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He always noticed the smell first.
Near the coast it was a blend of salt and fish, rotting seaweed, damp earth and decaying wood; deeper into the city came the bitter tangs of smoke and steel, overripe fruit, and stray animals, all mixed in with the familiar scents of horse and damp straw. The closer to the palace on its hill, the stronger came the odour of smoke and ashes, copper, and rot. They burned all the bodies.
All across the city, however, there was a persistent blanket of stench that never seemed to diminish – despair, sickness, and death.
Ragged, thin people wandered the streets with gaunt faces and sunken eyes, stubbornly going about their day despite the hunger that plagued them, determined not to be broken. Some still looked up toward the palace on the hill with hatred, whilst others spat on the ground in its direction. Others simply pretended not to notice it.
The first time Barda had witnessed the disdain the people had for the palace, he'd wanted to grab those people by the shoulders and shake them, tell them that they hadn't known, that they'd all been fed lie after lie, that the king would never have allowed them to starve and suffer if he had known the truth of the world beyond his walls. It had angered him, the same way it had angered him to hear the talk in the tavern of how the people of the palace had deserved what had befallen them, how it was only right that they suffer after abandoning the people of the city to the same fate. That sullen remark made upon lips loosened with ale had dug deep.
He'd walked away from that tavern with a split lip and bloodied knuckles, his body bruised and aching where it had hit the dirt outside. Anna had been horrified to see the state of him when he'd finally found his way back to the forge. He'd brushed off her concern and her questions with barely a word.
It didn't anger him quite as much anymore. It still didn't sit well with him, but he'd lived amongst these people long enough now to understand their loathing. They could not have known of the lies that kept the palace separate from their suffering. All they knew was that the people within lived a life of luxury whilst they were left to starve. He couldn't fault them for their anger.
Much and more had changed from his early days within the city. Both Anna and Jarred had warned him to be careful on the streets, and with good reason. Though he had swapped his guard's uniform for the plainer clothes of the city citizens, it was not enough to disguise what he was. He stood too tall, too straight, the solider in him always there under the surface. He wasn't as thin, or as ragged, as the other men. Even the way he spoke was telling – his manners too soft and polite, his accent clipped in only a way that could come from his more privileged upbringing.
He had been only a servant, but to the people of the city he sounded like a lord.
He'd earned himself suspicious looks and mistrustful stares. A few of the bolder men had tried their luck once or twice, hoping to intimidate the palace boy and perhaps let out a little of their barely restrained anger upon him. He tried, each time, to convince them he wasn't worth it, but they never listened. Anna cleaned his wounds and washed the blood from his clothes without a word.
It didn't take long for him to adjust. He'd always been quick to learn as a boy, and this was no different. He quickly adopted an easy slouch to his gait, and kept his head bent when walking through crowds, avoiding eye contact with those around him. The lack of available food soon had him as thin as his fellows, and a few quiet nights in the back of a tavern had him picking up on the speech patterns and mannerisms of the common folk. Some of the language, at least, was familiar. His mother would have threatened to wash his mouth out with soap if she could hear him – one of her favourite threats, he remembered fondly – but the cursing was oddly comforting. In a world where everything was different, it felt good to hold onto something familiar.
Before too long, he no longer had to think before he spoke, and the accent came to him as naturally as his own. The suspicious looks lessened, and then faded away entirely, and he became just another face in the crowd. Just another unfortunate soul in a city haunted by sorrow. He would see others around the city, those who hadn't adjusted to their new lives and still looked as lost and alone as he surely had. Lords and ladies, he suspected, those who had fallen even further than he had.
No fine clothes and banquets here, no servants to wash your clothes or keep you safe from harm.
Looking upon these less fortunate palace folk, he knew he'd lucked out. He'd been taken in by a lovely couple, given a roof over his head and food in his belly – what little there was – and clothes on his back. He had even learned a few tricks at the forge, lending his aid to Jarred where he could. They'd given him the room that had been Anna's when she was a child and that would be their son's once he outgrew his cot. It was a temporary arrangement, some comfort before he took up his role as the beggar, but they could have insisted he begin the ruse immediately. In a way, they'd made him a part of their family when they had no obligation to do so.
He was lucky. Or fate had had a hand in it. Was it really chance that he had found the boy his mother had once watched over? That he had spoken the right words in his sleep that convinced them he was a friend? It seemed unlikely, even if he'd never been much of a believer in fate before then.
The beggar ruse had been his idea. Jarred and Anna had looked uncomfortable when he'd laid it out to them, no doubt thinking of the cold, hard ground of the forge yard, but they couldn't argue against its sense. He couldn't sleep in their home forever, not with a growing boy and limited space, but he needed to stay close. He'd briefly considered the houses standing dark and empty across the city but had quickly dismissed the idea. Others needed those walls more than he did. It wouldn't be forever, anyway – one day, he and Jarred would set out to restore the Belt, and it was a journey he might not return from.
Standing as close to the hill as he dared get, and looking up at the looming, hulking structure that he had once called home, Barda realised he was oddly okay with that. Just over a year ago, his entire world had collapsed in on itself, and had ripped away everything and everyone he loved – leaving behind nothing but smoking ruins and an aching, empty loneliness. Restoring the Belt – and the oath he had sworn to Jarred and Anna – aside, he had nothing else left to live for in this new world, where his only companions were sorrow, regret, and an endless, tormenting guilt.
It had taken the baby crawling with stubborn determination towards him and attempting to climb up into his lap – and Anna's easy laughter at his obvious panic over what to do – for him to even crack the first smile in months.
He'd miss the kid the most, he realised then. It was very difficult not to be fond of Lief, with his wide smiles and happy laughter, a child still sheltered and protected from the horrors that awaited him in the outside world. He'd even gotten used to holding the boy. Lief was a child determined to get what he wanted, and for reasons beyond his understanding, Lief wanted the quiet, brooding man too often lost in his own head. His mother seemed to encourage it, too, laughing as she deposited the child in his arms before abandoning him to Lief's mercy. It was an unexpected connection, one he could never have predicted, but it felt nice, nonetheless.
And it didn't go unacknowledged that, after years of his mother watching over Jarred as a boy, he wasn't far from stepping into the same role for Jarred's son.
Fate.
"It's an awful sight, isn't it?"
Cursing himself for letting his guard slip, Barda felt his muscles tense at the voice, ready to fight or flee. Not a Grey Guard, at least, or a blister would have made its mark upon him already. Even so, one could never be too careful around strangers. He angled his head, just so, catching a glimpse of a figure in the corner of his eye.
It was a man, barely more than a boy really, looking as equally ragged and thin as any other. There was something to him, though, that didn't look right. Something about the way he stood, the way he held himself. His eyes were fixed upon the palace, as his own had been moments earlier, his hands clasped at his back.
Barda held his tongue, still assessing the situation. He wouldn't speak until he knew for certain who this man was and what he wanted from him. It still bothered him that someone had been able to sneak up behind him. He needed to be more careful when out on the streets, especially so close to curfew.
"You used to come here more often." The man's words did nothing to ease his mind. Barda immediately took note of his surroundings, searching for the nearest exit, his hand subtly moving to the dagger hidden at his hip. "I used to see you standing here at least once a week, sometimes more. I followed you once. I thought you looked familiar, so I had to know…"
He knows me.
"Once I recognised you, I started waiting here for you, but you stopped coming."
It struck him, then, what it was about this man that struck him as odd. With his hands clasped at his back, his shoulders straight, the man was the image of a guard at attention.
I used to stand like that, once.
"You were an idol of mine, Barda." The man's eyes finally locked onto his. Hearing his name uttered so casually by a stranger was odd and unsettling. "You were one of the finest swordsmen I had ever seen, and your strength… we all knew you would be chief of the guards one day. You were born to lead, my father once said. A natural commander, a man others will follow without hesitation, a man who would inspire loyalty in his soldiers." A bitter laugh slipped through his lips. "If only that day had been allowed to come, eh?"
His gaze returned to the palace on its hill, shrouded in the shadow that had claimed it. His eyes clouded and his expression shifted, briefly, into some vacant emptiness, no doubt as his mind took him to some far-off place in his memory. Then he refocused and gave Barda a tight smile.
"You are suspicious. You do not know me, even if you know what I am – or, rather, what I was. No matter. We never formally met, though we crossed paths a few times. I was just another guard, outside of your circle. But I was there, that night, when they found her. Your mother."
"Stop." The word ripped from him immediately. Grief, as fresh as it had been a year ago, closed tight fingers around his heart. He wouldn't listen to this. He couldn't listen to this.
"Forgive me." The man uttered quickly, a note of apology in his tone. "I do not mean to reopen old wounds." Sorrow now crept into his features. "You were the strongest man I knew, the bravest, and in that moment I watched all that strength crumble to dust with four simple words. Yet somehow, despite everything, you held it together. I remember thinking how incredible you must be, to remain standing where most men would collapse. You were so polite when you thanked the chief for delivering the news. You kept your head high as you walked away."
"Stop." It was a warning, now. One hand clenched into a tight fist, but Barda couldn't decide if it was rage or grief that caused it. I do not want to hear this.
"Why?" The man spoke as if he had not heard Barda's warning. "Why do you come here?"
Turn around and leave. Just walk away and do not spare him another thought.
But something compelled him to remain, his boots rooted to the ground. That same something compelled him to answer.
"Punishment."
Whatever the former guard had been expecting, it clearly wasn't that. His eyes widened in surprise, face falling slack with it. Barda could see a dozen questions forming in his eyes. Before they could reach his lips, he went on.
"I failed in my duty. I come here to remind myself of that, so I can never forget."
"But – we all failed! You cannot blame yourself. Against the Shadow Lord, none of our swords stood a chance. There is nothing to punish."
Oh, but there is, Barda thought to himself, only you cannot possibly know that. You cannot know that I was not there, with my fellows, fighting against the shadow. You cannot know that I abandoned my post and my duty the moment I heard my mother was dead. You cannot know that I fled the palace and listened to the screams from the city. You cannot know that it was a coward who walked so tall away from his chief.
"And a promise." Barda continued, as if the other man had not spoken. "That I will not fail again."
I will give my life to see the Belt restored, and the Shadow Lord banished from Deltora once more. I will give that sweet, innocent child the world he deserves to grow up in, even if it kills me.
"You could have left the city. Many did." The man studied Barda's face. "Others still plan to. You could come with us. Turn your back on this city and start anew somewhere else. Let go of what was and embrace what could be."
"No." Barda shook his head. "My place is here." I will not abandon my duty a second time.
Silence stretched between them for a time, before the other man gave a single nod, accepting his answer. He took a step forward, hand outstretched, and then he stopped. Changing his mind, he lifted his hand into a salute, instead.
Barda hesitated only for a moment before he returned it.
"You do not walk tall anymore, Barda." He said as he lowered his hand. "But you are still strong, and you are still brave. Do not let this city take that from you."
He turned on his heel and strode away, not a word of goodbye spoken between them. Barda watched him walk off into the city, his back straight and head high, still a palace guard at heart. It was only when he disappeared from sight that Barda realised he'd never asked the man's name.
Alone again, he looked back up at the palace, and breathed out a long, weary sigh.
He'd been honest with the other guard. This was a form of punishment – to look upon his old home and let memories of a happier time haunt his every thought, to smell the ashes on the wind and think of all those who died that night, doing the duty he had failed in. He had come almost every day in the beginning, a form of torture he believed he deserved, but over time his visits had lessened and lessened.
He no longer needed that punishment, he'd realised. He carried the guilt with him every second of every day. He would carry it with for the rest of his life. He didn't need to look upon the palace to remember the screams, the stench of burning bodies, or the names of those he had loved and lost that night. All he had to do was close his eyes.
He came now only to repeat his promise, the promise to never again fail in his duty, the promise he swore not only to the living, but to the dead along with him. He stood here, close to sundown, in the very spot he had first stopped and looked back that fateful night, watching the Ak-Baba wheel and dive, the shadows swirling in the sky. And he swore his oath.
I will not fail you again. I will bring peace back to Deltora, so that you may be honoured in the memories of those who survived. I will find Adin's heir, wherever he or she may be, and I will help them win back their home. I will help the people to believe again, to restore their faith in the royal blood. I will do what I can to stop their suffering. I will not run. I will not hide. I will face whatever dangers stand in my way and I will bring them down. I will not abandon my duty.
Never again.