital and set it on fire,” said Oland.

Arthur nodded. “The uprising started with the founding of the hospital. King Seward thought he was doing the whole of Envar a great service building a hospital where the plague-stricken could be looked after. The ruler of Dallen at the time welcomed it.”

“But his people didn’t,” said Oland.

“Neither their land nor their livestock had been poisoned, so they wanted nothing to do with the infected patients, even though the plague wasn’t spread from human to human,” said Arthur. “Anyway, the night of the uprising, Samuel Ault’s father had ensured his family’s safe departure to Decresian ahead of him. But, as he was leaving his home, an angry mob descended on him. He was unable to defend himself, and he was beaten and left there to die. His son, Samuel, vowed that his own son, Tristan, would never become an archivist, that he would be trained as a warrior, so that he would always have the skills to survive in what Samuel Ault now came to see as a vicious world. Tristan had no interest in being a warrior – he wanted to follow in his father’s and grandfather’s footsteps, but his father insisted and, from the age of ten, the boy was trained in a special form of combat, Jandro. But, as if the family was condemned to repeat history, Samuel Ault was killed on the night King Micah was overthrown.

“The question is whether Tristan Ault chose to honour his dying father by becoming a warrior or, instead, if he thought that true honour was to be found only by following the Ault family’s ancestral vocation.”

LAND KNEW ABOUT ARCHIVISTS FROM THE BOOKS IN the king’s library, but he had found no mention of Archivist Samuel Ault having a son. His father must have wanted him undocumented, so that there would be no natural expectation that he would follow in his footsteps.

“This is what I know,” said Arthur. “For years, Villius Ren had been King Micah’s closest advisor in practical matters. In matters intellectual, it was Samuel Ault. He was King Micah’s confidant, his scribe, his archivist, the trusted guardian of all the secrets of Decresian. At the time King Micah was overthrown, Tristan Ault was not much older than you are now. I suspect that he was sent away by his father with the history of Decresian – the only thing that could be protected from the treachery of Villius Ren. The last document Samuel Ault would have been working on that night was the census.”

“So, Tristan Ault has the census,” said Oland.

“Perhaps,” said Arthur.

“And where is he now?” said Oland. “Did anyone see him leave the castle?”

“Well,” said Arthur, “there is a story that travelled the length and breadth of Decresian, but no one can trace it to one witness. A boy of his age was seen fleeing the castle the night the king was overthrown. The Craven Lodge had been searing the initials of Villius Ren on to the nape of his neck, as they did to most of us, but this boy struggled, disturbing a lantern and sending oil spilling on to his shoulders. The oil went up in flames against the branding iron and, as The Craven Lodge jumped back from them, this burning boy took the chance to escape. The last he was seen, the flames had died and he was riding off in a carriage filled with chests.”

“Did Tristan Ault abandon King Micah?” said Oland.

“Oh, no,” said Arthur. “There exists an archivist’s oath, a simple two-line oath. It supersedes all other oaths, including that which binds them to their master. Archivists believe that they cannot participate in any event that is to be recorded in the history of the kingdom. They believe that to become a participant would be to curse the future. Their only task is to truthfully chronicle events, and to guard these chronicles fiercely. That is why, if young Tristan Ault decided to take the oath that night and become an official archivist, he would have been compelled to leave the castle.”

“And has Villius Ren ever tried to find him?” said Oland. “I’ve heard no mention of his name in Castle Derrington. And Villius constantly mentions the names of his enemies.”

Arthur shook his head. “To cover the theft of the archives and the census, Villius Ren put the story about many years ago that he slaughtered the entire Ault family.”

“But why, now, would this archivist not come forward?” said Oland.

“As you know,” said Arthur, “archivists lead solitary lives. Samuel Ault would have dealt only with King Micah and Queen Cossima; his father would have dealt only with the ruler of Dallen. Archivists are known for having pride in their work and passion for it, but they seek no public recognition. Their only desire is to faithfully honour the king, the kingdom and its history.”

“But who does Villius Ren say that the burning boy is?” said Oland.

“Oh, you know Villius,” said Arthur. “‘It was a burning rat, a burning weasel…’”

Oland nodded.

“It’s a string of interwoven lies,” said Arthur. “If Villius Ren admits that someone took away the history of Decresian, it would be admitting that King Micah had foreseen Villius’ treachery; otherwise, the documents – of which there were thousands – would never have been packed away in a carriage, ready to be carried away. That would have taken a long time.”

“So, if I could find Tristan Ault, maybe I could find out who my parents are and where I come from,” said Oland.

“I’m afraid that is an onerous ambition,” said Arthur. “Time and again, archivists have witnessed the devastating consequences of misplaced trust, so they trust few.”

“Is there anything else you know about him?” said Oland.

“I have told you everything I know,” said Arthur. He paused. “The only other thing I can think of is that the boy you are looking for, is a man now, close to thirty. And he will bear the scars of a liquid burn on his neck and back.”

As Oland drifted off to sleep, he was occupied by the thought that, along with restoring a kingdom, perhaps he could restore himself, and the cloak of his dark past could be shed. Yet it wasn’t all dark: now that he knew the story of his past was fiction, his father did not have to be a bad man; he was free to imagine an alternative.

He did not have to change his vision of his mother; he had always seen her as brave and strong and loyal. He conjured up a beautiful woman with a kind face, perhaps with his green eyes, perhaps his long fair hair. The comfort of her imagined warmth finally brought him to sleep, and on a makeshift bed in a strange room behind a stinking barn, he had the longest uninterrupted sleep he could remember.

When Oland awoke, he was alone. In the dim candlelight, he saw food on the table. He left it untouched. He went to the small door, and tried to open it. It rattled. It had been latched from the outside. Oland shouted for Arthur. He didn’t care who heard; he didn’t even know who might be there to hear him.

As the hours passed, hunger was turning Oland’s attention to food, but, as the scent of pine needles faded, and the odour of the barn began to seep under the door, he was happy to remain hungry. He lay down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. He realised he had left his bag in the cart. He patted his pockets. The king’s letter was still there. But he had no book to read, nothing to distract him. At the castle, Oland’s days were filled with dozens of tasks that he had to carry out for The Craven Lodge, after no more than four hours’ sleep. Because he had slept long and peacefully the previous night, he was wide awake. And he was still alone hours later when the candle finally burned out.