Chapter 9: Frederico – The Faint
Two years after the Battle of the Bridge, Frederico went to live with Faust in Beloú.
‘Are you certain?’ Faust pointed his chin to the wall that separated Beloú from the Mouth of War. ‘War dwells here.’
‘Monsters dwell in the Halls of Snow,’ said Frederico.
‘Our parents.’
‘Your parents.’
‘Frederico, what happened?’
‘I won’t see them again. For as long as they live, I won’t see them.’
Two weeks earlier, Queen Margot found Frederico in one of the gigantic halls of Patire’s royal castle.
‘Son, a soldier has migrated from Baynard to Patire.’ Margot had colorless skin, lifeless hair, a fleshless body.
‘He will regret it,’ said Frederico.
‘He said King Henrique gave you a nickname. Frederico the Faint.’
How ironic that a king who never left Castle Emerald would call Frederico faint.
‘Your father wants to make an example, with punishment.’
‘He wants to punish King Henrique?’
‘No.’
‘The soldier, then?’ asked Frederico.
The queen shook her head. Deep in the attics of Frederico’s memories there was a queen who was not so wilted, a time in which she had four sons.
‘Come,’ she said.
Frederico followed her through corridors, rooms, and halls inhabited by nothing but old columns and cold wind. Gigantic, hollow corridors with ceilings so far up that they seemed to mock Frederico, so small.
Faint began with an F.
Margot took her son down corridors that narrowed and narrowed. The walls squeezed the paths, became rough; the windows narrowed down to slits, like snakes’ eyes. That was the way to the Dungeons of Ice.
So the king had finally decided to bring an end to the existence of a useless son, Frederico thought. On the stage of Patire all actors were either warriors or victims. Frederico was no warrior, so he must be left with the other role. He stopped and leaned against the dark, cold wall. His lips formed the name of his brother, but Faust was in Beloú. His mother took a torch and began to go down the steep steps that the darkness swallowed. Her heels struck against the wet rock, and Queen Margot sank a little more into the darkness with every step.
What should I do? Frederico wondered. Resist? Run? What for? Sooner or later, after a short or long life of suffering, he would cease to exist. And his end would be violent, like all ends in Franária. Did it make sense to prolong the pain?
‘Son.’
Frederico went down the stairs. His feet on the dungeon’s floor sounded like someone was chewing ice. The walls were too close and reflected the torch with a bleak, wet chill. It smelled of damp mop and sick. A half-open door bled red light on the corridor. His mother stopped and turned, blocking the tunnel with her body. She pushed the door wide open, and Frederico was covered in the bloody light.
On the other side of that door was Frederico’s destiny. Let it be death, he wished, and not being locked away for life in the Dungeons of Ice. He stepped in. Spikes of iron, twisted chains that had rusted with something different than water. Different sized tables with screams still caught in the cracks. Behind one of the tables, a man and a box with tools Frederico had never seen and wished never to have seen. On the table, trapped between the man’s hands (huge hands covered with calluses and dark lines), was a little dog. She had short black-and-white hair and her left ear fell down over her face, where her eyes had become two ponds of fright. The smell of sick was stronger here, mixed with the smell of urine.
‘I know your type,’ said Queen Margot. ‘You don’t kill because you don’t want to cause pain. But death is not pain.’ She walked to the table, took the dog’s floppy little ear between her fingers. ‘Death is release.’
The dog licked the queen’s hand. Margot went back to Frederico’s side.
‘This won’t be easy, and it won’t be pretty, but you can make it fast,’ she said.
Frederico felt her put something leathery and rough in his hand. A dagger.
‘Go on,’ said Margot to the man with callused hands.
They were calm and precise, those hands. In a way, even delicate.
The next day, Frederico went to Beloú.
