The Dented Crown

1

He woke up to pain, sharp and sudden. No part of him seemed to be free from agony, although he couldn’t think for the life of him what had caused his misery or how he’d gotten to where he was. He knew that pain wasn’t exactly a stranger to his body, although he couldn’t pin down why exactly he might be so familiar with the sensation. He guessed that figuring that out could wait until sometime when his head wasn’t throbbing quite so badly. The fact that he couldn’t remember, it bothered him, but the ache in his head bothered him more.

His head did seem to be the most badly injured part of him. As he catalogued his most severe injuries, he was unable to find anything that hurt more than the fountain of agony attached to the top of his neck. The pain stabbed as well as throbbed, something he’d hitherto thought impossible, and he’d have cut the thing off himself if he thought he could. Other aches seemed more distant, although whether that was because they truly weren’t significant or because his head was drowning the rest of it out remained to be seen.

When he opened his eyes, he found himself in a comfortable and clean room with a distinctly feminine feel to it. The walls had been whitewashed and a screen placed between the bed and the rest of the room. The bedclothes were fine and rich, tastefully embroidered and a brilliant shade of teal. He’d been dressed in a simple white tunic, without sleeves, and that made him frown. The material felt nice enough against his skin, a soft, fine weave of cotton, but somehow the lack of sleeves made him feel almost naked.

Why would he be dressed in clothes that made him feel unclad?

He sat up slowly, so as not to disturb his head. As it was, he found that the room spun enough that his stomach lurched, and he was glad there was nothing in it. He had no idea where he was. He knew he’d been injured. Moving his hands up to his head revealed that someone had wrapped a bandage around his worst injury, but he had no recollection of having received any kind of wound. He had no memory of this room. He had no memory of this place.

He couldn’t even remember his own name.

His jaw fell open. He wanted to scream, but who would come to help him? Was he in the hands of enemies or allies? Was he the kind of person who had enemies and allies, or had he been the victim of a terrible accident? Random violence? Where in the world was he, and how was he supposed to get home?

Did he have a family? Was anyone looking for him? Was someone even now wringing their hands at the window of their little cottage, waiting for their brother or son to come home? Or even their husband or father?

He shuddered away from those thoughts. Husband and father seemed very unlikely. He couldn’t be certain, not if he didn’t know who he was, but he didn’t think that husband felt like part of his identity. It just didn’t feel right.

A face peered around the screen, soon followed by an entire person. The visitor was a woman, tall and fine-featured, with medium-brown skin and what looked like hundreds of long, thin braids. Her dark lips split into a wide smile, and she glided into the small space. You’re awake. She kept her voice soft and quiet, possibly in an effort to avoid further pain to his head. You look more coherent than the last time too. How are you feeling?

He grimaced. My head hurts. Then he sat up straighter. There have been other times?

She nodded and moved farther into the room, crossing to a tall, narrow sideboard. You seemed to wake a few times, but you weren’t particularly aware of your surroundings. As she spoke, she reached into the cabinet over the sideboard and poured a pink liquid into a glass tumbler. This may help with the headache, although with a head injury that bad I’m afraid you’ll be prone to problems there for some time.

Where am I, Lady? He accepted the cup. It didn’t smell like poison, and he didn’t think that whoever the woman was she’d be likely to nurse him back to health only to poison him now. Still, a man couldn’t be too careful.

Was he the kind of person who got poisoned on a regular basis? He must have been, if he thought he could identify poison by scent.

You’re in my quarters, in the Golden Temple in Agradda, the capital of Agilos. My name is Janna; I’m the high priestess here. She smiled at him, warm and welcoming. You were brought in six days ago when a rowboat in which you were apparently a passenger washed up on shore. You had injuries to your shoulder, leg, and chest as well as the head wound that continues to trouble you. She paused, meeting his eyes as she sat down on the edge of his bed. What do you remember?

He closed his eyes. Even the act of trying to remember sent a fresh wave of pain through his skull, like a lance. Smells, mostly. I remember a stink, like the grave. Then blood. I remember a floating sensation. Then nothing.

Nothing? Warm brown eyes signaled compassion as she placed a hand on his ankle.

He swallowed. Not even my name. He didn’t know if he could trust her, but he didn’t know that he couldn’t. She clearly cared about his well-being, and something in his heart cried out for that right now. He needed answers, and he wasn’t likely to get them if he danced around the questions.

She sighed, and then she offered him a little smile. Well. I can’t say as I’m all that surprised. You’ve had a terrible head injury. I feel as though we’re lucky that you pulled through at all. I’ve seen a few wounds like this, and sometimes it can take a while for the memories to return.

He looked up at her. But they do return?

Sometimes. She looked away for a second. The important thing is to let them come back on their own. Even if you meet someone who knows who you are, they can’t just tell you.

Why is that? He blinked up at her. Why can’t they just give me my old life back?

She shook her head. It doesn’t work like that, I’m afraid. When loved ones try that with a patient, it’s not… It’s not real. The patient doesn’t recover their memories; they simply put on an act and pretend to be someone. I could tell you that you were a Prince of Agilos, but you still wouldn’t remember anything about our kingdom, or about the royal family, or about your life up until this moment. You’d just pretend.

At least I’d have a name, he shot back.

She smiled at him. That much I can help you with. I can give you a name until you can remember your own. I’ll call you Sokol, how’s that?

He tried the name out on his tongue. It’s as good as any, I suppose. But—but what if that stops me from remembering my real name?

It shouldn’t. It even feels foreign to you, doesn’t it? She gave a small laugh when he nodded. And you should drink the potion. It’s not going to hurt you; it will just help to relieve your pain.

He obeyed. So you know that I’m not from Agilos.

She shook her head. I don’t know who you are. That’s the truth. But I do know that you’re not Agilosi. Your skin is wrong. So is your hair. You have the look of Gerelen about you, although you might have some blood from someplace else too.

Sokol almost dropped his cup in his haste to pull back from his hostess. Gerelen? But haven’t Gerelen and Agilos been at war for centuries?

She shrugged. I’m a priestess. My mind is on the gods, not on the battlefield, but yes. Our kingdoms have been at war for generations, but what does that change? When a badly injured man washes up on the shore, one doesn’t just throw him back into the river; it doesn’t matter where he came from. She winked at him and grinned. Besides, who says that everyone who lives in Agilos has all of their origins here? You speak Agilosi; you’re familiar enough with our customs that you’re not embarrassing yourself. Maybe you grew up here. Or maybe you immigrated here later in life. Whatever the story is, your home is in Agradda until you no longer wish it to be.

Sokol raised the tumbler to his lips and drank from it. The flavor was harsh and distinctly herbal, foul enough that he made a face, but he finished the entire draught. Thank you, Lady Janna. You’ve shown me incredible hospitality. I have no idea if I’ll ever be able to repay you.

She laughed again. Sokol found that he liked her laugh; it sounded like little bells. Oh, Sokol. Don’t worry about that. You just worry about getting better. She helped him to lie back down. I’m sure you’re getting tired; you’ll find your stamina increasing as your body recovers, but you might get frustrated at first. It’s a long race, not a sprint.

Sokol relaxed and let himself get tucked back into bed. She wasn’t wrong about the fatigue. The effort of sitting up and having a conversation had left him breathless. Her potion against the headache seemed to take effect quickly; maybe he’d have more stamina when his head improved.

He racked his brain to try to remember something, anything, about Agilos or about Gerelen. He found that Gerelen was a complete blank in his mind. He could think of facts about other kingdoms—Potosi, Karakan, Iltuvis, Marvais—and even remember their languages, but when it came to Gerelen the entire kingdom was a blank. Maybe, like Janna had said, there was nothing to remember—maybe he’d always lived in Agilos. On the other hand, maybe whatever had happened to have him washing up on shore in Agradda, hundreds of miles from the border with Gerelen, was so traumatic that his brain simply couldn’t force itself to remember.

If that was the case, maybe he didn’t want to know.

No, that was wrong. He needed to know what had happened, who he was. He had to dig, to explore. If nothing else, he owed it to Janna, to make sure that she hadn’t rescued some kind of war criminal. Besides, he had to have some kind of marketable skill. He couldn’t sit here in the temple and leech off her goodwill for the rest of his life.

He drifted off to sleep, a true sleep instead of an unconscious stupor. Because he was truly sleeping, he dreamed. In his dreams, he saw a rowboat. He saw himself, dressed in leather and bleeding heavily, being half dragged to the boat by a somewhat older man dressed the same way Sokol was. The man had been hurt too, but he neglected himself to get Sokol into the vessel. In the background, the dreamer could see a vast cloud descending over a dark city.

The man, an older man with cropped hair and a thin mustache, managed to shove Sokol into the boat. Then, with great difficulty, he shoved the boat away from the dock and out into the current. He made no attempt to use the oars but let the river carry them where it would.

Sokol woke with a start. The dream had been vivid, lifelike. He found himself surprised when he found his tunic was still dry, rather than damp from the river. His headache seemed better than it had; he was able to sit up without nausea, at least.

He thought he’d only been asleep for a handful of hours. It still seemed to have been enough for someone to have brought in a pitcher of water and a bowl of broth, covered by a piece of bread. A note had been left with the food. Sokol couldn’t help but smile as he read the words his hostess had left: Dear Sokol: I have no idea how many days it is since you last ate, but it is best to start slow. Enjoy the broth. I’ll visit when you’re feeling up to it. Regards, Janna.

He poured himself some water. Apparently he could read. He probably hadn’t grown up in the backcountry or on a farm, then, wherever he hailed from. Reading wasn’t a useful skill for anyone below the middle class. He’d probably grown up in a city or a town, perhaps been educated for a mercantile or law career. Neither of those seemed quite right, but he didn’t know what else might have worked better.

The broth was brightly colored and, as it turned out, richly seasoned with a variety of herbs and spices. It was lukewarm and he got the impression that it had been intended to be served that way. Agilos was a hot country; they wouldn’t want to serve hot food in the middle of a hot day. He ate about a third of the soup before his stomach rebelled. It didn’t taste bad, although he knew it wasn’t his typical fare. He simply couldn’t take any more than he’d already consumed. Janna had told him that he’d been there for six days already; maybe it had been longer than that since he’d had any food.

What the soup and the water did, beyond proving that he was capable of sitting up for long enough to consume them, was give him the energy to move around a little. He walked around the room, just enough to stretch his legs and never more than an arm’s length from something sturdy enough to bear his weight. Yes, this felt good. Well, it didn’t exactly feel good—his muscles screamed at him for the long hiatus, and his aching head added to the cacophony—but he felt a rush of pleasure and pride at the simple act of movement. His muscles would thank him for it later, when they needed to move again for real. And even his head would be happier for it, once it got past the spinning.

Muscles, he thought. As soon as he started to move around, his spirits had improved. While he was literate, and multilingual, he was no bookworm. Whoever he was, or whoever he had been, he was definitely an active man, one who liked to keep fit and moving. He brought his hand before his eyes and examined it. What clues could this hand offer about the man to whom it had belonged?

Well, whoever he was, he used his hands a lot. His hands were rough all over, callused from work and scarred from a host of little cuts and injuries. He couldn’t fathom what kind of profession required both literacy and this type of wear. Whatever the injuries had been, they hadn’t done lasting damage. The hands seemed perfectly agile and useful.

He returned to his bed. Would Pre-Sokol have curled his lip and sneered at this weakling who couldn’t even make a complete circuit of his room? Maybe. But he wasn’t here right now, and Sokol was. Whoever the other man had been, someone had felt compelled to hurt him badly enough to erase his memories. Sokol wasn’t sure he wanted to be the target of that kind of hatred again.

Malires grinned and offered a hand to his opponent. Good workout, he told Gostan. You throw a mean parry. It’s impressive.

The soldier blushed and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. Thank you, Your Highness. You still knocked me onto my back, though.

The prince made himself grin. Had he really knocked Gostan down? Or had Gostan merely allowed it, to prop up his ego? He wasn’t going to get any stronger if people just let him win because he was the heir to the throne. Sure, he had bodyguards. Bodyguards could be cut down; it had happened more than once before. He had the scars to prove it.

His cheeks burned with shame. It had happened more than once, and it had happened more often against one opponent than against any other. Those bastards to the north, the Gereleni, got him every time, and one of their warriors seemed to have a direct line on his every weakness. Nothing Malires did seemed to help when they met in the heat of battle. None of Malires’s spies could find any weakness in him; no quantity of hours spent in training could ready him to face the other man’s sharp blades. He was a force of nature, something to be endured instead of overcome.

And now he lay on his side in the Golden Temple with an injury to his head, one so severe that he might never open his eyes and show the fire behind them again.

Will we see you later, my lord? Gostan asked, releasing the prince’s hand and dusting himself off. Some of the newer recruits intend on having a prize fight. It could be useful to get a glimpse at their starting prowess.

Malires hesitated. Perhaps. I have meetings to attend, but I’m sure I’ll need the distraction after the evening meal. He rolled his eyes, and Gostan laughed.

Hopefully we’ll see you then, Your Highness. The warrior bowed and took his leave, while Malires retreated to his own quarters alone.

Malires had the second-best apartments in the royal palace, and he knew it. They were spacious, and they were cool, and they were private. The main entrance, off the fountained and tiled courtyard that was the talk of the continent, endured its share of scrutiny, but there were other, more secluded entrances for those meetings that needed to take place out of the public eye for whatever reason. Every time he returned to his apartments, the tension ebbed out of his body and he smiled.

Today was no different. He stripped out of his nondescript fighting clothes, drenched in sweat and coated in dust, and made his way to his bathing room. Another day he might linger here; he loved a nice, long bath and perhaps a massage to go with it. Right now he could do no more than clean himself off and depart with a last, lingering look of regret. He needed to return to the temple, to check on his sister and Aleric.

At least he could wear luxury, if he couldn’t immerse himself in it. He chose a magenta tunic in a perfect weave of silk, the kind that felt like a gentle caress every place it came into contact with his skin. The color made his skin glow and his eyes look even darker—not that he was looking to impress anyone at the temple, but he enjoyed looking his best. Janna would laugh at him and call him a peacock, and he would pretend that he was only doing it because of his role as the future king, but they both knew the truth. He wasn’t even all that ashamed of it, when push came to shove.

Once he finished outfitting himself, with sandals and belt and jewelry, he re-emerged and met up with his retinue. Together, they marched over to the Golden Temple, a distance of only a few city blocks.

The Golden Temple was technically the worship center for all of Agilos, and the rulers of the Kingdom of Gold had been assiduous in ensuring that the complex reflected its Agilosi values. It gleamed in the sunlight, thanks to the many golden accents on the building itself. Marble steps led up to the gate; woe betide any worshipper whose legs or lungs were not up to the task of climbing! The gate admitted visitors to an elaborate and beautiful garden, a place of respite during the heat of the day where the flowers perfumed the air.

Most visitors would follow the wider path, the one that led straight from the gate and into the main sanctuary. Others might visit smaller chapels. Malires had no need of prayer, not today. He followed a side path behind a pretty little chapel to Inar-Lan, Goddess of Lust, and over to the quarters assigned to the priesthood. The largest house by far had been assigned to Janna, the high priestess. It was to this house that Malires made his way.

He didn’t stop and announce himself. The guards at the door—wearing gold livery, in honor of their mistress—would never dare to bar his way. He simply admitted himself and strode through the public rooms in the front of the house, seeking out the private rooms in the back.

Janna waited for him in her private sitting room, of course. She rose when he entered and gave a deep bow. Your Highness. The little grin playing at the corners of her mouth gave her away.

He rolled his eyes. Big sister. He wrapped her up in his strong arms and lifted her off the ground, spinning her around before putting her down onto the ground. You’re looking lovely as ever.

She threw her head back and laughed. You’re too kind, little brother. Come, sit. Have a bite to eat or a goblet of wine. She gestured, and a servant appeared with a plate of small bites and a goblet. Tell me, what goes on up at the palace these days?

He rolled his eyes. Nothing of import. Mother is in another snit, this time because Father is letting Igares marry the daughter of a Karakani margrave. She doesn’t think that the match is good enough for the fourth son of a king. He snorted and sat down. But you know Mother. She has Views. He let his tone imply the capital letter. The importance their mother put on her opinions justified the upper case.

She does. Janna shook her head and tossed her long braids over her shoulder; the tiny gold beads securing the ends clanked together in an appealing way. Has she finally stopped trying to find a wife for you?

She hasn’t. I don’t think she ever will. He laughed. Sometimes I wonder if I shouldn’t give in, just to calm her down. The kingdom will need an heir, and it’s not like I never like women.

She sighed and leaned back against her divan. If I thought you could be even remotely faithful to someone you didn’t care for or respect, I’d encourage that. As you said, the kingdom will need an heir.

He shrugged, good mood disappearing. It’s not as though I’d be the first king to entertain other interests.

And you’ve held every last one of them in contempt, she said, meeting his eyes and spreading her arms out over the back of her couch. Deservedly so.

He stood up again. As appealing as a romantic match seems, Janna, a king doesn’t have the luxury of marrying for love. He has other considerations. He has to make the most advantageous match for his country, not just himself.

She rolled her eyes. You’ll do as you think best. But Malires—mark my words. Nothing good will come of it if you let Mother choose.

He opened his mouth to object, but he couldn’t fault her logic. Marrying against his inclination to satisfy dynastic considerations was one thing. Marrying someone of his mother’s choosing was something very different. Anyway. I didn’t come here to talk about my nonexistent betrothal, he said. I came to inquire about the patient.

Janna beamed. Sokol. Yes.

Malires looked up. Sokol? That’s not his name. His name is—

She held up a hand. "Until he recovers