Rusted chains dragged along the ground behind The Oracle. His white beard hung by his waist and aged features plagued his face. His mouth hung open, spittle slowly drooling as he walked. He walked so slow that the Venisian guards, carrying black scythes behind him, were whacking at his back every few steps.
The guards had typical Venisian features. Sunken eyes in the back of a pale head with hair black as tar. One of the guards hissed at The Oracle, reminding him that the king did not take well to visitors—and most of all, late visitors.
The walk was long, which was part of the problem for The Oracle. His legs had atrophied since he arrived as a willing guest. His welcome, however, had not been what he expected. The return journey had been without much dialogue, since Lord Cythos was a quiet man. Upon arriving at the palace of the magnificent Red Star castle, his stay had been a bitter and cold experience. His cell was not in the dungeon. It was not a guest’s quarters either. It was on ground level behind a trap door in the king’s hallway, leading up to the grand stairwell. It was here where they were trudging now—up and up they went over the stairs.
His face was gaunt and excess skin hung from his belly. He was never a fat man, but one meal a day had certainly turned him lean and sickly. He had been given a new name by the guards in his time here. “Carium,” they called him. The Oracle knew not what that name meant in the native tongue of Venistar, but he pieced it together one day when a common-tongue guard called him “Scum.”
The Oracle lifted his eyes to the architecture above the stairwell. Gothic, empirical structures filled up the back wall where one would expect the throne chair to be, but the stairs rose all the way to the top and then veered right. At the top of the stairwell the guards did lead him right, and then before them was another one-hundred-yard walk across a wide throne room. The ceilings were huge, and it made The Oracle feel like he was smaller than a mouse.
King Tuuka sat the throne at the end of the hall with his pale face leaned back against his black, stone throne chair. Jagged spikes rose up from the top of the chair and two guards clad in black armor with spiked bats stood on either side of the king. Spears hung across their backs.
The Oracle recognized the men standing below the high dais, with arms crossed in reverence. Lord Cythos, his larger-than-life guard, Kyn the Giant, and his newly named War General, Aryzant. A small battalion of twenty troops stood in two symmetrical lines of five on either side of the aisle. The assembled group felt small, given the size of the throne room and the height of the ceilings.
The air smelled of incense or myrrh, something The Oracle had grown accustomed to smelling in his short time locked away inside the Red Star castle. They jarred to a halt before the steps leading up to the high dais.
King Tuuka’s face was before The Oracle up close for the first time since he had arrived. It was smushed, pressed in. His nose was up turned and the wrinkles in his face were so deep that they appeared like scars. The bags under his eyes seemed to block his vision, and the crown upon his head was full and big. The crown was the only piece of his appearance that indicated his kingship, for he wore a simple maroon gown with a thin black tunic underneath it.
“The Oracle of Dalrin. What an interesting guest to accompany my men home. Did you get lost, oracle?” asked King Tuuka. His voice was raspy like sandpaper.
The Oracle cleared his throat, having not spoken in quite some time. “I come with…” he struggled to breath, forcing out the words. He knew this was his only chance to prove his worth. “…information. I hope…to be of…service.”
King Tuuka’s interest appeared to wane quite easily. He looked to Lord Cythos now. The big lord was bulkier than The Oracle had remembered. A sword longer and thicker than the guard’s pikes rested in a scabbard on Lord Cythos’ back.
“Lord Cythos, where is the traitor?”
Lord Cythos put a hand to his mouth and gave a shrill whistle. The ten-foot doors to the throne room opened slowly and four guards came lumbering through, dragging a man by his arms. The man had a brown bag over his head and rope binding his wrists. There were sounds of some struggle initially before the man in captivity decided to come to his feet and walk the rest of the way. One of the guards winded up for a decisive smash to the captive’s back with his pike but Lord Cythos gave a stern look, and the swing was cut off mid-way.
The captive was dropped to the floor before the king like a bag of oats. He wriggled around like a worm, expecting to be struck and kicked but nothing came. He soon calmed.
“Remove that bag,” said the king. The Oracle winced at his hideous voice. It was not pleasant to hear, even for the guards whose bodies tensed up at its sound. Voices echoed quite loudly in the large room. The Oracle glanced up; the ceilings rose up so high that even the distant stars appeared close.
The guards yanked the bag off the head of the captive. It was Zdeno, the assassin.
“The man who can’t be killed,” began the king as he stared at Zdeno. “This is your last chance to explain yourself, Zdeno. Or else, I shall have you strung up at the highest tip of the tallest tower of my castle and leave you there to rot until your flesh no longer covers your body.” The king began to cough vehemently, spewing up clots of blood. The Oracle was shocked to see a lady in scantily clothing pop out from behind the king’s throne chair and take to wiping the spewtum with a cloth. Where had she come from?
Lord Cythos withdrew his sword. The Oracle had no doubt that it was an executioner’s sword. The blade made a loud clang sound when it was brandished. The guards eyed the blade warily. Zdeno kept his rebellious glare fixed on his king.
“There’s a reason I have you and The Oracle brought to me at the same time,” said Tuuka. “It has been time enough since my daughter’s betrothal to the prince of Dalrin. There are items on my agenda I intend on getting to, sooner rather than later.” The last few words rolled out painfully slow. He was winded from speaking, and he leaned forward to catch his breath. His servant lady rushed to him with a green and foamy mixture to slurp down.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
Zdeno’s hair was damp with sweat from being contained inside the bag. “I told you already, I gave you the sap of the Silver Tree. Immortal life awaits you inside the sap’s properties.”
“But you lie, Zdeno. Does he not, Cythos?”
Cythos gave a curt nod.
“And The Oracle had spoken otherwise, isn’t that right, Carium?” The king turned his gaze towards The Oracle. A new red light slowly filled the air in the room.
“The Red Star,” whispered one of the guards. All looked upward toward the glass ceiling. The infamous Red Star of Venistar had begun to cover the night sky.
“Isn’t that right, Carium?” the king said again.
The Oracle nodded. “It is true enough. I saw Zdeno on the night of his theft. He took the sap of the Silver Tree for himself, as we all know by his undying nature. But the sap that he wishes you to have yourself…that is just your ordinary sap.”
“Do not speak in vague terms, Carium,” said Tuuka. Lord Cythos ran a finger along his glinted sword. The Oracle swallowed hard. This was his chance to evade another long stay in that dark, cramped cell. He would not let himself be fooled back into that space. He must give more.
“Very well, lord king,” The Oracle paused, gathering his thoughts. “Zdeno brought three things back with him. The silver sap of the sacred tree, the sap of a pine tree, and a blood sample tested and tried by the talented Lord Varisy of Dalrin’s biggest dungeon.”
“Let me pause you there,” said Tuuka. He adjusted himself in his throne seat. He batted away an attempt by his servant girl to dab at the corner of his mouth where blood had dried and crusted over. “Why is it that I can never get a clear answer from an oracle about the nature of that blood sample? Vadagar!” the king shouted for one of his guards. The guard called Vadagar strode promptly up to his king. “Brandish the blood sample for me that you have kept safe.”
The guard withdrew a tube with a sample of silver blood swooshing around inside. Tuuka pointed to the tube, looking at The Oracle. “What is this?”
“A blood sample of the Silver Tree’s keeper,” said The Oracle.
“Keeper? Why have I never heard of this term before?”
“I have failed to clarify in the past, lord king. The Silver Tree picked its keeper and protector of its silver sap many hundreds of years ago—dating back to Visonel Mora, the First Keeper of the tree.”
“And you claim, as an oracle, to have found the heir to this position…in Dalrin?” Tuuka looked to Cythos, “Did you see this lady in Dalrin, Cythos?”
“I did,” he replied. “She was a fair lady, with brown hair and brown eyes. Zdeno took her blood. Lord Maykeep informed me of her secret.”
King Tuuka looked back to The Oracle, who was waiting patiently to speak again. The Oracle had seen the king of abuse that was subject to any who dared speak out of turn with the king. “Now tell me, Oracle, what is it about this silver blood that courses through this girl’s veins that ought to be so valuable to me?”
“It’s immortal properties, lord king. You see, the Silver Tree had entrusted one bloodline in its early days to keep its sap, its blood, running through their veins to personify the wishes and the commandments of the tree. Unfortunately, through the years, that connection between the keepr and the tree was lost through the rise of Dalrin’s own selfish rulers. The religion grew stale, and the tree became more tradition than anything.”
“And when did the age of the oracle begin, pray tell me.”
The Oracle looked to the ceiling to think, taking a minute. “Around nine-forty after, lord king.”
“So, what is it about you, Carium, that grants you special prophecy?” Tuuka’s interest had been piqued.
“I spend many hours in the presence of the tree. Thinking and meditating on its wishes,” said The Oracle. “The king of Dalrin did not take my words with care, lord king. And that is why I figured my services were better used here, by your side. Assuming, that is, that you’d have an interest in…” The Oracle trailed off.
“In what, Carium? Do tell me.”
The Oracle gulped nervously. “Establishing a new caliphate. The caliphate of the Silver Tree.”
King Tuuka was pleased with those words. He looked at the tube of silver blood, twisting it around with his fingers and examing it. “And what are we to do with this, Carium? You did say that its properties are…immortal,” the word came from his tongue like poison.
Lord Cythos stirred restlessly. Zdeno grit his teeth. The palace was quiet. The sounds of a light rain pattering the castle began to fill the room.
The Oracle swallowed again. He could feel his palms sweating. A trickle of sweat ran down his temple and onto his cheek. “That blood is sacred, not to be used. But there is a different way. It is a way that would not bring dishonor to the Silver Tree.”
“Which is?” asked Tuuka. He let out a vicious cough, spitting blood into a cloth.
“Binding yourself to the girl.”
King Tuuka’s mouth opened into an “O”. Zdeno began to breath rapidly, realizing his relevance to the king’s cause was growing thin and the king would soon remember his promise to string him up on the highest tower.
“I can be of help, lord king,” stammered Zdeno. Tuuka’s pleasant thoughts turned to bitterness at the sound of Zdeno’s voice.
“Did I ask for your input, traitor?” Tuuka’s guards took a step toward Zdeno, who shuttered with a few shallow sobs.
“Please don’t…don’t string me up.” Zdeno lifted his hands together in a clasped motion as if begging for mercy. He leaned his head down to the tile floor.
“Enough,” demanded Tuuka. “Quit your sobbing, Zdeno. You have betrayed the very thing you once became. A stone-cold killer, you once were. Now you’re just a piece of tragedy with no death in sight. It is a travesty, really, that you cannot be killed any longer.”
“There is a way,” interjected The Oracle.
Tuuka’s face grew serious, his eyes darting to The Oracle’s. The Oracle nodded and saw that the king was waiting for an explanation. “Zdeno can take his own life. Or the Silver Tree can be destroyed. That is the only way for Zdeno to lose his life.”
“What if I take his head?” asked Lord Cythos. Tuuka seemed to have the same question.
“Then he would be a headless man, but he would survive. In time, he would learn to walk and continue as normal,” said The Oracle. King Tuuka gave a vile laugh at the thought.
After the laughing died down, the king seemed to forget Zdeno once again. He was back to The Oracle. The Oracle was peppered with questions, and he did his best to fill in the king of Venistar on the nature of the silver blood. He soon asked of the girl with the silver blood and her name.
“That girl, Vaya Mora, is it? She’s mine,” said Tuuka. “I have come to a decision,” said Tuuka, addressing the court now. “We shall travel to Dalrin, make our camp with my daughter, Elswitta, at Baronview. Once our visit is deemed safe, we will fake a return home with some of our weaker men. Aryzant will lead that fake return home. But Lord Cythos and I, we shall build our weapons and our army there in Baronview. No one will be suspecting an attack from Dalrin’s own capital.”
Lord Cythos nodded his head, sheathing his sword. Zdeno looked behind him, finding the eyes of The Oracle.
“And you,” began Tuuka, pointing at The Oracle, “will be coming with us. We will need a mediator with this mysterious Silver Tree. And I plan to wed myself to the girl Vaya. Our binding will begin a dynasty. It shall be the immortal dynasty of the Valnaraks.”
With that, King Tuuka gave a wild laugh. Blood and coughing created a great mess at his feet. Zdeno was escorted away to be strung up on the highest tower. His wails and cries filled the entire palace, drowning out the sound of the steady rains. The red glare of the Red Star left the room.
The Oracle grinned. His plan was working. Venistar was coming, and Dalrin’s demise was on the horizon.