It was not long before the observant Alon the Cup Bearer mentioned the absence of the infamous Zdeno from his seat. It was never a good thing for a known assassin to be missing from a crowd of people. “Have him found, now.” The king had said. “And return to me yourself quickly thereafter. I’ve got wine to drink, and I can’t do that without my cup bearer. Now is as likely a time as ever to have my cup tainted.”

Alon the Cup Bearer nodded emphatically and whispered to Darvos. Darvos swung his clumsy body around, shimmying carelessly through the seats and knocking people around as he did so. He was larger than a doorframe and as graceful as a bull. Waryon soon returned from his post by the podium where he had announced the start of the games.

“Took you long enough,” said King Aydar. He scratched his scruffy beard. Waryon had noticed his lord king did so quite often—particularly when he was anxious or annoyed.

“What bothers you, my king?” asked Waryon.

King Aydar scoffed. “Are you a child? I am king, Waryon. I don’t have time not to be bothered!” That had settled the conversation. Waryon knew to keep to himself when the king was in such a mood. Queen Lenora was the one to eventually whisper to Waryon that the assassin Zdeno was not in his seat.

“Well, he isn’t a pet, is he? The man may move around as he wishes, eh?” asked Waryon.

“He is not a typical guest, Waryon. Even you know that” replied the queen. They both sat facing the jousting field before them.

“He is exactly that—a guest. Not a prisoner. They wouldn’t try something here—not now. It’s too obvious,” said Waryon. Part of him was skeptical, but to admit to some apprehension would unsettle the queen, he knew. He was the voice of reason for not only the king, but also the queen.

“Perhaps that is it,” said the queen. “If it is too obvious, perhaps that is the perfect time.” Waryon just shrugged and no more was spoken of the matter.

Rounding the bend upon their horses was Ser Ganator of Wexocar and Barrett the Boy of the Crag. Barrett the Boy was a well-known local, who was certainly not a boy at the ripe age of fifty-two. His joy for dueling, jousting, and riding had gifted him the name The Boy. Many thought he’d never stop jousting until he was on his death bed. Even in his armor down below he appeared as if he could be twenty again. The tight armor and chainmail disguising his beaten body from the years of action.

Ser Ganator had spurred his horse around the corner of the railing faster and was gathering a head of steam. His brown silky hair hung out from the back of his helmet. A blue feather protruded from his helmet and a blue crest was emblazoned on his chest.The caparison on the horse (which was purely decorative) was a checkered pattern of blue and yellow as was his lance.

“Where is he from?” asked Illena. Rohinar noted the interest in her tone.

“Are you into him already? He hasn’t even broken a sweat yet,” said the prince. Illena ignored him.

“Ser Ganator of Wexocar,” said Waryon, who was sitting just above Illena. “He’s a well-respected knight of those lands. He travelled quite a distance to be here.”

“And for what?” scoffed Rohinar. “He’s certainly not working to earn my favor by being here.”

“Perhaps the fat purse of gold that awaits the victor? You seem to imagine everything must gravitate around your stupid betrothal,” sneered Illena. “I’d be far better off as the heir given my maturity and your lack thereof.”

“Enough, I won’t hear your bickering while I am trying to enjoy the tournament,” said Queen Lenora. The king was deaf to the arguing, shouting with the crowd and raising his fists in the air.

Ser Ganator of Wexocar smashed the end of his lance into the breastplate of Barrett the Boy, knocking him back in a loud bang. Miraculously, Barrett the Boy stayed on his horse. His lance was still in hand, but he was hanging limply from his horse, stunned. Ser Ganator rounded the tilt again. He had the momentum, and he was ready for the killer blow. Barrett the Boy, garbed in his famous maroon, seemed to come-to at the crucial moment. Raising his lance, it was still too late.

Ser Ganator’s lance smashed through Barrett’s breastplate, splintering the armor and sending him flying from the stirrups and into the fence. The locals supporting Barrett the Boy gasped. The neutrals only paused a second, holding their breath and wondering whether Barrett the Boy had even survived such an ordeal. Once there was movement spotted in his legs, the crowd went berserk for Ser Ganator. He raised his lance into the air and completed a victory lap upon his magnificent horse with its blue and yellow checkered caparison.

Removing his helm, Illena nearly fell from her seat. His brown eyes and flowing brown hair complimented a white-teeth smile. Rohinar sulked silently, embarrassed by his sister’s blind adoration.

“You don’t even know him,” Rohinar whispered. His thoughts shifted to his shining moment that was yet to come, when all the guests would hold their breath to hear who he would choose as his betrothed. The best part—father would not know for certain until the words parted from Rohinar’s lips. Only in Dalrin did that tradition stand. Nobles came from far and wide to see the event with a burning curiosity.

A guard returned had returned with news of Zdeno’s location. The king initially shrugged the arm away. Darvos tried again, this time startling the king when he saw who it was. Darvos could barely speak above the noise of the crowd. Ser Ganator was giving a wave to the Aydar family and Illena was blowing a kiss.

“He was just going for a walk along the ramparts with Ser Jaqon, my king.”

“The Red Crow? Isn’t he supposed to be hunting along our perimeter with his crows? King Aydar’s face nearly made Darvos chuckle. It was contorted into a frazzled look.

“His men are there; I saw them. Like ants, wandering the Crag and the Eight Paths,” Darvos’ attention was diverted. Two new jousters were getting lined up down below.

“Hey, oaf. Your attention—now, please,” snapped the king.

“Oh, erm, my apologies, king.”

“My king, Darvos. Don’t be so dumb. You’re big but you don’t need to be dumb too,” said King Aydar. Darvos just stood with his mouth hanging open, staring at the king. “Okay, forget it,” said King Aydar. “Go and find Ser Sledda. Tell him to keep an eye on things from afar. I trust him, and him alone to be sneaky enough.”

“But…” stammered Darvos.

“Yes?” asked Aydar.

“He is jousting, so he is busy.” Darvos realized his mistake. The king would not take no for answer. He scampered off before his King could shout at him, seeking to find Ser Sledda before his joust began.

Zdeno turned the corner of the long flight of steps leading ever downward. He had a concealed face by a mask made of steel. It went over his nose and mouth but left his cheeks bare and his eyes darting energetically. He had a narrow frame and a dark purple cloak. He glided past two guards who went to withdraw their swords but found the steel was caught in the scabbard. Looking puzzledly at their scabbard and then at Zdeno, there was no explanation to be found. Zdeno held out a hand to calm them.

“Temporary,” he said in a thick accent.

“Where is that accent from? Who are you?” asked one of the hunters of the Crow’s Quarters.

“I seek Red Crow,” said Zdeno. “Is here?” Zdeno flipped a dagger over in his hand nervously.

“Commander!” shouted the hunter. “Commander, someone is here for you. I can’t tell if he wants to talk to you or assassinate you, I must be honest.”

Ser Jaqon came around the corner from the hallway where their quarters were lined up on either side. “You found us,” said the Red Crow. Lord Varisy followed shortly after; his lips twisted into a pleasant grin.

Zdeno bowed lightly, tucking his dagger into his thin leather belt beneath his purple garb. “We might hurry. Men look for me. People not trusting of me in these area.”

Ser Jaqon chuckled. Varisy waved a hand and the three men walked down the hall toward the experiment room. Men were tidying up the rooms that had been ravaged previously. Blood still stained the floors. Zdeno was careful to step around the blood in his light boots.

They arrived in the experiment room. The Homless Man who had been captured and killed was still laying on a table. Varisy had a variety of testing tubes laying around, some broken and others hung up neatly.

“You, did it?” asked Zdeno.

“By ‘it’, you mean this?” Varisy held up a tube with a black liquid inside of it. “Yeah, it was tested inside the blood of this man here,” Varisy pointed to the prisoner who had gone rogue. “He killed many men and was rage-induced by its effects, but this is not the substance you are looking for. Tell King Tuuka that we must extract from the Silver Tree’s sap itself to get those results.”

“Then do this thing,” said Zdeno casually.

“I cannot. They would execute me,” replied Varisy. Ser Jaqon was looking back and forth, not saying a word. His eyebrows were raised, and his lips pursed. He ran a nervous hand through his pitch-black hair.

“The immortal blood of the Silver Tree is sacred and not to be experimented with. All of Dalrin knows this, Zdeno.” Varisy moved to another test tube and lifted it to eye level. He gave it a shake as the yellow-ish liquid began to turn to a murky brown and then white. “I fermented this one and added a bit of the nutrients from the Sea of Glass. It turns white as you can see.”

“Which means what?” asked Ser Jaqon.

“It is not pure. The sap of the tree would be a pure silver. You would know, should you happen to see it.”

“Then why did you test the nutrients of the Sea of Glass?” asked Ser Jaqon.

“We pay coin. You try to give us the immortal blood. King Tuuka send me to find,” said Zdeno. Ser Jaqon stared at him a while, trying to get over the steel mask that covered his face.

“Does that actually work?”

“This?” Zdeno pointed to his mask. “Yes.”

Ser Jaqon gave a skeptical look and then a chuckle. “You wouldn’t find one of those in Dalrin. Perhaps try to blend in better next time you fill the guest list as an assassin from King Tuuka.”

“I am guard of the Lord Cythos,” said Zdeno, denying his purpose.

“Lord Cythos could have come alone and been fine. He’s competent enough, I am sure,” replied Ser Jaqon.

“Red Crow upset. Why?” asked Zdeno. Ser Jaqon left the room, shaking his head. He did not have the time to quarrel with the Venisi assassin. There were checkpoints to attend to outside the castle. The king would not appreciate it if he found Ser Jaqon to be in league with Tuuka’s hitman. Lord Varisy could take the risk upon himself, for all Jaqon cared.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

“The coin?” said Varisy, holding out his palm.

“No coin,” replied Zdeno, crossing his arms. He could not return empty handed. King Tuuka demanded the immortal blood, or Zdeno may as well not return at all. “I take the white mixture.”

“It’s not pure. It will do you no good besides drive one to madness, just as the black mixture did to that man,” said Varisy.

“I take anyways. Never return home empty.”

Varisy poured the liquid into a small flask and cogged it. Once the flask was dropped into Zdeno’s palm, the coin was given to Varisy.

“No speak of this, eh?” Zdeno leaned in close, staring at Lord Varisy with his green eyes.

“You needn’t remind me of that. I’m the traitor here,” said Varisy. “If I speak, then I am a dead man.”

And like the passing of the wind, Zdeno was out from the room and up the stairs without being seen. Not even the two guards who saw him enter ever knew he left past them.

Jaqon returned to speak with Varisy. Varisy jumped, “I didn’t know you had stayed.”

“What did we give him?” asked Jaqon.

“Tree-infused water from the Glass. It won’t do much for them.”

Ser Sledda was finishing up his last check around the rear of the castle when he saw a flapping purple cloak turn the corner above him, along the ramparts. Sledda froze in his tracks. Purple cloak? That is no man of Crow Castle. Sledda flung himself at the castle walls from ground level. Using his fingers, he dug into the indentations of the castle walls and pulled himself up. He finally reaching a strong footing and jumped up, just about grasping the edge of a parapet on the castle’s lower level. He flipped over onto the ledge. A guard jumped, withdrawing his sword and dropping into sword stance.

“It’s just me. You see him too?” asked Sledda.

“See who?” asked the guard. It was Barl the Burly.

“You fool,” muttered Sledda, sprinting by Barl. The big guard turned and watched as Sledda disappeared. “Eh?”

Zdeno knew he was being tracked. Withdrawing a small pouch, he tossed it onto the ground along the railway where the guards patrolled and leapt through a nearby window. He landed in a roll, silent as could be. The room was dark, and he could sense no one inside. Once he gathered his bearing, he crept up to the window to watch his pursuant. It was Ser Sledda.

Ser Sledda grabbed the pouch once he caught. Glancing around to be sure no one was near; he slowly opened the pouch. Coin? A letter? He fell to the ground with a start.

A snake jumped onto his chest. After a quiet shout and a panicky breath, Sledda fell backward onto his back. The snack was small, but it was angry. It was still on his chest. Sledda tried picking it up by the tail but not in time. The snake tried biting his neck. It succeeded. Sledda yanked it off by the tail and threw it over the parapet. He brought a finger to his neck. It was bleeding.

Just a bite, thought Sledda. He knew it was bad. The snake was a paralian. A native to parts of Venistar and Wexocar. The paralian slithers through the underbrush, its sinuous body weaving in and out of the shadows. Its scales are a deep, rich brown, with a subtle iridescence that catches the light. The eyes are a piercing yellow, fixed and unblinking, as the snake glides along the floor. It moves with a silent grace, leaving behind no trace of its passing except for the occasional rustle of leaves or snap of a twig. Despite its small size, it is a deadly creature, with a venomous bite that can bring even the strongest warrior to his knees.

Sledda rose to his feet, grimacing and clutching his neck. The bleeding had already stopped and Zdeno was still on the loose somewhere. He continued to run by, seeming to think he saw that purple cape run by again. Zdeno just watched from the vacant room he had found, easing his way back onto the walkway and lowering himself to the ground by rope.

His mission was far from done. He made his way through the still night air. He could see his breath in front of him as the cold air of winter’s dawning was upon Dalrin. He made his way to the rear of the castle, away from all the rocks and hunters. There was the sacred tree, in all its glory. The tree had no guards, leaving Zdeno confused. Unbeknownst to him, the tree could guard itself. It had a way of entering the thoughts of any who would come near it.

Zdeno had checked just about every possible place that a sentry or a watcher could be posted and saw none. Even the entrance to the pathway along the rim of the Sea of Glass was abandoned. Everyone was on the west side of the Castle watching the jousting tournament, Zdeno knew. This was his chance. Just a sittle bit of sap and his king would reward him the ripest lands with the most fertile soil and the most beautiful women he could ever desire.

He was not a religious man, and so the concept of a sacred tree made him laugh. A silly man’s religion—the Silver Tree was. Its power had been caught up in myth and story. Regardless, the sap would suffice for a worthy gift to his king.

“Everyone is immortal, if you do not get killed,” whispered Zdeno. He was prepared to advance from the castle’s looming shadow when he heard a rustling nearby. It was someone running towards the tree, but from the other side. They were emerging from dark forest, so Zdeno could not see. He waited. It was a hunter. He stopped a few feet from the tree, dropping to his knees.

“Of all times, you do now?” said Zdeno. Another figure joined the man. As Zdeno strained his eyes, he began to realize it was a woman. She knelt beside the hunter, and they stayed in that position for a considerable amount of time. They prayed, cried, and finally embraced before leaving. The ordeal took nearly thirty minutes.

Finally, with the clearing completely open, Zdeno advanced toward the Silver Tree. He got halfway toward the Silver Tree when he began to hear a ringing in his ear. He brought a hand to his ear and felt something wet and warm running down it. It was blood. He continued onward, determined to get the tree’s sap. Thoughts of wealth and lands flooded his mind. The king of Venistar would reward him tenfold for this gift. It was what they had answered the king’s summoning for. The Valnaraks had not expected the prince to choose Elswitta. There was bad blood there. Yet, they had come anyways—and for a different purpose.

Zdeno stopped a foot before the tree. Roots as thick as branches rose up from the ground and covered the radius of the tree. Silver and orange leaves covered the branches. It was not the biggest tree Zdeno had seen. It wasn’t even considerd to be a large tree, by any means. Its trunk was about average in size and its branches were fairly thin, and although the leaves did collect and grow in groups, they did not overwhelm the tree as some leaves do.

Zdeno tapped the tree root with his foot. Nothing happened besides the steady ringing in his ears. His head did hurt too now that he thought of it. He shrugged; his head always hurt. It was in his line of work. Before he continued on, a voice cried out.

“Careful!” said the voice. From the shadows of the castle came a bald man in his red robes with swirling gold patterns embroidered along the sleeves. His hands were clasped underneath the large sleeves. He walked slowly, picking each step as he went. Zdeno furrowed his brow. His hand went to his dagger in his leather belt. He slowly dropped his hand. There was no hint of threat or alarm from this man.

“Who are you?” asked Zdeno, although he had a fair idea of who he was.

“I am the Tree’s Prophet. It’s chosen spokesperson.”

Zdeno chuckled. “And how does tree…like this one…choose person?”

The Oracle kept his head down and continued to pick his steps, carefully avoiding to step on the tree’s roots.

“I’d move your foot,” said The Oracle. “If you are planning on doing what I think it is you’re doing, I’d approach this utmost sacred tree with every bit of respect you can muster. Unless you deem yourself void of any such capability.”

Zdeno moved his leather boot. “There.”

The Oracle nodded his head. The two stared awkwardly.

“You don’t stop me?” asked Zdeno.

“The Silver Tree would stop you if it meant to do so,” he replied.

Zdeno took another step toward the tree. He withdrew his dagger. He stalked toward the tree as a man who approach a sleeping man. When he was at the tree, Zdeno peered back at The Oracle. “I will kill you; you know.”

“You will not,” replied The Oracle. “I have what you need. I have what you’re king needs.”

“And that is…what?” Zdeno looked back and forth from The Oracle to the Silver Tree.

“The secrets of the tree. The prophecy of Venistar’s destiny. No one else can give your king that, but me.”

“Fake,” said Zdeno. He went about examining all sides of the tree for sap, but he did not find any.

“You seek the sap for its immortal qualities. You seek this sap for your king, and not yourself. Why?”

That question caught Zdeno off guard. Why hadn’t he considered using the sap for himself? The Oracle saw the thought weighing on the assassin.

“Take a bit for yourself and then collect some more for your king. He will never know.”

Zdeno’s brow was sweating. He removed his steel mask from his face. He had two big front teeth that hung over his bottom lip.

“I take for myself. I give something else to king,” said Zdeno. He withdrew his flask of murky, yellow mixture. It was the mixture Varisy had given him. The tree’s nutrients that had leaked into the Sea of Glass. The king will know no different, thought Zdeno.

“You are a fool, Zdeno. Throw that mixture out. It is useless. Collect the sap of a tree just beyond those rocks there—the Silver Tree’s sap appears no different from any other tree’s sap. That white mixture does not even resemble tree sap.”

Zdeno was smart, but the legend of the Silver Tree created panic inside of him, for he did not know the tale inside and out like The Oracle did. Zdeno returned the flask to the inside pocket of his purple cloak. His darker colored cape came around his side and covered it from view.

“Go on, gut the tree. Get the sap for yourself,” said The Oracle.

After a lengthy stare, Zdeno advanced on the Silver Tree with the horrid ringing in his ears. It got worse when he brought his dagger to the bark and began scraping at it. It got so bad that Zdeno nearly fainted. He collected a small sample and then distanced himself as fast as he could. Images and murmurings began to fill his head. He ran and ran, back toward the forest and behind the Silver Tree. He did not return to the castle that night. Collecting a sample of sap from a pine tree and stowing it beside the sample of the magical sap, he was on his way. He would land himself in a nearby town, steal one of the horses of the visiting Maykeep camp, and ride off until he hit Venistar.

The Oracle smiled to himself. There was one watching him—one who had seen the whole thing. He could feel Ser Sledda’s eyes on him from atop the parapets along the side of Crow Castle. The Oracle pretended not to notice and strolled back inside the castle to make his way toward the arena. The jousting tournament would be getting close to finished.

By the time The Oracle returned to his seat, Ser Sledda had already found himself a seat beside the king. The Oracle could see him whispering quickly and with a panic in his words. The king did not stir from his seat. When Ser Sledda finished talking, the King motioned with his hand to leave. Ser Sledda’s face gave away his disbelief. The king did not seem to care. The Oracle locked eyes with the Commander as he left the arena. The Oracle smiled, lifting his hand for a gentle wave. Ser Sledda scowled, keeping one hand over the part of his neck that had been bitten by the snake.

The tournament had arrived at the final two contestants. Noise and clamor rang out from the arena. The crowd had plenty of ale in their system to keep them rowdy until the very end. Ser Ganator had stayed the course, defeating three opponents handily. His opposition sat upon his black warhorse, cloaked in the black and midnight blue of Venistar. Lord Cythos sat abreast his horse. Two of his men stood behind him, banging a drum. A wolf howled in the night air. The sun had long gone down. He slowly placed his helm on his head. A long nose piece covered his beak of a nose and protected his fat bald head. His lance was twice as thick as Ser Ganator’s. Ser Ganator was hoping to use the lightness of his own lance to his advantage. He was quick and skillful with his jousts—being no stranger to these games.

Lord Cythos, on the other hand, was a jouster, yes, but more prominently he was King Tuuka’s sword. He jousted, he dueled, he battled, and he led raids. There was death in his eyes as he stared across the tilt. The squires blew their horns, and the joust began. They ran their horses down the length of the tilt, clinking their lances ceremoniously (as was the tradition in Dalrin) and then rounded the counter tilt to begin competitive affair.

Ser Ganator had gained quite a following from his impressive performances this day. Illena found herself obsessed with his hair and his confident edge. Vaya clapped vehemently, hoping Rohinar would taking a liking to her engagement. Rohinar was on his feet clapping, standing beside his father now, the king. Queen Lenora bit her nails, May Otto clinging to her arm as the two knights charged toward each other. Lord Cythos had already unseated three men general ease. His powerful strokes could not be matched, even by the experienced men he came up against.

The Ladies Court sat eye-level with the competitors—it was a table of three noble-born ladies. The king had chosen Lyah Swordrin (Lord Mared Swordrin’s daughter), Warren Maykeep’s finest concubine, and a high-born lady named Aliya Orace. The three inched forward in their chairs.

The crowd erupted into chaos when Ser Ganator survived the first clash. Their lances had deflected each other. Ser Ganator was jarred from his seat upon his horse, but it was enough for him to handle without any cause for concern. Lord Cythos gave a shriek of discontent. Ser Ganator fixed his helm, round the counter-tilt and preparing for the second passing. Blue and yellow banners flew high into the air in support of Ser Ganator. They approached once again. The crowd held their breath.

One shriek, a splintered lance, and a pierced breastplate later, Ser Ganator had been impaled and flung from his horse. The crowd gasped. Some cried. There had been no death this day until this point. The Ladies Court had their hands over their mouths. The blue and yellow banners fell to the ground. It was an automatic disqualification to kill a man in jousting. It was counted a crime in Dalrin, but none dared challenge a visitor from Venistar—particularly a war general of King Tuuka’s.

Men rushed to Ser Ganator, only to hurl and keel over from the sight. The lance had been jammed so harshly that it was still embedded in the chest of Ser Ganator. Splintered bits of the lance littered the dirt, and his helm was sitting across the tilt on the other side. The Ladies Court were forced to decide. Lord Cythos had already dismounted and began his approach to the victor’s stand. Unsure what to do, the judges left their judging tokens on the table and simply handed the medal to Lord Cythos. He snatched it with his mighty fist and threw it around his neck. He walked over to Ser Ganator, pushing aside two of his aids. He yanked his splintered lance from Ser Ganator’s chest, wiping off the blood.

The crowd was still silent. A few shouted obscenities at him from their seats. Lord Cythos ignored them, lifting his lance in victory. What emerged from his chest sounded more like a bear roaring than a man shouting. He turned, disappearing down the tunnel of the arena and back to his quarters in the castle.

The betrothal ceremony was to begin tomorrow at midday, and Lord Cythos didn’t plan on missing it.