Prologue — Kael

Some questions are best answered by Silence.

—Old Solian Proverb

PROLOGUE

Kael

Kael Morcant descended the centuries-old staircase beneath the palace, one hand gliding along the damp, iron railing. His father had once held it, and his father before him, all the way back to the Dooming Pause. Most people called it the Lock now. Not Kael, though, nor any other Morcant. They called it what it had always been—and what it would remain for centuries more: Dooming.

A guard awaited Kael at the end of the staircase, holding a lantern, the same rustic oil lantern featured on the Morcant family crest. 

“My lord,” said the guard, bowing his head. He was young, disciplined, and still had a full head of hair—which Kael quietly envied. Clearly, however, he had not yet learned the rule about speaking only when spoken to. 

Kael didn’t respond; instead, he continued to pace.

The young guard walked Kael down the long corridor. Water dripped slowly somewhere in the dark. Overgrown vines and neglected cobwebs covered the cut-stone walls, and a few rats scampered along the basalt floor. The rats must have come with last month’s shipment. They would not last long in Nytherra. The young man stumbled over a thick, ropey vine obscured by the darkness. He apologized profusely, but Kael paid no mind.

The guard only led Kael so far as the large steel door at the corridor’s end. Kael took the heavy metal ring and knocked once. Then again before opening the clunky door, leaving the guard alone outside. The hidden chamber had not been cleaned in centuries. Rightfully so. Only the head of House Morcant ever entered it, and no Morcant would stoop to cleaning a dust-laden room no larger than a peasant’s closet. 

On the ground sat a wooden crate. Real wood, as always. Nothing like it could be produced in Nytherra, unless by artifice. He opened the crate, taking off the lid. Inside lay edible greenery—impossible things, in Nytherra. He smiled to himself, then tossed a hefty velvet pouch from inside his coat onto the nearby table – terribly worn and rotting from its centuries of inattention. Across from the door he had entered stood another, identical in steel, shape and size. Kael had tried many times to pry it open. It never gave. The pouch contained the usual payment: diamonds, gold, jewelry. Nytherra was rich in minerals, so why not trade what it had in abundance? His father had taught him what to leave on the third Friday of every month. Soon, Kael would enlighten the next Morcant head, one of his sons.

He pushed the crate outside, making sure to hide the goods with its lid. The guard securely tied a rope around it and dragged it back to the surface while Kael followed. The guard had some difficulty lugging it up the stairs, but no matter; Kael would get what he wanted. He always did. A guard was always brought along for the monthly trip. A Morcant did not drag crates himself. Afterward, the guard was disposed of. To keep the peace. One life a month, twelve a year—meant nothing to Kael.

They arrived back in the palace dungeons, deep underground, where the secret entrance for the Morcants’ trading place was. Kael drew his jeweled sword, passed down from generation to generation, and drove the blade into the young man’s chest while he knelt unprepared, busy untying the rope. It was done quickly. Kael disliked wasting time. Kael had failed, again, to account for the screaming. Next month, he decided, he would take the new guard’s head instead—messier, but quieter. 

A pity. Kael thought to himself as he spotted the wedding band on the dead man’s finger. The silver had not yet gathered a single graze. Someone would have to tell his wife that her newlywed had slipped from a cliff. There would be no body to find. Kael would see to that himself.

Truly, a pity.