Circle of Reign (40 page)

“Look everyone, Ryall’s demonstrating his almighty wit!” Holden declared. This caused more laughter from the onlookers, but Holden was using this as a distraction to continue to scan the hall and figure out just what Ryall was up to.

“Holden, how long have we sat at this desk opposite each other?” Ryall finally asked. “Eighteen cycles? I think ever since we entered the monastery.”

“So?”

“So, I think we are all a little tired of the stench radiating from you. In fact, I think we all agree it’s high time for a bath!”

And with that, Ryall produced a pull string of his own and gave one quick yank before Holden could register what was about to happen. A deluge of water was released from a bucket strategically placed above in the rafters, drenching the redheaded boy. An eruption of “oohs” and laughter echoed throughout the hall. It was just then that old man Kabel happened to set foot in the
transcription hall to witness Holden being doused by his unwelcome mid-afternoon shower.

“What’s the meaning of this?” his old squeaky voice croaked. “Answer me with truth or by the Ancient Heavens I’ll have every one of you—”

“It was me!” Ryall confessed almost in a bragging tone as he stepped forward. “Holden is just the poor, innocent victim of a higher mind at work. Mine.”

“Not so!” Holden shot back at Ryall, not even caring to address the old custodian. “Who was it that got his fingers stuck together last span for the whole day, thinking a jar of southern amber wax to be soap?”

Ryall stood on his chair, hoping to make his answer somehow stronger. “Who woke up three days past with a hairless chest?”

“Who got fire rash on their crotch?”

“Ants in their soup!”

“Manure in their shoes!”

“Kerosene in their mouth rinse!”

“Their sandals’ straps cut!”

“Wood pulp in their sugar!”

At that last one, Holden looked questioningly at Ryall. “I don’t remember that,” he said. Ryall bit his lower lip, blushing slightly.

“Well, you would have at evening meal.”

Glancing over at old man Kabel, the two boys saw the effect of their performance. Kabel’s mouth was agape with his eyes staring wide in utter disbelief. The old man hobbled in place, back and forth from leg to leg as was typical when he was too astonished or flustered to make any comment, earning him the nickname “Hobble Kabel” among the young adherents. The two boys couldn’t contain it any longer and bellowed with laughter. Ryall nearly fell off the chair he perched upon from his body shaking in hilarity. Holden rolled on the ground, his wet robe leaving a small puddle on the stone floor.

“Enough!” Kabel yelled, hobbling furiously, but his attempt at regaining authority through raising his voice came out more like a
crow cawing uselessly at the sun. “Enough! Enough! Enough! I will march you straight to the High Vicar on duty and have him deal with you!”

Their laughter continued even after Kabel yanked them by their ears and hauled them away.

“Blasted Heavens! We’ve been waiting here so long my robe is nearly dry.” Holden looked abashed for using such language, remembering where he was. The two perpetrators had been sitting outside the High Vicar’s office since mid-afternoon and now had completely missed evening meal.

“What do you think will happen to us this time?” Ryall asked. He did not sound overly concerned.

“Perhaps they will finally see you for the worthless bag of hair and bones you are and expel you from the monastery,” Holden jabbed.

“If only the Ancient Heavens would be so kind—”

“But where would you go, Ryall? Your father would never accept you back after being dismissed from the monastery. He barely accepted you in the first place. No doubt he has been breathing sighs of relief ever since he sent you here and they granted you entrance.”

The two boys had grown up together in the Eastern Province, barely a span apart in age and both sons of minor houses. They were also both third sons. This fact alone charted their destiny in life. Lord Grady Orion sat as Provincial Lord of the East, the largest province in all the Realm. Third sons, according to Lord Orion, were only granted to men of his province to serve the Ancient Heavens and were therefore required to enter the Changrual Monastery when fourteen years of age. Holden and Ryall had dreamt together of someday scaling the Jarwyn Mountains and crossing over to the Falls of Olin on the east side of the great mountains. From there, they would take the journey down the perilous precipice to the Sea of Albery and sail out beyond the Runic Islands to meet the sun where it rose every morning.

Holden had since accepted his status in life, but Ryall seemed determined to stubbornly hang on to his dreams of adventure and voyaging beyond the Realm. He stared at the ground without actually seeing it as he answered his long-time friend wistfully.

“The world has never seemed to want us, third sons of minor houses. It is as if our fates were determined for us without us even being asked. I want to be free, free as the birds that fly through the sky and as the whales that roam the deep. Can you imagine what it would be like? No one to answer to and nowhere we must be. We would live as we choose, no one to force us. Can’t you feel the…the…”

Ryall didn’t know the word he was searching for.
Freedom, autonomy, liberty, independence
all ran through his mind, but they were somehow inadequate. The feeling he was trying to describe was somewhat ineffable to him. Holden listened to his friend but also just stared down at the ground. He knew Ryall had retreated inside himself again and was not seeing the stone and dirt they both plainly stared at as he voiced his greatest desires.

Ryall finally settled on “power” as the assistant resident Vicar opened the door to the High Vicar’s office and motioned them in. As Ryall arose, he heard the sound of clothing being ripped and then felt a draft. He looked behind him to see the seat of his robe still on the bench were they had been sitting and his backside bare.

“Southern amber wax,” Holden mused. “Sticky stuff.”

Half a span later, Holden and Ryall made their way through the basement chambers of the monastery, each with a mop and bucket of soapy water. This was the last day of their punishment to scrub the monastery from top to bottom. The High Vicar on duty had spared them from the pain and humiliation of a public caning, preferring hard labor to force out disobedient tendencies over corporeal punishment. The basement chambers were always saved for last. No one visited these lower parts after dusk. Ryall wasn’t sure why anyone would visit them at all.

“I’m not sure what they hope for us to accomplish down here,” Holden groused for about the hundredth time. “Wiping down these old stones and rocks only makes them wet. There’s no hope for them actually getting clean.”

“We found out the same thing about you a half span ago,” Ryall jeered. “That bath in the transcription hall hasn’t done you any good.”

“And my mop,” Holden continued, not rising to Ryall’s jab, “is worthless on this rough stone. Look at it, shredded and frayed.”

“Perhaps you could use my ruined robe. It’s not good for much else these days. In fact, you can have it as a trophy.”

At that, Holden did crack a smile though it was mostly masked in a flickering shadow created by the single torch held in a crude sconce on the wall just above their heads. Amber wax, a product of the industrious Southern Province, might have been the most adhesive substance known. It was used often in construction applications of all create, mounting objects to walls and by healers to help seal wounds. And, of course, in Holden and Ryall’s prank war.

“Watch this,” Ryall said. “Look how dirty this piece of the ground is. Now, I’m going to clean my feet with the mop and then mop the ground.” As he did so, Holden watched, but not because he actually cared what Ryall was doing. He started to look for yet another opportunity to best his friend, although he was currently ahead in the prank count.

After Ryall finished mopping his feet and the ground, he said, “I pronounce this part of the floor clean.” Then he stepped on it with his clean bare feet, took a few steps, and held up the soles of his feet for Holden to see. They were filthy. “A lot of good that did.”

No opportunity presented itself to Holden. He had to resort to a mere verbal assault. “Well, ya know, you can’t help it. Filthiness is just attracted to you!”

“Ha!” Ryall shouted. “We’ll see about that.” He plunged his mop into his bucket and flung the soaking head at Holden, sending a shower of grimy water toward him. Holden returned fire as
they flung dirty water and insults about each other’s mothers back and forth. It took only moments for them to become drenched and reeking of filth.

“Ahhhhh!” Ryall bellowed as he charged Holden, holding his mop up as a sword. He swung down, but Holden blocked the blow, raising his own mop-sword. Their laughter echoed down the basement hallways, joined by the clanking of wood against wood as their sparring continued.

“I’ll smite you down as Oliver Wellyn did to Brant Kearon!” Holden promised. “You’re done for!”

“I didn’t know Oliver fought like a girl!” Ryall retorted. “Best I run home and fetch my sister Bethany to finish this for me so it will be more fair to you!”

But as Ryall moved his feet back and forth, he accidently sunk his left foot into his bucket and tripped backward. Holden tried to reach forward and grab his friend’s robe, but in the flickering light misjudged the distance and instead pushed him, adding force to his fall. Ryall slammed against a wall, knocking his head hard and losing his breath.

“Ryall!” Holden yelled as he knelt down beside him. “Ryall, are you all right? Speak!”

Ryall’s face contorted with pain. He moaned as he raised his right hand to the back of his head. “What was that?” he asked with a wincing voice.

“You fell. Ryall, I tried to grab you but… I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

“I know I fell, stupid. That’s why I’m the one down here with a lump on my head. I meant, what was that behind me?”

Holden was obviously relieved by hearing his friend’s response mingled with typical insults. “The wall, genius. You might want to pick a softer place to land next time.”

“It can’t be a wall,” Ryall said as he stood up, uselessly trying to dust himself off. “It moved. I felt it.”

“Yup, you hit your head a little too hard. Time to go. Let me help you to your bed—”

“Get off!” Ryall demanded, shaking Holden’s arm off him. “I’m telling you it moved!”

“Blasted Heavens!” Holden said, holding his hands up in defense. “I’m only trying to help.”

Ryall wore a look of intent upon his face. He studied the wall where he had hit. Its construction was crude, composed of rocks and stone held together by mortar. He looked a few feet to the left and right of the area he hit, then hastily grabbed the torch from the sconce and inspected the structure more closely.

“Look!” he said excitedly. “The stones are different to the left. And here, to the right as well.”

“What?” Holden asked. “Ryall, it’s just a blasted—”

Putting his hands upon the wall, Ryall pushed. Nothing happened. He pushed again, harder. He grunted with the effort. Nothing. Dropping the torch, he stood back a pace or two and started to kick. Holden looked on as if his friend had lost his mind.

“Ryall stop! If someone hears they’ll come! What do you think the High Vicar will do to us this time?”

After a few more fruitless kicks, Ryall backed up from the wall about ten paces with his gaze still fixed on it.

“Finally,” Holden said with relief. “Come on, let’s get some food. Evening meal isn’t quite over.”

He turned to leave. Instead of following Holden up the stone steps to the main level of the monastery, Ryall charged the wall. When he was two paces from it, he flung his body through the air, turning himself sideways. The dull soft sound created from such a forceful impact seemed quite an understatement.

“Burning Heavens!” Holden cried. “Are you mad?”

Ryall had landed in a ball, much the way he hit the wall. His arms were wrapped around his ribs. After a moment he looked up, breathing heavily. He smiled faintly and answered, “No, not mad.” He raised his right arm, leaving his other cradling his ribs, and pointed to the wall. Holden followed Ryall’s finger and stared at the point of impact. Several rocks were depressed, forming a small crater in the wall.

“Ancient Heavens,” Holden mumbled. He grabbed the torch off the ground and stepped closer. Reaching up, he pushed a few of the dislodged stones and rocks. They fell through to the other side of the wall. The thud of their fall echoed. Ryall recovered enough to stand up.

“I told you it moved.”

“I believe you,” was all Holden could say.

They worked on the small opening for several minutes, freeing more stones until the opening was large enough for them to crawl through. Ryall took the torch and tossed it through to the other side. Their heads knocked together as they both moved to peer through the opening.

In the small radius of orange-yellow light, all that could be made out was that the cavern, or whatever it was, appeared to be quite spacious. The boys looked at each other with amazement mixed with mischievousness.

“Me first,” Ryall declared.

“Definitely, you first,” Holden replied.

It didn’t take much effort to squeeze through the hole they had made. Ryall took in his surroundings with mouth agape as Holden slid through the opening. He coughed from the dust and spit.

“This better be worth it,” the redheaded boy remarked, coming to Ryall’s side. “There’s no hiding this. We’ll be expelled for sure. Maybe they’ll even make this our crypt!” Ryall didn’t answer. Holden finally looked around and inspected their discovery. “Dimming Light!” he whispered.

Surrounding the young adherents was an expansive cavern of small honeycomb inlets along all sides of the walls. The room had no discernible shape but was mostly spherical, interrupted by occasional jagged directional changes jutting abruptly at odd angles. Stalactites hung from the ceiling in several places. Mineral enriched water dripped from them and formed several small puddles with stalagmites rising from them, reaching for their counterpart above. In a few places, the rock growths had reached each
other and formed golden yellow columns sporadically throughout the room. There was a small pond of water in the middle of the cavern whose stillness was occasionally interrupted by a falling drop of water from a stalactite. In each honeycomb inlet lay roughly half a dozen scrolls. Thousands upon thousands stretched out before them. Some inlets contained vials of liquid and ancient looking clay jars as well as odd trinkets of strange create.