Jonathan Dunn - The Forgotten King

The great stone tower that composed the inner part of the castle was several hundred yards in diameter at the ground. It tapered off as it went above and below the ground, until, in each direction, it ended in a small, round spire. Downward, in the very depths of the earth, it housed the castle’s dungeons. These were layered, the more depraved criminals kept in the very bottom, and the lesser ones near the surface, all in a collection of circular rooms connected only a by narrow stair.

Gylain reached his floor – for his rooms took the entire level – after a moment. As he did, he was greeted by a man with a clean-shaven face and dark black hair combed forward at the temples; he wore a dark cloak, with an ornate sword hanging from his belt without a sheath, and an iron-knuckled glove on either hand. When Gylain came into the room, the man strode toward him and knelt at his feet, saluting him in both manner and in mind.

“Arise, Montague, and come with me. We have business to attend to.”

Gylain showed no emotion as he spoke, his eyes ignoring Jonathan Montague.

“As you wish,” and the two men passed the guards and entered the room.

It was majestic. The ceiling rose up a hundred feet, and the walls were made entirely of stained glass windows. The room was bare of furniture, except for a writing table and two chairs, the former of which was roughly cut and wobbly. Besides this, there was a bed mat on the floor in the corner, where Gylain slept. He used no bed. The contrast was his obsession: he slept on the cold stone floor so that, when he sat otherwise, he would be more comfortable. It was his belief that things are only known by contrast, that white cannot be seen without black, and comfort cannot be known without pain. It followed, therefore, that to fully enjoy his power and wealth, he must live as the poorest pauper.

When they were in the room and the door was closed, Gylain sat at the desk and Montague in front of it. Their conversation is as follows:

GYLAIN : I have heard and seen that you have taken Alfonzo. Yet something is amiss, for I can see that you are not pleased with yourself. Speak, for there is nothing to fear but death itself.

MONTAGUE : Are my thoughts so easily read? I must work on this. Yet there is something amiss, for although I have taken Alfonzo, the rebels seem to grow only stronger. I have a report from the Elite Guards, that they were forced to retreat by three men, one of whom was transformed into the devil. Whether it is nonsense or commonsense, I do not care. What disturbs me is that our men were frightened away. There was a prisoner, however: Oren Lorenzo. He is in the dungeons now, along with some wretched Frenchman. I could think of no greater torture than to place them together.

GYLAIN : Then it is as I expected.

MONTAGUE : How so? The Frenchman or the devil?

GYLAIN : Neither. I mean destiny, Montague – the fate which presses down upon us, and drowns us in our predestined actions! I cannot control it, yet so easily it controls me. For I can see what comes upon us. I am a harbinger, as is all of the present, for that which comes has already been decided. Did I not know, when I was young, that I would become the tyrant of my people? I did, and though it disgusted me – and though it still disgusts me – it is my fate. Can I argue with God? No, but what I do is not what I desire to do. And what I desire to do I cannot do, for it is written in the book of life that I am something which is not my own. Can the poor man lift himself from the ground, and produce wealth from the air? Neither can the rich become poor. For it is written. Can the blind man open his senses to perceive the dawn? Neither can the man who sees keep himself from seeing. For it is written. Can the weak man raise himself to power, and, by his own purpose, become the tyrant of all? Neither can the powerful, to whom tyranny is given, desert it. Is it a joy to murder and to torture? To plunder and to rob? No, and I only do so because I have no choice. For it is written.

MONTAGUE : What, then, does this mean? For I, at least, am unable to see.

GYLAIN : Thank God for the blindness he has given you. It means this: Prince Willarinus has survived. The tide has turned, and soon it will overwhelm us. The deluge has begun. I can see it, even as I can see its letters etched upon my eyes with a fire’s brand, and spelled with blood upon the empty pages of my mind. The man you fought in the forest, is it not he?

MONTAGUE : Perhaps, but Alfonzo gave him no special consideration. We will see. Should I return to the forest, to look into the matter?

GYLAIN : Yes, it would be wise. God has predestined, perhaps, but I am eager to defeat him. If he carries out his judgment through the rebels, it is them we must battle. Yet, we have politics to consider. The Queen of Saxony is to arrive this week, and it would be best if the domestic front was silent during her stay. Cybele is not Casandra; the daughter is not the mother. But I would still possess her – for her own qualities, and for her father’s hatred. She knows of Celestine, but she is a hard woman, a polite woman. She knows the nature of power, and the nature of morality by strength. If God’s morality is his strength to conquer, it can be no different for men.

MONTAGUE : And what of me? Am I to be present at the feast?

GYLAIN : Do you object?

MONTAGUE : No, with pleasure, my lord. If power is sweeter than love, it does not preclude it.

GYLAIN : Perhaps. You may go now.

MONTAGUE [exiting]: I will return when the queen arrives.

GYLAIN [to himself]: Power sweeter than love? No, for the first is the means, the second the ends. Do I not have all the power a man can be given? Yet I do not have love, and I am lost. I can move mountains, perhaps, but I have nowhere to put them; and no reason, other than vanity. Does power console me in my pain, and rejoice with me in my happiness? No, but I must ask: does love?

GYLAIN [pacing in front of the stained-glass windows]: Man is created in the image of God, and yet is sinful and corrupt. What conclusions can we draw? Yet even among men, there are those who are righteous, and those who are evil. God has appointed our positions, and given us the actions we must take, even as he judges those same actions. But why must I be evil? Could it not be another, could it not be Alfonzo? Why is it my destiny to be against all that is good, to destroy and tear down? What wretched fate is this, that God has given me? It is my destiny to be cruel, can I complain? For I am but a servant of God. Like master like servant. God is cruel; so I, too, must be cruel. God is heartless; so I, too, must be heartless. Yet look, what wretched company this destiny is. It precludes us all to foolishness.

GYLAIN [in a whisper]: To hell with destiny – to hell with me!

Chapter 20

Meanwhile, far below the tower where these things were taking place, something else of importance was happening. The dungeon occupied the same tower as the rooms above, though it was as far below the ground as they were above it.

There was a layer of grime and mold along the walls that obscured the stones and left only a black, formless mass in their stead. Since it was a continuation of the massive stone tower above, the dungeon was circular, and only a narrow stairway led from level to level, cell to cell. It came down through the middle of each room, while the prisoners were chained to the sides. There were doors between these levels: barred, not solid.

The last of these levels was called the Devil’s Door, because no one in it ever survived to be released. To the superstitious prisoners, this was the devil’s doing – for those in the bottommost cell did not simply die, but rather, disappeared. Whenever a prisoner was released, he first passed through each of the cells above his own, traveling up the central, winding stairway. Those prisoners in the Devil’s Door never passed upwards again, whether living or dead.