II

  A thin wheeze of organ pipes drifted through the rain, a hollow carnival tune that once might've sparked joy, now warped by rain into something pitiful, like laughter rotting on the way to a grave.

  Curtains snapped shut and doors bolted as the golden circus cart crawled into the courtyard, its wheels clattering through the storm like a dying tambourine pleading for mercy. Not a single soul dared witness his entrance. Flags of faded velvet sagged from its sides, stained with wine, vomit, and something darker. From its window dangled a pair of spindly arms—long, pale, and absurdly theatrical.

  —Ohhh, how much longer must my sacred soul endure this torment!— Jaspyr wailed, his voice shrill enough to sour milk. His spider-like limbs flopped over the cart's edge as he wiped imaginary sweat from his vast, wrinkled brow. —A delicate bird am I, trapped in this pitiful gilded cage... my wings bruised, my spirit shackled. Woe! Woe to the gentle king!...Hey you. The one with the big head, how far until salvation?—

  One of the troll-sized jesters hauling the cart paused mid-step, the chain links groaning across his shoulders. He turned just enough for one dull eye to meet his king's.

  —Nearly there, my king.—

  Jaspyr released a grand sigh, fluttering his fingers at the air as though dismissing hardship itself. —STOP THE TRANSIT!—

  The brutes froze mid-stride. The thick golden chains slid from their torn palms and scraped down their shoulders, peeling skin as they toppled and struck the stones with a crack that echoed across the courtyard.

  With a grunt, Jaspyr rose, wobbling, adjusting the cruelly sharp crown atop his tangled hair. His diaper sagged beneath his robes; he tugged it up with the dignity of a man convinced the world adored him. He stood atop the cart like a maestro addressing an orchestra of ghosts, his long chin lifted toward the rows of empty windows.

  —Beautiful people of... no. No, no, no... that's too generous.— He cleared his throat, raising a hand for silence, the empty courtyard did not disturb. —Bearable people of Vel'Nothar, rejoice! Your true king has arrived!—

  A rattling wheeze erupted from the organ strapped to the rear cart, drowning his proclamation. Jaspyr snapped his head around, enraged.—OH, WILL YOU SHUT THAT GODS-FORSAKEN CONTRAPTION UP?! I AM DELIVERING A MONOLOGUE CAN'T YOU SEE!—

  The organ ceased immediately.

  He smoothed the folds of his robe and continued, —As I was saying... I, Glorious King Jaspyr, Crown of Joy, have taken valuable time from my royal schedule to grace your wretched eyes with my presence.—

  He paused, scanning for applause that did not exist.

  —Travelling all the way from Jestmourne, I have braved horrors, suffered tragedies, and sacrificed many loyal men to reach you today! They died nobly... for me.—

  A soft blush warmed his cheeks as he imagined invisible cheers.

  —And now, having gifted you a glimpse of my beauty, I must proceed. The bat, in that tower has begged to see me.—

  Silence. Jaspyr sat back down, swirling his scarf around himself with a dramatic flourish. —That was a wonderful speech, Jaspyr,— he muttered proudly.—Magnificent, truly.—

  He peeked from behind his fingers, pleased with his own performance. Behind him, his exhausted jesters slumped against their chains, muttering under their breath.

  Jaspyr raised a finger. —Before we continue our noble march, I shall bestow a word of encouragement upon you all.—

  The jesters rolled their eyes. One spat blood from a cracked tooth.

  —Children! Peasants! Friends! I understand your pain, I truly do.— Jaspyr spread his arms wide, nearly toppling from the seat. —Yes, yes, your legs tremble, your spines bend... but the road is a stage, and every tragedy draws closer to its breathtaking finale. And look!... you have all made it to Act III! How exciting!—He offered a dainty clap for them. Few returned it.

  From the rear, a low voice muttered, barely carried by the gloomy wind —Understands the pain? His majesty aches from sittin' on his arse all day, while we've bled our feet raw for weeks... oh bless the poor thing.—

  It was meant for a fellow pawn. It was meant to die in the dirt. But Jaspyr's long ears twitched, sharp as twin razors. He heard every word, and the courtyard grew colder.

  Jaspyr's smile evaporated, wiped from his face as though a cloth had passed over it. Deep lines carved themselves into his cheeks, and a pulse throbbed violently at his temple. When he spoke, his voice fell to a whisper cold enough to still the air.

  —You. In the back. Step forward.—

  The jester froze. His painted grin cracked, trembling. Yet his feet obeyed, shuffling toward the front of the caravan as though dragged by invisible chains.

  Jaspyr leaned over the edge of his cart, eyes wide with theatrical malice. —Name.—

  The fool swallowed, lips quivering.—T-To...—

  —I DON'T CARE!—The king's shriek split the courtyard like a blade of glass, interrupting the jester. He threw out a hand. —EXECUTE HIM!—

  The boy spun and ran, short, but long enough to taste the illusion of hope. But to his misfortune, the ogre's arm closed around him mid-stride, hauling him from the ground like a broken marionette. One squeeze is all it took. Bones snapping like wet reeds, with a crunch of dry leaves ending the boy's life. The corpse sagged in the brute's grip.

  Jaspyr watched the body fall with a strange, reflective calm.

  —Blood washes the stage clean,— he murmured, voice low...sober... a jarring fracture in his usual madness.

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  He turned back to his pack of clowns, some frozen stiff with terror, others grinning like apes drunk on blood, watching their fellow's body twitch one final time.

  —Now then,— he said, brushing imaginary dust from his embroidered robe, his tone suddenly honey-sweet, —any other critiques of my travel habits?—

  Not a soul spoke.

  Jaspyr's mood shifted again, bright, theatrical, reborn in an instant.

  —Ahhh... splendid. The candle may flicker, my friends, but the play must go on.—

  The ogres stooped, chains lifted. The circus-cart lurched forward with a groan. And the final climb toward Heartspire continued through the storm.

  Golden coins clattered across the cobblestones like loose teeth, skittering through the rain in dull flashes of gold. Atop the grotesque circus-cart, King Jaspyr knelt over a clay urn marked with foreign tribal sigils, scooping up handfuls of treasure and flinging them at Lucianel's guards as though feeding ducks in a muddy pond.

  The coins struck their suits, but the guards did not so much as blink.

  —Ohhh, what a welcome! My heart trembles...— Jaspyr cooed into his palm, then lobbed another glittering volley.

  Darius emerged from the shadowed archway, drenched, panting like a hound driven too hard. —K-King Jaspyr,— he bowed low, —an honour, truly, may the night li—

  A knitted cardigan slapped wetly across his face.

  —Oh gosh! Cover that thing,— Jaspyr hissed, adjusting his crooked crown.

  —Good heavens, your appearance could make a diamond crack.—

  One of the jesters hurried to the cart's side. Jaspyr descended with that uncanny, spider-like grace of his—limbs folding, joints clicking, posture arched like an old tree tortured by centuries of storms. He tapped his golden staff on the stones, crawling toward the palace door.

  —Come on, creature, lead me to your master. Chop, chop.—

  A voice drifted from the threshold, smooth as cold silk.

  —King Jaspyr.—

  Lord Lucianel stood waiting, tall, still, framed by the dim torches at his back. —Welcome.—

  —Ohh, Lucy! You've been waiting for me, I see,— Jaspyr thrust out his hand expectantly, lips puckered toward the air.

  Lucianel ignored it. —...Welcome to Vel'Nothar. Remember you stand in my house, Jaspyr. And in doing so, I expect you respect it.—

  Jaspyr bent low, his grin stretching like a wound. —Mm... and is that a threat, or a challenge?—

  —Try anything,— Lucianel murmured, voice calm but sharp as a thin blade, —and your life will meet a poetic end.—

  Jaspyr burst into laughter, breath sour and hot against Lucianel's unmoving face. —Ahhh, Lucy! You've been practising your jokes I see. Now step aside.—

  He drifted past him, bowing theatrically to the towering Baphomet statue in the centre of the hall. The gesture was mocking, almost obscene. He inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with the stale scent of incense, mildew, and death.

  —Ahhh... home sweet home. The perfume of rot... exquisite.— He petted the goat's stone head. —And the décor! You redecorated for me, didn't you?—

  He froze mid-gesture, eyes narrowing. —But... it appears you made a mistake.—

  Lucianel's expression did not shift. —A mistake?—

  Jaspyr pointed one long, bony finger at Lucianel seated upon the throne. —No bat shall rest upon the throne of a king.—

  —Fear not, 'my king'. Your throne is there.—

  Lucianel gestured to the far end of the table, where a modest wooden chair sat alone. —Phoenix feather stuffing, Nordwood frame. No expense spared just for 'your majesty'.— A lesser seat. A deliberate humiliation.

  Jaspyr blinked once, twice. Then giggled.

  —Ahh! Yes, yes, a test! Of course. I knew you wouldn't dare insult me. Sharp as always, Lucy... hawk-eyed, eagle-brained!—

  He toddled across the hall, stroked the chair as if examining a lover, then slumped into it with a satisfied moan. Darius stepped close to assist.

  —Lucy tell me, what is this... thing?— Jaspyr spat. —Shoo. Back to the pantry, vermin.—

  Lucianel's voice dropped by a degree. —That 'thing' is Darius. My shadow. Mock him again, and the gathering ends here.—

  The torches flickered. The air cooled. Jaspyr froze for a moment, then roared with forced laughter, pounding the armrest with his palm.

  —Ohhhhoho! Lucy, such humour. My compliments to the cardiganed creature.—

  —Keep them. This is neither the place nor the day for your foolishness or your so called compliments— Lucianel's gaze sharpened. —The remaining guests will arrive shortly. Try not to soil that diaper before they do.—

  Jaspyr bristled, face wrinkling like rotted fruit. —You winged vermin think you know fashion? I am a pioneer, a visionary! This— he slapped his sagging diaper, —is purpose, not filth.—

  —Splendid,— Lucianel murmured. —So the scent that followed you in was not your 'royal fragrance', but Jestmourne's perfume? Tell me, does the whole of your region reek of fermented rat?—

  The insult landed clean. Jaspyr's jaw quivered; his nails scraped the table like claws on glass. —Fermented rat? Oh please, look at you, a rodent crowned with wings.—He leaned forward. —Jestmourne thrives, and my Royal Court flourishes.—

  Lucianel chuckled, quiet and cruel. —Jestmourne is the sludge at the bottom of the well, Jaspyr. Your people die faster than you can name them. Tell me, how many of your 'Royal Court' did you lose on the road?—

  Jaspyr folded his arms, eyes gleaming darkly. —Lost? In this life, Lucy, no one is ever truly lost. My men have found new paths.—

  —New paths to hell?—

  —No,— Jaspyr said lightly, —Hell doesn't take us clowns. We make even devils nervous they close their gates when we knock.—

  His laughter echoed down the stone hall like the shrieking of something trapped between mirth and madness.