Chapter 205: Artist's Toll

Book 4, Chapter 46 - Artist's Toll

Jackrin swept aside a mat of sweat gathered above his brow. There it is again he thought, his wretched destination come in sight after days of tiring travel. Running ever on through hilly plains and endless farmlands had taken its toll, sapping Jack's strength and drying his throat. Heira lay ahead of him, and he could feel the reek of that city with his eyes before the headwind breeze brought to his nose its dissipating stench.

There lay the city he'd avoided entry of on his first pass through these lands.

Need drove him there a second time. Need not just to slake his thirst, but a need to satisfy an itch in his mind, a need to create and inspire and breathe upon. The need to dip a serrated brush into a well of scarlet paint. His artisan mind worked tirelessly to conjure up a most delightful play or song or both.

Whispers of death flashed through his mind as he dreamed of endless possibilities. Jack began to giggle. His vision blurred, tears filling his pale blue eyes. Why asked Sarah Winters' dried up corpse.

Why asked that fair faced woman who he'd foolishly fell in love with for the span of a night.

Please cried those helpless bastards he'd skinned in alleys, laughing all the while.

Jack stood upon a hill, staring down at the city some two miles trek still away. Tall grasses swayed with the wind, grazing against the cloth over his shins. His blond bangs had grown long and strands hovered above his eyes. Here on these fields he'd seen a fresh grave dug, and a ruined child placed inside. This was a city of murder and shadow. A city suited for Jack the Jester, yet he feared entering its walls. He feared what his hands might wring in a place so steeped in malice, that it felt as if he stared upon some great mirror reflecting his own, treacherous face.

“You don't care, Jackrin. You never have,” said Jahck. “Not for the innocents. Not for the cruel.”

Jack sucked in a deep breath. “You're right,” he breathed. “I don't care. Not so long as the orders come from Aaron. He knows right from wrong, unlike me. He knows what's to be done. He promised to build a better world for us.”

“Yes,” Jahck said. “Put on the mask. Let me take control.”

And so Jack did. He wore the Mask of Illusions and strode with confidence toward the Jewel of Xenaria, humming a tune with no words to accompany. Jewel of Xenaria he thought, as he skipped along and joined the wide road leading unto the city. Wagons, mules, and travelers headed to and fro. The scent of blood filled Jahck with the delight of a child come upon their parent's secret hoard of sweets and desserts.

The sun was brought low by the time Jahck was a hundred paces from the city's gates. He was near enough for his sharp sight to catch the heavy lidded guards yawning on duty, spear hafts resting lazily against their shoulders. They wore clinking mail beneath maroon uniforms. Each metal link caught the fading glow of the yellow face in the sky. Aged guards they were, with scraggly beards and many wrinkles. Liquor skins hung from their belts nearer to the hand than the hilts of their blades. Roadside dirt melded into sable stains at the edges of their uniforms. No care did they have in their sleepy eyes for who came and who left the city of Heira.

Jewel of Xenaria , Jahck thought again. And just like that, the cogs of his mind conjured a most beautiful image of the city with a juvenile riddle to accompany. “ I am brighter than a twinkling star, ” Jahck sang in a voice as clear as daylight. Heads turned his way, and curiosity shone in the darks of their eyes. The artist had his audience, and he performed. “ Brighter than a twinkling star ,” he repeated again. “ I can be seen from afar. Hotter than a cooking pot. Though really, not by a lot. Like a beacon, I stand tall. Till all's gone, I will not fall. All is pretty while I last. Though nothing remains once I'm past. What am I?” he finished, with a flourishing bow just beneath the shadow of the gateway arches.

All thought and movement paused for the span of two seconds. Jackrin disappeared into the flow of traffic inside, pocketing a fat purse snatched amid his flourish, leaving his audience and the now wide awake guards to puzzle out the answer to his riddle. His first instinct was to seek out prey in an alley's shadow to restore his waning strength, but so great was Heira's reek that Jack forgot his fierce thirst and was forced into holding his breath, lest he fall upon his knees and heave out what little remained in his belly. Sweat, refuse, filth, and mould —all of it drifting through the hazy air of the city's streets. Endless people kicked up dust with their steps, smoke billowed from too many chimneys, and shouts, cries, and laughs fought for the ear of those for whom they were meant.

Fires began popping up as the sun failed and shadows deepened. Fires lit upon refuse piles, or with scrap pieces of cloth beneath a ragged tent. So many ragged tents. They had to be the refugees of whom Viper spoke. Poorly dressed and ill prepared for the slightest turn of the weather these people were. They crowded the sides of streets, and filled alleys as a released dam might fill a river. More smoke meant more haze, and a deadly air to Jahck's enhanced senses. Sickness overcame him. He held his breath and stumbled through the crowds, seeking some reprieve from this quarter. Too thick grew the crowds for him to break free fast. Curses were hurled his way as he pushed past people, abusing his greater strength to the fullest, perhaps dislocating a shoulder here and there with his rough movements. He cared not.

Sweat gathered upon Jahck's brow, and the inside of his mask became clammy with his open mouthed exhales. For a moment the madness was forgotten. For a moment, Jack was but a person seeking refuge from the rot seeping into his veins with every breath. He ripped free the mask and slipped into a foul smelling alley crowded with women and children pulling at a garbage pile dumped out from a side door. Glowering eyes turned to him upon his entry, and for once in his miserable years as the predator, Jack felt afraid. Within the deepening darkness, the eyes of these refugees were akin to wolves in a dense woodland at night. Fear gave way to hasty action, and Jack tossed into the garbage pile his stolen purse, throwing away all chance of finding board and meal for this night, for he would not risk further wading through impoverished crowds for a new purse to snatch.

Jackrin bounded over the refugees to a foot of open space. He then leapt up and grabbed the rim of a window, crying out as his fingers slipped upon the grime marring the wood. He was brought to the ground on his rear. Aches spread out along the impact point, and a ceaseless pounding took hold in his breast. The poorly clothed people stared at him. Terror took hold of Jackrin's limbs as memory of a cold forest and the maw of a predator flashed through his thoughts. “Karine,” he squealed.

Karine.

Karine who took everything from him. Karine, the treacherous. Terror was replaced by a moment's fury. Again Jack jumped for the windowsill, grasping the slippery edge with two hands this time. They were not worse than the icy holds he'd climbed in the Kal'Kar Mountains. He hoisted himself up to the roof, where the air was a little clearer. And then he bounded off for the tallest peaks he could find in this wretched city, hoping for a breath of clear night air to gather his thoughts.

***

“Herein is your speech for tomorrow,” Odain said, handing Emeria a sheet of paper.

Seven days and nights she'd spent at Heira. Seven days kept in seclusion within the grand Trillian Temple. She was allowed out to pray and show herself in guarded halls, allowed even to converse with clerics and Highers, but every word of hers was come from the mind of her captor. “What need have I of memorizing a speech when you control every word that passes my lips?” she asked.

“I'll have errands to run. Galadin's convoy of food and medicines is set to arrive tomorrow. The masses will be shepherded to the wide square before the temple's gates. Tomorrow we feed and clothe and tend to them.”

“It's all temporary,” Emeria said. “Don't you worry that the piling mounds of garbage and filth will foul the light of your holy city? Can we not relocate them back to the villages from whence they came?”

Odain snorted. “ You don't need to worry about what I worry about. As for relocation, they fear for the roving bandits of the plains and the ruthless wolves that stalk them also. I hear conditions have bettered, but people… they'd rather not risk a long journey with nothing on their backs. And faith of course keeps them bound here. You will reward that faith, and make mention of the Saintess who promised them aid.”

Emeria balled her fists. Lately, Odain had been in a more talkative mood, answering her questions if only to deepen her depression. He'd grown confident in his utter power over her. Confidence breeds arrogance . A saying of her father's long ago. Tears welled in her eyes at the memory of his bearded face, smiling down at her.

There was no arrogant air in Odain's ugly mug. He had the care and practice of an old man who'd lived the better part of a century, and the vigor and decisiveness of a callous leader. Every word he uttered and action he took showed more and more just how many rings with puppet strings he wore on his hands.

“You will put your efforts into memorising that speech this night, and you shall not leave the vicinity of your quarters otherwise, be it by door or window,” Odain said, uttering his commands audibly —a rarity these days. He was impressing his power over her.

More commands were issued, for Emeria felt the slightest thoughts of escape locked away from her. Odain shut the door to her room and she locked it with haste. She never planned on opening the door to anyone in the first place. From what she understood, only the Highers were allowed to the upper floors of the temple, and none of them were decent people. Among the clerics even, only a handful had any shred of integrity. The temple was not a holy place, but a place for the powerful to abuse their authority. Odain knows this, and cares little. He has no greed or vice… he controls my kingdom and actively works to tear it down. Just what did that man want, Emeria wondered. What was the end goal?

She sat heavily upon a wide bed with a plush mattress suited for royalty, scrunching up her teal gown's skirt in the process. Her quarters were spacious, but not nearly as nice as that of the palace in the capital. The temple was once the royal family's summer home. There were grander rooms than this, but Odain had chosen these specifically. Emeria's joints ached and her eyelids grew heavy, but her orders remained. She sat cross-legged and began memorising her speech for the day to come.

It took the better part of an hour before she could recite it from heart with her eyes closed. That part of her orders fulfilled, she was free (sort of) to roam about her room or lay down and sleep, the silver crown of violet gems still sitting on her head. She tugged it just in case, but it did not come off. Emeria closed her eyes, but so often had she read the speech that all she remembered were its words. Sleep eluded her. She walked to the window and opened it, standing out on the balcony in the night. Stars twinkled above, and a cool breeze brushed past. This was one of the more peaceful nights she was allowed since coming into captivity.

Again, just in case, Emeria tried stepping up onto the balcony, looking greedily at the certain death drop below. Her body would not budge.

No escape .

She settled for resting her delicate arms on the balcony's cold stone rails, staring out into this mirthless city of hers with its little fires and thick haze. The smoke filled one half of Heira with a ghastly veil of grey. Its smell was bitter. Wisps of it trailed to the wealthier side in the west. Most of Heira's guard were stationed there, and it was there that Governor Bernestur of Heira made his residence. Some of his guard had been pulled to watch the temple's surrounds —a fact he was not too happy about, or so Emeria had heard from loud mouthed watchmen.

She sighed, turning to leave when the soft hums of an alluring voice caught her ear. A recognizable tune she'd not heard in a long while, least of all from such a beautiful voice. An imagination, Emeria thought, to hear a practiced minstrel's craft high up in what appeared the tenth or twelfth storey of the grand temple's many compartments. But the tune did not drift away in the wind as she expected, staying clear as the sun in a cloudless sky, and feeling just as bright in this sullen night to she who'd lived too long with a puppet's strings.

Emeria began to sing a version of the lyrics she'd known from her time roaming Exaltyron's streets, hand in hand with Azurus, as they waded through crowds on festive nights and sat amongst the common folk before well reputed bards and performing troupes.

Into town this afternoon

Marching rhythms, helmets plumed

Knights Ardent of silver pure

Came to town on steeds maroon

Clip clop clip clop!

Went their horses without stop

Clip clop clip clop!

Till they came upon the fop

Now 'Leave my path and get ye gone' said this dandy tool

Now laughed the knights at this poor sod, and took him for a fool

Clip clop clip clop!

They went along ahead

Clip clop clip clop!

And almost tramped his head!

Red with shame he had become

He threw some slurs and hurled some scum

But silver pure would not be marred

Came that scum back to his arms!

Clip clop clip clop!

Cheered each merry lass!

Clip clop clip clop!

Then—

“—jeered they at that ass,” finished someone else.

Emeria yelped and backed to the edge of her balcony. Standing on the tips of his boots, on the thin, metal railings of the balcony, was a man. A tall man, of bright blond hair, and in pure white clothes. A woman, Emeria might have thought if not for that broad, muscled frame, for she'd not seen a more beautiful man in all her time. He stared down at her with head tilted, half his face under starlight. The moons were at his back, and his shadow bent long, enveloping Emeria in her entirety. A bead of orange shown in his dark eyes, a reflection of some distant flame within the city.

“Who are you?” asked the man.

Emeria fumbled for words, too baffled by this daring stranger who stood on the railings with all the balance of a cat, not swaying at all. His sweet voice told her he was the mystery bard who'd been humming the tune. Her eyes flickered to the domed rooftops of the temple's many compartments below. There was no obvious way by which a person might have climbed up here —silently at that. Emeria gazed again at this beautiful man's eyes and felt her breath catch for all the wrong reasons.

Moonlight did not kiss this man. The three sisters shunned him. He did not hold their light in reverence, but in captivity. Unbelievably handsome, but with a very apparent cold edge. No normal human could have come up here, Emeria concluded. Fear she'd felt many a time under Odain's captivity, but this creature made her feel terror than fear. “I'm Emeria Lakris,” she said, speaking slowly.

The man hopped onto the balcony. Then he began laughing. “A bizarre stranger comes upon your room and asks who you are, and you answer without question? Shouldn't you be even the tiniest bit offended? Maybe ask who I am before you answer?”

“I…” Emeria frowned. He was right of course. But why did he point that out? She stood still, feeling her mind for any new commands her captor might have issued. “Is this a joke? Or some new cruelty Odain has come up with?”

The man wagged a finger. “Still haven't asked who I am, my lady,” he said with too alluring a smile.

Emeria half suspected that smile had lured too many into a night of heaven with daybreak revealing broken hearts. She felt the speeding rhythm in her breast at the base of her throat. Her palms grew sweaty, and her fingers twitched as if the joints were thawing after a long frost. Alone she'd been for a long time, but for the first time in a while, she was desperately missing the captain of her guard. “Who are you?” she finally managed in a hoarse whisper. There was no moisture on her tongue.

“Jackrin the Jester,” came the answer with a performative bow. “Jack, if it pleases you, my lady.”

My lady… Did he not know the name of Emeria Lakris to address her so casually? “And why are you here, Jackrin?” she tiptoed.

Again he wagged a finger. “Nuh-uh. Saying too much would ruin the grand reveal, don't you think? But I'll give you a hint. A single stroke steals many lives, a single word tells as many lies. No lover you have known can so break your heart as easily as I might with three fingers and a harp. What am I ?”

Emeria's eyes were drawn to the flickering lights below as the jester threw up his arms and asked that question to the naked sky before him. That riddle could've been said with many different words, she guessed. But this Jackrin chose a specific few that had an air of cynicism, and Emeria had been all but swimming in cynical thought for the past two years. “Artist,” she answered. “You're an artist.”

Jack clasped his hands. “Very good, your majesty!”

So he does know my name.

“Now, what is it that artists do?” he asked.

“Create,” Emeria whispered, answering too quickly. She put her arms on the balcony rails and faced the city proper. “Artists create, beautify, and liberate.” The winds whistled. Sounds of clamor from below sounded ill different to the sounds of battle heard from within the safety of a distant window. The sheltered princess staring upon humanity's malice engulfed soul from a high tower . A reminder of her days under siege in Arcaeus Peak.

“That is perhaps the most frightening answer I have ever been given to that question,” Jackrin said after a while. “Why, my lady, you might be something of an artist yourself. A poet perhaps?”

A thin lipped smile formed on Emeria's face. “Circumstances forced my hand, you might say.”

“Of course. Your art was void of the last word of your answer.”

Another gust of cool wind sent a harrowing chill down Emeria's spine. She was powerless here, yet felt a creeping enjoyment from Jackrin's shared cynicism. Next to her stood a murderer, of that she had no doubt. Emeria was not certain if she feared him more, or feared the growing shadow in her mind that felt too akin to this man. I am a murderer too, she recalled. It was by her hand that Sir Irus had been slain.

Emeria examined Jackrin again. She found herself staring at a picture too perfect to exist. Here she had the opportunity to speak openly after so long in captivity, but Emeria did not do so. Jack's every word rung with the bitter malice of a winter storm. He knew her woes as his own. She reached out with a gentle hand, tempted by his beauty. A memory of Azurus flashed by and Emeria snatched her hand back, clutching it with the other at her chest. “Are you open to commissions, artist?” she asked in the end.

“Depends.”

Emeria gazed at Heira again. “Make beautiful this city for me.”

A grin spread upon the man's face. One that stretched well beyond delight. “Do you want this done in paint? Or through a tale told perhaps? Or would you rather see this done through a brilliant symphony played in the night? Choose wisely, my dear, for the artisan talents of Jackrin the Jester are many .”

“All three,” Emeria replied.

Silence.

And then came the laughter, high of voice, cruel, full of sorrow and mal-intent. “All three she says,” cried Jack. “ All three! Why I could not have come up with a better jest myself.”

“It was not a jest.”

“No,” said Jack. “No it wasn't, was it? All three it is then.”

Emeria frowned. This man was good at creating questions to be asked, if anything. But she did not ask for any clarity in his confusing words. “And what of your price?” she asked.

The madman was suddenly upon her, his hands upon the balcony railings around her, his face inches from hers. Fangs she saw beneath his wide smile. He caressed her face with his cold fingers and tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear. Then he touched the edges of the silver crown with purple gems she wore upon her head. “This won't be something you'll be wearing for much longer, your majesty,” he said.

“A burden I'd be glad to give up,” she answered. She could feel the heat of his breath so close. Emeria leaned back but Jack leaned further in, keeping the distance between them in inches. Give in to his cold embrace , whispered a needy voice in her head.

Jack moved his head beside hers. “The burdens of rule,” he whispered into her ear.

Emeria's heart began to pound. Her terror returned with a vengeance. Jack grabbed hold of her hand with those icicle fingers of his. Emeria clenched her teeth as he pressed a sharp nail into the tip of her forefinger. Her skin broke and blood was drawn. Jackrin raised her hand to his mouth and suckled on her wounded finger. “Not as delectable as I'd hoped,” he said. “But delightful enough. The payment has been made. All three it is.”

And then he leapt over the edge of the balcony.

Emeria collapsed on her knees. She clasped a hand over her mouth, cold sweat gathered at the brow. She took several moments to gather her breath before it occurred to her to look beyond the balcony and see where the madman had gone. But he'd long disappeared by then.

Emeria's mouth was still void of moisture. She shivered —both from cold, and in futile attempt to be rid of the shadow in her soul. A sting remained on the wound inflicted her finger. What had just happened, and what had she really just asked done of the stranger that'd come?