There was no way Killian could go on like this. He needed to get over it, to move on. He’d had a week to play house and it was time to get back to reality.
“Captain!” A shout came from behind Killian, interrupting as he geared up to go another round. A guard from night patrol ran to meet him. “Captain. You’re needed in the dungeons.”
By light of the lantern, Killian followed the guard who had fetched him deeper and deeper into the underbelly of the palace.
Far underground, the space got no natural light or fresh air. The air was thick and old and wet in the dungeons. The stone walls were damp to the touch. The dark hallway was lined with cells, stretching as far as the lantern illuminated and then far beyond. Most were empty, though some held those doomed to rot forever, death too much a kindness for them.
Killian curled his lip in disgust. The entire place smelled sour with urine and feces and other bodily fluids he’d rather not think about.
“Here,” said the guard. He let Killian through and then took his place guarding the door.
Each cell was contained by a thick iron door, the space inside just four or five paces in each direction. Barely big enough for a single prisoner to lay flat.
Loran was already inside, standing with his arms crossed over his chest. He shifted over when Killian ducked inside, attempting to make space. It was a tight squeeze. They stood shoulder to shoulder, their prisoner slumped over against the wall in front of them, iron chains encircling his wrists and ankles.
Killian studied the elf before him with a scowl.
Fayren Ulr. He’d worked in the palace kitchens since King Numar’s time. Never before had he made trouble, he was bright and kind and well liked by all. Always willing to give the Guard extra servings after a particularly tiring day of drills. It was a wonder he ended up here.
Fayren was plain, unassuming with dark hair and dark eyes. He stared blankly at ground, drool slipping down his chin from where his lips were parted. He was empty.
“What’s wrong with him?” Loran asked, squatting down and passing a hand in front of the elf’s face.
No reaction.
“Nothing. He’ll come back to himself soon,” said Killian. “He’s just in shock after spending the night wandering the labyrinth. His mind a bit fucked from it.”
Loran shuddered at the thought.
Pressed between the palace walls and the dark forest just beyond the estate, lay the king’s personal garden. Off limits to any but those the king has given access—which was anexpansive list of a whole two other elves: Killian himself, and the palace healer, Hokda—or to those who accompanied them.
Crawling over hundreds of acres, Fyar’s garden was home to a variety of rare herbs and plants and even a few collected magical creatures.
It was Fyar’s prize possession. His escape. His heart. The one true place that he didn’t need to worry about prying eyes or the constant pestering of the court buzzing around his ears and nipping at his heels. Killian would often accompany him late at night or steal him away when it was obvious Fyar was about to start ripping the fine white hairs from his head.
It was guarded by an ever changing labyrinth of thirty foot hedges. On occasion, even from the palace gates, the ominous groaning and shifting of the labyrinth could be heard. A heavy fog lay over the labyrinth at all times, meant to confuse and terrify.
Not much into botany himself, Killian never found himself there without Fyar. He much preferred the company of the striking bags on the training grounds.
Fayren wasn’t the first to have driven himself mad in a futile attempt to reach the treasure at the heart of the labyrinth, the temptation too strong for some to pass up. And he wasn’t the first the labyrinth had spit out after a torturous night spent stumbling blindly through changing paths, the walls ever closing in on you.
“Has he said anything?”
Loran shook his head and pushed back to his feet. “Nothing. He’s been like this since we found him.”
It took another fifteen minutes for the mist to clear from Fayren’s eyes. Groaning, he jolted when he saw Loran andKillian glaring down at him. Tears pricked instantly in the prisoner’s eyes. He shook like a leaf, shaking his head and gently rocking himself back and forth, whispering a chorus ofno no no no no.
Killian forced himself to soften. From what he knew of Fayren, the other was not one to react well to anger. Kneeling, he kept his voice stern but not unkind. “What have you done, Fayren?”
Fayren jerked. “You know my name?”
“Of course I know your name.” It was Killian’s job to know everyone who had any business in the palace. “And I know this isn’t like you. Tell me what’s going on.”
Tears fell freely down Fayren’s cheeks. “I can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“I didn’t mean to,” stammered Fayren. “I barely even remember it, it happened so fast. We were just talking. And then, suddenly… I took a vow. Why did I do that?We were just talking.”
