Prince Of Silk: Chapter II - A Traitor to the Traitorous

“I have a job for you,”Master Rolovan finally looked up from his notes after summoning his personal servant to the parlor. Zen immediately ceased the incessant schling of his sword sharpening. “We have a traitor in our midst.”

He didn’t dare speak as his Master stood to his full height. A half-giant, raised in the uppermost mountains of Xandread like a wall of stone. Death was only one blow away from his enormous, veiny hands. The parlor was holding its breath. Even the curtains didn’t dare sway in the frigid winter wind. It was always winter here, and Rolovan liked it that way.

“One of our Handlers has been in contact with the Silk Order. Make an example of him, don’t make it quiet. Now get out.”

Of course, “Yes Master” was the only answer to be provided as Zen exited into the hall, sheathing his sword. The massive door opened up into a hallway overlooking a courtyard, covered in mist. Glimpses of dead grass and the dry wrought iron fountain poked out from above the fog, like drowning hands reaching from a frigid lake. He looked away, quickly making his way towards the center of the fortress, where he would make his entrance to the Handler faction to find the boy he was supposed to kill. Names weren’t important. Rolovan never had him be quiet about it. He wanted to make it well known to all of Ekrasine that traitors would not be tolerated.

“Zen,” a young male’s voice beckoned from behind him. In a swift movement, Zen unsheathed his sword and spun around, the blade pointed at the throat of Rohier, son of Rolovan. He slowly lowered it, and kept walking. His tall pursuer had no problem catching up to him in a few steps. “Where are you going? I was looking for you -”

“I’m on a mission.”

“Hedvir’s Peak. So you’re going to kill him.”

Zen tightened his grip on his sword handle. Miresadar, a Wardier’s blade. “Yes. I am. What message would it send to the people if we allowed a traitor to live?” Rohier flushed at Zen’s anger. He had a moment of realization that Rohier was not as pale and grey as everyone in Ekrasine. Living in his father’s Draplin manor must be treating him well. A pang of jealousy hit him.

“Perhaps we could put him in prison, or -”

“Put him in the dungeon to slowly die, or end it quickly. It’s a mercy that I’m doing this for him.” Before Rohier could respond, Zen cut him off. “Don’t talk to me like you’re a hero, Rohier,” Zen snapped. “Don’t talk to me like that when you’re not in my position.”

“Stop letting him do this to you, Zen, it’s like I don’t know who you are anymore,” Rohier said, palms open in an exasperated expression.

“I have never known you,” Zen said, narrowing his eyebrows and backing away from him.

Rohier paled, and his footsteps stopped tapping against the stone, but Zen’s didn’t, only fading once he entered the fortress with the heavy sound of an iron door closing.

Zen winced at the sound of his voice.

It wasn’t like it used to be, before Rolovan had taken control of Zen’s body and most of his mind. Rolovan’s personal servant, but not willingly. But really, he remembered nothing before his servitude, so who was he really? He was still grateful that he had part of a conscience still belonging to him alone, something he wouldn’t give away no matter what. It was the only bit of control that he had left. A once pounding headache at the beginning of this nightmare had faded into numb obedience.

But he recognized Rohier, from the beginning. His pointed nose, thin lips, blonde hair, were something that I had experienced before - before. What was before?

Tired workers and soldiers parted for Zen as his legs powered through the fortress. Some dropped their baskets in fear, the familiars chained to their wrist tripping at the sudden movement. Naturals were allowed to keep their familiars, if only for the reason that their magic would not work without them. But here, Naturals were forced to control animals to serve Rolovan’s army. Rolovan had to realize that the more they abused this ability, the less power they would have. Until they became so weak that they would be useless to the effort. After asking a terrified Natural coordinator with sunken cheeks where the boy Zen searched for was then, he made his way to the wide clifftop where Naturals trained their animals.

Cold mountain air beckoned him to the loud field, echoes of screaming familiars being whipped echoing against the mountainsides. The boy was attempting to calm an enormous wolf, chained to it’s human being thrashed against the ground. The wolf’s human was crying in fear as she was slammed and attacked by her once loyal familiar.

“Azras, please, calm down, you have to be calm,” the boy, Feran, I learned his name, held out his hands and kneeled on the ground in an attempt to calm the beast. “Hadle, you’re going to be okay, hold on!” The girl attempted to push herself up from the ground, weeping and screaming for help. The wolf, Azras, howled in pain as a guard came up from behind and stabbed the wolf with his spear. The girl, Hadle, screamed in agony as her familiar fell to the ground, and she was yanked by the chain attached to her ankle. Feran was silent, his face struck with horror as he ran to Hadle’s side. I couldn’t hear him as he held her in his arms, brushing her matted hair from her eyes and pleading her to hold on. He looked up, and saw my face. His expression was flat as the two guards who had escorted me yanked him up from the armpits.

“Let go of him! Feran, please come back, stop!” Hadle struggled against her chain but her dead familiar’s weight forbade her from reaching him. The guards shoved him to the ground in front of Zen. He recognized Zen. Of course, Zen was one of the most well-known slaves of Rolovan, doing the dirty work of Rolovan’s cruelty.

Zen steeled his features, although he was screaming inside. He had trained for 5 years to kill, but this was the first time he actually had to do it. He winced internally as he grasped the hilt of his sword, Miresadar. It meant “Loyal Star” in Southern Xandrabic. Loyalty meant nothing. The hilt seared his skin. It doesn’t want me to do this. He would lose his Wardier ability if he killed an innocent person.

“What are you waiting for?” Despite facing his death, Feran kneeled with his back straight, chin high. His voice was high-pitched and strained. “You can kill me, but you can’t kill the Silk Order. You can kill me, but you can’t kill all of us.” He repeated his words, his voice shaking.

Nobody said the name of the rebellion forming against Rolovan. It was punishable by death. But at this point, Feran had realized that there was no way he could survive.

Zen struggled against the force forcing his hands to grip the searing blade, his hands burning in agony as he raised it above his head. He grimaced and for a moment, he broke through the layer of his conscience controlled by Rolovan.

“You don’t deserve this,” Zen whispered, only loud enough for Feran to hear.

“I don’t, but you do,” Feran hissed.

The boy’s severed head fell into the grass, as well as Zen’s sword, both dull and lifeless. Crimson blood gushed into the sparse mountain grass as Hadle screamed Feran’s name. Zen looked at his hands, the agony fading into black, brown and yellow with horrific blisters. Feran’s familiar, a dove, fell to the ground, lifeless beside him. Hadle’s face stretched, hoarse screams escaping her throat as tears streamed down her pale face.

Someone kill me, Zen pleaded. His power as a Wardier, the lifeline connecting him to hope was severed like Feran’s head against the ground. He couldn’t, wouldn’t pick up his sword. So, he left it there. The two guards looked from Zen to the girl, as if silently asking for the order to slaughter her, too.

“She’ll be dead soon enough,” Zen replied. One went to grab his sword. “No!” he yelled, and the guard scowled and dropped it on the ground. Zen could kill just as well with his hands, the guards knew. Zen turned and left, back into the fortress as if nothing had happened.

But his world was collapsing around him.

He walked into Rolovan’s parlor, kneeling in front of him. He was to report to his master after each mission. Rolovan usually left him on his knees for a significant amount of time, but this was different. The stillness in the room was unbearable as Zen held on desperately to his composure. He hissed as a tear escaped his eyes, and an enormous hand grabbed him by the jaw and yanked his face upward to meet his own.

“Don’t cry,” he cooed, and brushed a thumb against Zen’s cheek. His breath smelled of death. Zen’s heart beat faster. “You’re more of a son to me than Rohier.”

A son controlled against his will, forced to kill an innocent boy fighting for his freedom.

“Crying for these traitors is only going to cause you more pain,” He rumbled as he took a dagger from his desk and carved Zen’s face from the corner of his eye to his jaw, forcing him to cry out. “You are just a boy, aren’t you? Maybe I should be less hard on you. But tell me, why didn’t you kill the girl?” Rolovan curled his hand around the circumference of Zen’s neck.

“My order was to kill the boy, master,” Zen gasped. Tears were now streaming freely from his eyes, mixing with the blood dripping onto Rolovan’s hand.

“Yes, I suppose you’re right. You did follow my orders, but you still fail to impress me. I thought after training for five years you’d mature, but you still remain weak.” Rolovan briefly tightened his grip, then wrenched his hand away. “Get out of my sight.”

Zen pushed himself up from the ground, and retired to his chamber. As blood dripped from his face, he snarled.