3. THE RETURN OF THE DEAD KNIGHT p.1

THOUGH having spent the night no more than half asleep, Isaiah

woke up to an even darker morning than usual. Squinting towards the

clock at the opposite side of the room (after all these years, still

annoying him with its repetitive ticks and tacks), he saw it was only

some minutes past five. Nevertheless, he slipped his feet onto the cool,

wooden floor, sensing an unusual restlessness in his bones as he

slipped underneath the bed to carve the wall. Pulling on his last set of

clean clothes and slipping into the leather boots that were still a

number too large, he made an effort to stay as silent as he could. The

sound of unrhythmic snoring from his seven roommates remained,

while the clock persisted its torment. Only within the last few “ticks”,

the door creaking as he opened it, he heard them turn and murmur in

discontentment. He was usually be'er at opening doors discreetly.

Walking outside and down the steep, stone stairs facing the

courtyard, the air was chill and the sky still dark with the faintest

touch of purple from the li'le he could see of the horizon. There was

no bird song, and he felt himself missing it, just like he did every

morning. The clay oven stood cold and abandoned still, and having

less patience and hunger than usual, he walked over to the fields while

rethinking the promises he’d made to himself some hours earlier,

fading promises he felt far less clear about now, he realized. There was

an urge to forget them and start plotting another day. Perhaps after

the event, which he’d been interested to witness from afar. “Men in

our family keep our promises.” his grandfather’s voice rang in his head

and Isaiah sighed. He would need to begin today. Maybe he could

begin by searching around the walls and find a place to dig a hole. Or

perhaps start talking to the guards and find out about their

weaknesses like Archilai had once done. Neither of these approaches

seemed efficient to him. No, he’d have to think of something be'er, and

he was sure he would by the time his sacks were full. The field’s, or the

silence that was often found there, tended to bring him clarity.

To his relief, the fields were empty when he reached them, and

didn’t have a man, dog or even a crow in sight. Archilai had kept his

word in that regard, and he considered finding him in the afternoon

and apologizing for what he increasingly felt had been rather ill-

mannered behavior on his own behalf. Though not very fond of

conversing, feuds were an unfamiliarity he felt particularly

uncomfortable with. Though his bluntness had been unasked for, he

seemed to be meaning well, and perhaps he’d been sincere about

helping. Regardless, Isaiah still wanted to make the escape plan

himself, and so he thought he’d wait till he had an idea, before seeking

him out. Eager to fill his sacks, he started pulling up the starches. A

few minutes passed as he listened to the satisfying sound of them

giving in to his grip, before he heard the sound of light boots.

“Isaiah, Lady Huxley is requesting you.” It was the Lady’s gardener

– the little man with the broken seed, that seemed to come and go with

odd inconsistency.

“At this hour? What has happened?”

“I know not, but we should not let her wait.” He insisted, his face a

map of confused lines and round corners. Shrugging, Isaiah left his

sacks and walked along with the long-bearded man, who only

reached him to the shoulders. Though he wanted to ask him about the

useless seed, he instead worried the patrons had somehow overheard

the conversation from the previous morning.

“Did she seem angry?”

“No.” he answered. “A little... tense perhaps.” Isaiah swallowed

hard at this. They’d been alone. He was certain of it, and yet he had a

strong sense he was in some sort of trouble.

Dressed in a yellow dress, patterned with golden flowers that could

only be seen from up close, the Patroness stood, straight as a statue,

waiting for them at the end of the fields. Her hands (the only thing

Isaiah always allowed himself to admire of hers) were clasped

together Infront of her. It was the first time he’d seen her out at this

hour, and he needed to contain himself not to look directly at her face,

as the first flares of dim morning light met with her radiant, olive

tinted skin.

“Good morning, Lady Huxley.” He said, bowing and then keeping

his gaze lowered towards the grayish, green grass as he straightened

his back. Although unreasonable, he always watched his thoughts

(along with his gaze), whenever she was around. There’d been rumors

suggesting she could read and even control the minds of men, and as

ridiculous as this sounded, he’d long since decided to be on the safe

side of certain superstitions.

“It is a very good morning indeed. Tzelem has returned to us.” She

said, her voice as sweet and cool as if she’d spoken of the weather. For

the briefest of moments, Isaiah almost wished she could read his

thoughts, and perhaps clarify exactly what it was they wished to tell

him just then. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, then closed

it again, feeling his cheeks flaring. Once again, the dead knight had

returned to the living. After mumbling a response of vague

comprehension, he walked along with her towards the main building

in silence.

Minutes later, he was back in the same dining room where he’d first

met the patrons four years earlier. It was half the size of the ballroom

and seemed even smaller with its black floors and heavy, scarlet

curtains. Next to the long, lacquered table in the center, stood the man

that (though appearing older and slightly less muscular), was very

much alive. His so-called master and teacher, who’d never taught him

anything at all. The man that had taken him under his wing for some

days, before riding off and abandoning him there. His brother’s

fortress had been meant as a very temporary placement. They’d told

him to blend in and not speak of why he was there, and so Isaiah

hadn’t. Not once. It was not until everyone had started addressing the

knight’s absence as his death two years before, Isaiah had stopped

actively condemning him for his circumstances. The patrons had

insisted he should stay till there were any further notice of Tzelem’s

body being found and Isaiah had found himself guilty of hoping for

such a message, until nearly forge'ing about it entirely. Now, that he

was standing before him, he felt the same, biting resentment

returning. Had he come a few days earlier, he perhaps wouldn’t have

reawakened it, but just as usual, the timing couldn’t have been worse

for Tzelem Huxley.

“You’re alive.” Isaiah said.

“I am.” His voice was still deep, slightly rasp and so whispery,

people needed to pay close attention when he spoke. “For now,” he

added, his hard, gray eyes staring at him curiously.

“Where have you been?”

“I am sure you have many questions, Isaiah. Now is not the time...”

“It’s been four years, Tzelem.” He had to control his tone, reminding

himself that though not a lord, it was indeed a knight he was speaking

to. “One that owes me an explanation, nevertheless.” He thought. Not

to mention an apology, although none of it could ever make up for

what he’d done – or failed to do.

”I know. And it seems they’ve done you good,” the tall man said,

still standing with his hands behind his back, measuring him from the

head and down. “Now he looks like his father, perhaps the messenger

was right, afterall.” Tzelem thought, and then he said, “I believe you’re

ready to come with me now.”

“Come with you? Where to?”

“South.” Tzelem said motionlessly.

“When?” Isaiah stuttered. This had of course been the plan from the

very beginning. Yet, the plan had felt as dead to him as his master had,

and he hadn’t made even minor preparations to go on any mission

that wouldn’t take him straight home.

“We leave tomorrow.” He didn’t smile with the statement, but his

steely, narrow eyes seemed to lift ever so slightly, being about as

much of a pleasant expression his long face was capable of making.