Chapter 24 - The halls and the holy; what might there remains in the shadow of death (Training arc)

　　It was a long lonesome walk to the taskmaster`s chamber.

　　Gorkon had left and the prince had gone with him, straining each step like it might be his last. But the taskmaster led and the prince trailed behind—an assault to his stature, the royal pride that was wounded. Like his body it hurt, and the scars might not heal.

　　They went past the three quarters, the commons, the mid-ranks. The beds of elites where the night had brought much—both good rest and experience. Let him stay where he lay, the vile runt who assailed them. The rot would be good. A reminder to all.

　　Stepping through the great halls where the air was all stifling... hard as the heat from a hell-hot stoked forge. The tables, the chairs, the stone stoic silence—there was more than just them in these hollow carved halls.

　　The prince took it slow, moved with great veneration—he did not know why but the adverse would cost him; he felt it somehow, in his bones, in his heart raw and dead, and with nothing much in stead, but it was there... no, two things, and both equally insurmountable—the need for shown reverence and the need to feel the need; the two were one and separate and recursive.

　　He did not like it here.

　　A path opened up, past the far side of the table; the stone walls giving way, the low grumble of earth. Some cave of death or of unearthly hallows—the prince did not relish the things he might find.

　　The way now was down and he followed the taskmaster. He tried not to think but his mind wandered free.

　　There was a ghostly edge here, for all things are not matter. We have matters we know that our hands cannot touch.

　　A door opened then, for Gorkon to pass through. The prince stayed outside; it was not wise to go on. To break past the bounds something stronger had set.

　　Gorkon sat down—there was a chair in the chamber, and a hearth that was burning.

　　The taskmaster stared at the prince staring back.

　　"I will not go on," said the prince, self-assured in his word but not the refusal—the taskmaster might not take it that well. "Not without a true invitation."

　　"You do right to put faith in the deep-down core instinct," said Gorkon. "The forces round here... they would flatten a man." He peered at the prince with a hint of amusement—it was a test still somehow, like a long drawn-out game. But the rules were unknown. "Enter my domain. For now, you are welcome."

　　The mist that was there, though the prince had not seen it... that vanished all then, and he longed to go in. They called to his soul, both the room and the hearth. His body moved in, and the steps were not heavy. It was as if now he belonged to this place.

　　"Why did you lie?" said the prince; it was not much a question. "You asked but knew well what the mark I bear meant."

　　"Cut the gloom," bade then Gorkon, and the mood seemed to lift, growing lively and lighter. "You act too ill-tempered; there is place here for laughter—you have passed the last test, and your fate is now sealed."

　　The prince sat down on an empty chair, felt the warmth of the fire. Tempted to retrace, to repeat the same question... but what would it add, some strange answer in riddle. No, he would focus from now, on the hard task ahead. "Give me my vengeance. Let me break those that wronged me."

　　"What would you have an old taskmaster do?" Gorkon`s mouth curved, the fangs gone or receding; the image seemed clear, though it rattled the mind. He looked saintly somehow, a white robe that adorned him. A voice from the heavens, not just hallowed but holy—the sacred inherent; not tacked on by design.

　　The prince looked away to restore his true vision—what did he wear, this wizened taskmaster, his robe white or plain... and his voice, the true cadence, its meaning?

　　But the memory was gone or the facts somehow strained. Sore like a muscle, his mind ached. The tendons of thought in a sense overstretched.

　　"Will you be my new prospect?" Gorkon cut through the contemplative silence, seeming strong and still large but a goblin, no more.

　　"I will burn those who wronged me," said the prince, and he believed it. "My will is my own; I will see through your tricks." He wished it were so.

　　Gorkon gave an appraising look. "You will think to rebel, but I doubt it is wise."

　　Their eyes locked and the prince did not cower—it took much, close to what mettle he thought he had left.

　　"Yes," said the prince. "If my sword is scraped sharp and my body made better... I will be the new prospect." He thought of the scroll, the fake words and the real, the boxes they buried. The dead line of Baldirk, the son of a king who had never been crowned. "Entail what it will, I can take it and suffer. The worst is to come to my enemies, not me."

　　The taskmaster stretched, reached with his hands, the cold killing hands that can crush and bestow. "You are henceforth as I say. I bestow on you the class... of prospect."If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

　　A stone-cold strong rush came swirling or crashing, the aura so fierce that the prince did not know—should he flee and be craven? A wild hopeless thing in the forest of mind?

　　How low could hope go... till it tattered and frayed, leaving little to hold. Not enough for one man.

　　But the cold was like frost and the frost was like Gael, a connection unbroken. Like the string on a bow, he could aim for his heart. Borne back to fields, to green pastures and meadows... ceaseless as wind, he belonged to the past.

　　"I am ready," said the prince, his voice old and hard like the ice on the hills. "I have need to evolve."

　　"One day a goblin—"

　　"Two," the prince countered, cutting the taskmaster off in mid-sentence. It did not seem smart—was he bold or just reckless? The difference is found in the end, the thereafter. Not in the act, which was futile to judge.

　　Gorkon`s eye whirled, dancing up in its socket. "..." He was stirred but fell silent... no sound now but the drumming. His razor-sharp nails on the wood of his desk. "It is rare but not in truth without precedent..." They were words just like thoughts, for the man`s mind alone—the prince still an outsider.

　　"Tell me the stats," the prince thought it right to intuit. His strength could be measured; there were numbers to go on. He put faith in it now, the lost art of statistics. The method seemed true, or at least a true constant—for if the rigour was rite and the forms turned out flawed... then the unfailing mould of the wrongs made them right.

　　Ah, it was hard to explain, and he would not dwell on it. Perhaps he just longed for some path that led straight—a steady strong rhythm. Then his mind, if amiss, would not stray all too far. His sin could spread out but stay one all the same. There was dignity there, or at least knight-like duty.

　　That was enough; he should not reach for the stars.

　　"Level 10," Gorkon said, pulling the prince from his palace—the mind was where he was; ruminescent in touch.

　　"That is enough," said the prince, though really in question. "I can evolve with those stats, build a body more suited." The same lilting tone, a statement in search—give me some confirmation.

　　"It is the bare minimum, yes." Gorkon nodded, again to himself and not to the prince. He, too, seemed lost in some memory. The past that is dead but not gone—on this fact they agreed.

　　"I will settle for that," said the prince, who had never in life known a sliver of strife—there were always the meadows, the fields and the frost.

　　"Tomorrow, then—"

　　"No, tonight." The prince tested his luck; it had brought him this far. And yet also so low.

　　"Prince, I will warn you." Gorkon rose tall, shimmered hues of his aura. Colours the prince could not name if he tried. "Speak once more out of turn..." But then he sat down, brought his fury to simmer. "I should steady my heart; I have long lived in fury. It is gone if I blink but then never for long."

　　They were too much alike, and the insight it harmed them—the old man and the prince, they were silent some time. The hearth bounced a flame from one side to the other; it was lovely to watch from the space where they sat.

　　Gorkon spoke first, showed his mind or some snippet. "Stand firm, faltered prince—I have need of your service."

　　"Is there room to inquire?" The prince tested the waters. "Will you tell me what for, or are words just like ghosts?"

　　The taskmaster sat, gave his gaze to the fire—the hearth that went on; it would never not burn. "The mark makes you strong—the mind is your weapon. Do not get disarmed. It would grieve me to see."

　　The prince weighed these remarks, thought it best not to trust them—don`t swear by words; they are easily withdrawn.

　　"Tomorrow," said Gorkon; it was really a question. Affirm your resolve—it does minds well to hear it.

　　"Back in the egg," said the prince, and they laughed; it was most unexpected. "Is there no better way than to sit in that goo?"

　　"If there is, I have yet to find it. Better minds than mine have tried—well, there was one." Gorkon drew inward: to recall from the past is to hurt in the present. Like fire it burns, the memories of old.

　　"Zenok?" asked the prince, and he felt a quaint sense of sorrow; it was not his to bear, but the weight of a memory... it is sometimes too much. One man can`t take it—no saint or taskmaster, even princes know limits. They sat for some time in the pain of the past.

　　Gorkon stood up, silent and watchful. He was old, and his clothes were in rags. He turned to the prince, "Eat now and drink, do your best to be merry. You are allowed the one night, so smile, be inviting... it does not betray your own ghosts when you do."

　　"But come sunrise..."

　　"We`ll put you in an egg."

　　"And I`ll come back." The same sing-song tone, on the edge of inquiry. The prince leaning in—give me comfort; I need it.

　　"You had better." Gorkon smiled. "It`s far too soon still, in the hollow hereafter... no, this is no time for young princes to fade."

　　The prince rose and stared, at the hearth and beyond it. "Must I traverse it, the hell of those halls—there is something that ails me; it`s hard and grit-dark, and I know something`s down there. A wraith or its shadow... or some beast long deceased yet it roams and it beats—my being quakes always."

　　Gorkon took it in, the moment of weakness. How princes can suffer. There`s a right to express. But to speak of these fears does not absolve one—the fire is there, and the path must be trod.

　　"You had best see your fellows," said at last the taskmaster. The prince had been left to his fear long enough. It was time now for action. Words may move worlds, but it`s bodies that matter; they are made to stand firm for when words don`t suffice.

　　The prince moved to leave, and the taskmaster let him.

　　"One thing," Gorkon said then, and the prince half-turned back. "Had you failed to recall..." The taskmaster tapped at his head, where the prince had a mark. "... you were unworthy of knowing." Their eyes had met, made some meaningful contact. Then the fire, Gorkon returning his gaze to the master element. "To say more than you know... that is not my domain."

　　Standing there, the prince, hoping though he ought not... for more words from the master—the man who was more than a goblin somehow.

　　But none came. And the prince expected this, and the prince was downhearted. There is not such a thing as half-hearted commitment; it`s always the whole and then still wanting more.

　　The prince walked away, head held high for the act and the realness—he was better off thinking he was all that and more. The things he was not.

　　"The blade," Gorkon shouted then, a spur of the moment inflection. "You have the claim and you alone. Dicebolg—I... We have need of it."

　　They were both hard and broken—is that where strength comes from? Mostly alone and lonesome always... the prince thought then he had rather been weak.

　　If their paths should collide, they might well collapse—the men, the paths, the ruin of a nation. There were kingly things at stake at all ends.

　　The prince made his way, back up and through the great halls. And he sensed still the spectres, of long-living gone things—they must`ve been grand, known alone in superlative; their might makes the place tremble still in their death.

　　But he thought then of them two, his allies... no, his friends.

　　And the air was still dense, but he breathed it now.