“Why has a crowd gathered next door?” said Oland. “Is that Malachy Graham’s house?”
“Yes, but that’s not for you to worry about,” said Jerome. “What brings you to Derrington?”
Oland didn’t want to give too much away. “I am looking for someone to take me on a blind journey.”
Jerome raised his eyebrows. “You?” he said.
“I need to go somewhere,” said Oland, “and I need someone to take me there without question.”
“And what, at such a young age, do you know of blind journeys?” said Jerome.
“In the castle dungeons, there are special cells for blind journeymen and their passengers…”
“Yet you are not deterred…” said Jerome.
Oland shook his head. “Like those who have gone before me, captured or uncaptured, I have no choice.”
“Where do you want to go?” said Jerome.
“Does that mean you will take me?” said Oland.
“I saw what happened in the arena,” said Jerome. “You defied and humiliated Villius Ren in front of the whole of Decresian. How he viewed you before, I don’t know, but today you became his enemy.” He paused. “I too am an enemy of Villius Ren’s. And, if you want to get to safety, I will help you.”
Outside, a commotion erupted in the neighbouring yard. Someone knocked on the back door of the Rynishes’ house and pushed their way in. The draught caught the door opposite the parlour, and it swung open to reveal the Tailor Rynish scowling at the interruption. Oland noticed something he hadn’t seen through the window: a remnant of sheepskin hanging on a peg. The Tailor Rynish must have made the mad old miller’s sheepskin. Oland was now in a world where people helped the less fortunate. It felt shameful to have ever served men guided only by personal gain.
The back door closed, and the Tailor Rynish walked into the parlour, his eyes shining with tears.
“Our friend is dead, Jerome,” he said. “Malachy Graham is dead. His heart couldn’t sustain the shock.” His voice cracked.
Jerome bowed his head. “His family will be ours now. Seven fine sons.”
The tailor cleared his throat. “And I shall return to work,” he said, “making their father’s killer the finest, blackest clothing in the land…” He walked away and closed the door behind him.
“That was why a crowd had gathered next door,” said Jerome.
“I think I passed his son, Daniel, in the laneway,” said Oland. “He must have been running for a doctor…”
Jerome nodded. “Yes.”
“This is all my fault,” said Oland. “I… I was in charge of the animals at the arena. I knew that Villius Ren wanted them hungry, so I… I went to Malachy Graham’s stall. I asked him for extra cuts. I told him why, and he gave them to me, all this week—”
“And he was happy to give them to you,” said Jerome.
But Oland didn’t hear him, and continued. “Villius must have found out. Malachy Graham was called into the arena because of me. It’s my fault your friend is dead. I could see it in your brother’s eyes. I could see his disgust.”
“You saved Malachy Graham’s life,” said Jerome. “And whatever you saw in my brother’s eyes, it was not meant for you.”
“If I hadn’t asked Malachy for help,” said Oland, “Villius Ren would never have done what he did.”
“Exactly,” said Jerome. “Villius Ren did it. No one else. You are not to blame, Oland.”
Oland stared into the empty hearth. It had no fuel stacked beside it, and the room was ice-cold. He was struck by the humiliating thought that he would never succeed on this quest without help.
“I found a letter from King Micah,” he said, turning to Jerome.
“A letter? From King Micah?” said Jerome. “To whom?”
Oland hesitated. “To me.”
“What did it say?”
“It said that I am to restore the Kingdom of Decresian.”
Jerome’s eyes were wide.
“I know it sounds foolish,” said Oland. “It sounds foolish even to me.”
“Well, not to me,” said Jerome. “This is good news.”
“I don’t understand it,” said Oland. “I don’t know how, when King Micah never knew me, when he had never met me, when I was only born on the night he died, that a letter from him could come to me all these years later. And with such an extraordinary task. It must be a mistake.”
“I knew King Micah,” said Jerome, “and he was not a man to err.”
Oland shrugged. “So I have heard, but… I don’t know where to even start.”
“Well,” said Jerome, “at the very least, answer me this. To ensure that there was even a chance of restoring Decresian… what would you need to bring about?”
Without hesitation, Oland had the answer. “The downfall of Villius Ren.”
“Oland…” said Jerome eventually. “If you are to bring about the downfall of Villius Ren, I think I should tell you about a man called Chancey the Gold.”
“I’ve seen his name!” said Oland, his eyes bright. “In The Sporting Heroes of Envar.” He paused. “Well, in the index. It said ‘athlete, outstanding swimmer, named for all the gold medals he won in championships all over Envar…’”
“To watch Chancey the Gold swim was an extraordinary sight,” said Jerome. “He moved through the water like a spinning ball through the barrel of an arquebus.”
“I wanted to find out more about him,” said Oland, “but, when I turned to the page, the entry was missing.”
Jerome gave a wry smile. “Ripped out by Villius Ren, no doubt… it’s probably the only book he’s ever opened.”
“Why would he do that?” said Oland.
“Twenty years ago,” said Jerome, “Villius Ren visited the Scryer of Gort to have his fortune told, and she told him that his downfall would be at the hands of Chancey the Gold.”
Oland
