Duplicity: Part Eight

      "Duke Garrington is a man of good character, as I’ve demonstrated before,” declared Jeran in front of the council. “Can we not postpone the trial for just a few more days?”

      “We apologize, Prince Borodere,” said the judge. The young blue Vandagyre adjusted her spectacles and glanced for a few moments to the other nineteen judges sitting atop their high benches. “Garrington cannot be held for longer than he already has been. It’s the fifteenth of the Month of Swimming, and that’s final.”

      “But—”

      “You have already violated the common law once, Jeran, and however good your intentions may be, there will be dire consequences if you decide to do it again. We will not allow it.”

      “I understand,” he replied.

      “Good.” The Vandagyre judge banged her gavel on the sound block. “You are dismissed.”

      Jeran lowered his head. Behind him, the duchess of Brightden and Giles Garrington stood among a small crowd of nobles. Giles’s jaw was shaking. The evidence of his father was damning, and it wasn’t likely anything new was going to change that. He didn’t want to believe his father was guilty, that he’d be taken away, but he sort of did.

      Jeran seemed to believe in Garrington’s innocence, though. That had to count for something, right? He couldn’t be wrong, especially not after how public he’d made his stance.

      “I’m sorry, kid,” whispered Jeran as he passed Giles by. “I didn’t want to put you through all this.”

      “It’s fine, Prince Borodere. Thanks for trying anyway. I appreciate it.”

      Jeran gave Giles a slight nod and continued on to the side exit. Once he’d made it far enough away from the court, he cast off his somber mask. Dealing with the Council was irritating, but he’d only have to do it for so long.

      Laws only meant anything as long as they could be enforced, after all. The Council had already set a good precedent by allowing Jeran to invade Brightden without any consequences, and that precedent could be milked for all it was worth.

      As he made his way toward the carriage, he’d noticed his coachman standing alongside the small frame of an Aisha. Jeran recognized her immediately.

      “Prince,” said the Kyrii coachman, “Lady Lisha just came, and—”

      “So I’ve noticed,” interrupted Jeran. He turned to his sister “It’s always nice to see you, though I can’t say you’ve picked the best time to catch me.”

      “The best time is somewhat of a long way off, and I kind of wanted to talk to you about something that couldn’t really wait. Can I do that?”

      “You don’t need to ask permission to talk to me, you know.”

      “I know,” replied Lisha.

      Jeran told his coachman to drive to the castle and got into the iron-coated carriage with Lisha. The coachman yelled a few commands to the giant Alabrisses in front, and the carriage started off. Jeran stared out the window into the curling hills and marches of the Meridellian countryside.

      “A bit of a cramped space,” commented Lisha. “This thing is made for three Neopians, right?”

      “Supposedly.”

      “Looks like whoever made this didn’t do that good of a job. Maybe it was just designed to fit King Skarl only.” Lisha bared her teeth to form something that vaguely looked like a smile, as if that could automatically inject more humor into her statement. She eyed Jeran’s golden ring.

      It was mesmerizing to stare at. The small crystals embedded into the gold took the sunlight and bounced it among themselves, forming a thin, wondrous band of light as a colorless aura formed around it. Lisha almost did not notice something trying to wiggle its way into her mind.

      Startled, she threw out the presence and shut her mind’s barrier. What in the world was that . . . ?

      She remembered Jeran’s outburst at her several weeks ago, when he’d almost become angry at her for no discernable reason. No discernable reason, she realized, except the thought she’d had just before. That ring gave Jeran the ability to read her mind.

      Mind-reading was a feat only few types of magic could manage, all of which had bad connotations, the most common—and salient—one being wraith magic. Lisha knew what that looked like, and it was nothing like the transparent aura she was seeing now.

      “You said you needed to talk to me about something important,” said Jeran. She couldn’t make out any emotion on his face.

      “Oh, yes, right, well . . .” Lisha trailed off. She’d initially intended to ask Jeran about the ring, but if he was using its powers intentionally, he wasn’t going to take that question very well. She formulated a nice, mostly-true cover story: “I was talking to Danner yesterday, and he seemed pretty upset with you.”

      “When is Danner not upset with me?”

      “Touché.” Danner was a little more than just upset, but Lisha genuinely had no idea why. He’d refused to tell her anything about it no matter how much she’d pestered him. “Seriously, though, he said you seemed . . . off.”

      “Did he, now?”

      Sort of. If you considered swearing to be amicable enough to put it in those words. “It was really weird he’d say that. I mean, I haven’t noticed anything different about you, but I was wondering if you wanted to tell me something?”

      “I wouldn’t know what to tell you,” said Jeran. “I’ve been feeling all right. Coasting along, the usual.”

      That was a lie, and Lisha knew it. Danner hardly ever got angry. When he did, it was usually for a pretty good reason. “Are you sure? You know, you can tell me if anything’s wrong.”

      “When something’s wrong, I’ll be sure to tell you,” replied Jeran slowly. “For now, you’re just trying to get at something that isn’t really there. I’m fine.”

      “All right.”

      Lisha was not going to take him at his word. She waited a while for silence to take hold, for Jeran to eventually get distracted and gaze out the window. The carriage’s clattering against a bumpy road soon filled that silence.

      This was her chance. Lisha shut her eyes and whispered an incantation, letting her magical energy flow away from her as she did so:

      That which is hidden cannot abide.

      Where there is truth, lies cannot hide.

      A mythical evil I seek is concealed,

      And to me, it must be revealed.

      Let darkness abandon the undeserving

      Who feign their loyalty unswerving.

      She hoped her energy would not find anything to latch onto and dissipate back into thin air. Instead, she found it wrapping around Jeran, revealing a thicket of fog around him. Smoke sailed over his clothes, forming the impressions of three hooded figures: A faerie, a Skeith, and a Gelert.

      They were real. The Three were real.

      And Jeran wasn’t just dabbling with them; he was practically brimming with their magic. Lisha held in a gasp as she watched her energy spiral down into Jeran’s ring. Heat rained down her shoulders. She wasn’t about to get that energy back anytime soon.

      If there was a proper reaction to finding out your brother was conspiring with three evil demons, Lisha didn’t know what it is. In fact, she couldn’t really muster much of a reaction at all, not even as a vague understanding of what this meant sunk into comprehension.

      Ambition, Greed, and Revenge. Her mind could now find a million and one ways Jeran could have sought after each, and none of them were particularly pleasant. Lisha thought about what Jeran would do in this state, what he might have done already.

      It was grim, perhaps, but much grimmer was the thought that she hadn’t noticed anything wrong with him. If it hadn’t been for Danner’s bad mood and a few throwaway observations, she wouldn’t have said anything was particularly off about Jeran at all.

      How much had she let slip by?

      The door to Danner’s office was open ever so slightly when he came to it at midnight. He approached the office cautiously, sheathing his sword and examining the door hinge. It exhibited no damage, which meant whoever was in there had a key.

      Danner kicked the door and scanned the room. Paper was strewn across opened cabinets and broken shelves. Scorch marks scarred upturned books that surrounded a green Ixi donning a simple tunic. He was rifling through a book, seemingly unaware of Danner’s presence.

      “Stand up and put your hands where I can see them,” commanded Danner. “Now!”

      The Ixi slowly rose and sluggishly wrapped his hands across his head. His eyes drifted aimlessly across the room, and his knees were quivering. He constantly had to readjust his step to keep balance. “Of course, captain. Please—please don’t hurt me.”

      Even if he had just destroyed Danner’s office, that prospect wasn’t at all tempting. “Gali? You should be in the ward, Gali. How did you get here?”

      “I got the key,” replied Gali. “I got it from an invisible green ballista which walked to the edge of town and smiled furiously in the red berry water and . . . and . . .”

      Gali’s face scrunched up. His thoughts consisted of brief flashes of incoherent images, and try as he might, he could not remember anything of what he was trying to say. Something . . . something about a prince . . . princes . . . more than one prince?

      Danner could not bring himself to be anything but mildly annoyed. Pity tempered any frustration he might have had. “You got a key to get here?”

      “I don’t remember if I perched onto a pink spoon.”

      How strange. Gali could produce a coherent sentence just a minute ago. Was it possible he couldn’t articulate phrases relating to a particular topic? Danner had seen strange consequences of poisons in his time.

      “What is the function of a key?” he asked.

      “To open a lock.”

      Danner narrowed his eyes. Gali could talk about keys, just not in the context of this specific event. This did not seem at all natural, not a result of simple delirium. Someone did something to him, something that resulted in more than just Gali not being able to recover from a poison.

      “Listen,” said Danner. “I need you to focus with me. Did anything happen to you after you were given the antidote?”

      “I talked to . . . I talked to . . .” Gali winced as he tried to spit out the next word, like it was causing him physical pain. “No.”

      That was all Danner needed to confirm his suspicions. “I’ll deal with your infraction later. For now, come with me. You need to—”

      A hard punch brought Danner to a pause before he could finish the sentence. By the time he recovered, Gali was staggering toward the exit, panting heavily and bringing his knuckles to his mouth. Danner stared blankly at him as he tried to “escape.”

      He walked to the torch-lit halls outside and bid a passing guard to take Gali back to the ward. Gali didn’t have the strength to wiggle out of Danner’s grasp as he handed him to the guard. Danner tried to make sense of the strings of words Gali had hurled at him.

      What in the world did you do, Jeran?

      That question poked at him. The fumes of indignation leaked into his mind, simmering upon itself until it cascaded into a veritable flame. Danner tried to temper it by looking for some other explanation to Gali’s behavior, but finding them through that thick smoke proved difficult.

      Not only had Jeran blatantly lied to him, he had almost certainly done something awful to a prisoner. That was simply unacceptable, especially so from someone so highly regarded.

      A singular outrage guided Danner through the castle and into Jeran’s workroom, where the latter was coolly standing in front of his desk, thumbing through what seemed like a hefty legal tome. Candlelight pulsed around him.

      Without looking up, Jeran said, “Hello, my friend. Always a pleasure to see you . . . though it is a bit late, is it not? ”

      Cold pricked Danner’s skin. Danner found his muscles tightening, which lent his voice a more nervous undertone than he intended: “I want to know what you did to Gali.”

      “I’m sorry, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

      Jeran’s flat pitch barely concealed the insincerity behind that statement. Danner clenched his fists. “Actually, you do, Borodere. You did more than just have a chat with the guy, and I want—I demand to know what it is.”

      Jeran put down his book and took a few steps toward Danner. “You caught Gali rummaging through your things then, and now you’re accusing me of wrongdoing. Wasn’t that a rather hasty conclusion to make?”

      That breach happened mere minutes ago. There was no way that information reached Jeran faster than Danner did. “I never said anything about Gali rummaging through my stuff. Looks like I made a correct conclusion.”

      “I’m well aware of that.” Jeran sighed. “Listen, Danner, I think we need to have a talk.”

      “I don’t want to talk, okay? I want an explanation, and I want it now.” Danner heard a few clicks behind him—the door’s lock. He swore silently to himself.

      “No need to rush, really. It’s not like you have anything better to do. I mean, there’s a variety of topics we could cover, like how being right isn’t the only thing that matters.”

      Danner grimaced. “You’d better have a good reason for this, or I swear I’ll—”

      “No need to act like a grumpy little Kadoatie,” said Jeran. The sing-song tone he employed made Danner want to give him a solid kick to the gut. “If it makes you feel better, I’ll give you the explanation right off the bat. Will that make you happy?”

      Danner had a feeling it really wouldn’t.

      “It’s simple, really.” Jeran twisted his golden ring around his finger. “What happened is that I gained complete control of Gali’s perceptions and actions. There’s a more technical explanation involving essences and tampering with the mind-world barrier and all that, but I don’t think you’re very interested in. The part you’d want to know about is that you can’t actually control anybody until you have them in a vulnerable state.”

      “You can’t actually mean . . .”

      “I do.”

      Mind control was one of those magical practices that were unequivocally outlawed in Meridell and its surrounding lands, for good reason. Ethical issues of autonomy aside, the consequences of such spells usually caused great harm to the affected. Danner couldn’t believe Jeran would have actually done it.

      Yet here he had fully admitted to it without an ounce of shame. Apparently, Danner had to reevaluate what he’d believed about his “friend.” His thoughts raced, checking every memory he had of Jeran against the portrait he was forming of him now.

      “Gali didn’t decide to break into my office. You forced him to,” hissed Danner. “Even though he was ill and couldn’t possibly to a good job of it.”

      “I only needed him to destroy one record from there. His staying longer than required was supposed to lure you up here. I expected to have to pull a few more strings to do it, but I was pleasantly surprised when you came earlier than expected.”

      Why? What was the purpose of destroying a single record, and then lead him here with a needlessly complex ploy? Before he could conjure up any sort of answer, Danner felt a tap his forehead.

      “Because that single piece of information both cast doubt on Garrington’s guilt and held the evidence as to who the actual plotter was, Prince Rafael.”

      Danner only took seconds to understand Jeran had tampered with the evidence to eliminate Garrington, probably for some political reason. “You’re just going to let Rafael go so you could make a dumb power grab?”

      “No. I’m going to make a dumb power grab and make sure Rafael suffers, eventually. I don’t know, maybe make him watch me crumble his precious kingdom’s last bricks under my boot.”

      “That’s insane.” At this point, Danner’s indignation reached a critical mass; he didn’t know what was wrong with Jeran, but he wasn’t going to just let it side by. He swooped in and grabbed Jeran by the collar. “You can’t just tell me all that and expect to get away with it all.”

      Jeran delivered a strong kick to Danner’s stomach, knocking him away just long enough to grab his sword. “Actually, I do, because you’re not going to get away with knowing it all.”

      Danner scrambled back and pulled out his own blade. Knowing that trying to react against Jeran’s strikes would not end well for him, he attacked aggressively and instantaneously. He would not allow Jeran to have a moment’s rest. The more mental space he had to devote to reacting to Danner’s attacks, the less he had for planning a coherent strategy.

      For a while, this strategy seemed to work. Jeran blocked and dodged, blocked and dodged. He simply reacted, devoting little thought for devising his own measures. But he had the space between action and observation to work with, and there, the inklings of notions and ideas gave rise to a plan.

      His opponent frequently made use of fast attacks directed at the lower half of the torso. Hard to deal with, but for Jeran, it was hardly impossible to. He contorted his face in an expression of false surprise at every strike, and when Danner had finally delivered a thoughtless blow, he sprang into action.

      Jeran slid to the outer side of Danner’s attack, to the side of the sword’s hilt. He grabbed Danner’s arm and pushed it down. Danner bent out-of-balance before receiving an elbow the back of his neck. Jeran’s full weight slammed him onto the floor.

      Danner could barely push himself up before his neck grazed the edge of a blade. He stopped and moved his eyes to get a good look at Jeran, who loosely hung his sword over him, like he could drop it at any time.

      A blade possessed a real, visceral power unmatched by anything else. Kings had power. Princes and dukes had power. Petty lords and barons had power. But it was all institutional. It all hinged on everybody else’s cooperation, and in that respect, worked indirectly.

      Weapons were different. There were no middle-men, no complex channels dealing with any psychology. What you did immediately manifest in the real world. One twitch of a muscle could conceivably decide the outcome of someone else’s life, and what better power was there than that?

      The thought brought Jeran to a pause, to listen to his own thoughts. He wasn’t happy at besting Danner because of any pride in his martial prowess or anything of the sort, not because he’d knocked down another obstacle to his avarice or mindless perusal of vengeance.

      Feeling joy on behalf of all those things were at least understandable. Jeran could have fully and intelligibly explained to himself why these things were so important. He needed ambition to be a better regent, greed to be able to better preserve Meridell, what he considered home, and a desire for vengeance to show he was not weak, so nothing could endanger those he loved again.

      Jeran sheathed his sword and started on an airy, nervous chuckle. This malice did not come from anything or anyone but himself. He leaned on a wall, curling up ever so slightly with each laugh.

      Danner rose slowly as though he was trying to escape the attention of a rabid beast. “What in the world is wrong with you?” he breathed.

      “There is nothing wrong with me. I’ve never felt better in my life.” Jeran turned to his friend once more—his friend, he reminded himself. Not some depersonalized monster who was rushing to kill him.

      He let some of the ring’s energy escape and mentally fashioned it as an arrow. He led it into Danner’s head, piercing his thoughts one by one, and breaking down his mental barrier until he could fashion it himself.

      “Nothing wrong with me,” Jeran reiterated. “I’m just tying up loose ends.”

      To be continued…