HIS DOOM is what they call it. He calls it the bad thing because it is more than he can hope to overcome. They say there are three witches somewhere weaving a tapestry that is his life and in the weft of that fabric is other men’s dying. It has always been that way. His mother had known it and now his mother is dead as she had known she must be. His Doom they call it. There is no one who can escape what he is. He is a child, but he is treated like a curse. He is a prince, but he is treated like a criminal. They do not say it to his face, but sometimes he can hear them. Whispering. How can he be king? He is a monster. Everyone becomes caught up in the fabric that the Wyrds weave for him. Death. Destruction. He is only six years old but he is old enough to know that something is wrong. The wards are failing. The magikal spells woven into the wall that is supposed to defend their kingdom are fading. The stone seems strong still. It is not crumbling, yet that which it defends has become hollow. A predecessor to the fall. He is young but he understands that something is wrong with him and with the world. He stands behind his father’s throne in the Presence Room inside the palace at Mithelrond atop the Warding. The court is full, supposedly they have come to see the monster that Húrin has slain. Probably they have come to see Cynlas. They have come to glimpse the doomed prince before he is hustled away again. His Doom follows him. He is a fugitive. Cynlas is six years old and he is not permitted to have friends. He is not permitted to stay in one place. Even his papa must not see him regularly and his keepers always come and go lest the Wyrds get ahold of them. It makes him sad, not having a home or any companions to grow up with. It makes him sad the way he is passed fearfully from one house to the next as if he were trying to hurt them on purpose. His papa was not always so sad but now he is, knowing what his son is and what he must surely become. Nothing. A gold line is embedded in the floor of the Presence Room from the door to the dais and up its hallowed steps to the foot of the throne. It stops between his father’s feet. On the wall behind the throne there is a golden disc showing. It is a sun, which represents his father’s responsibility to the gods and to their ancestors just as the gold line represents his duty to his people who dwell both to the east and west of it. His duty now is to protect them from his son who is futureless. Cynlas is accounted a handsome young lad as he stands behind the throne, he is also accounted clever. ‘It is a shame,’ they say. ‘He could have made such a marvelous king.’ At six years old, he does not miss the fact that every eye at court follows him. At least until they cut away again. He is the Sea Scorned Prince, who survived when his mother leapt with him into the deadly fretting ocean. He seldom sees his papa. He is seldom allowed to come to Mithelrond, which is the place that he loves best in the world. Soon he will be made to leave again, to a new place under the care of new men. Always strangers, always strange places. His papa leans over to smile at him. “Hi, papa.” “Hello, Cynlas.” “You mustn’t be frightened of what you’re about to see. I wanted you to be here for a reason.” “I’m not scared, papa." His father looks at him like that was something that would change. He is a tall man and fair, and no stranger to battle. No undeeded blade girdles his waist. Yet he does not wear the crown of his forefathers because that crown has been stolen. His father’s father was murdered in that very palace and neither the crown nor his head were ever recovered. Sometimes, Cynlas thinks that he’ll be the one to find the murderer and then everyone will love him. He is glad that it happened before he was born so that no one could blame the Wyrds, which was the same as blaming him for all the bad things that happened. A herald announces the arrival of Húrin and his Rangers. They stride the golden line like heroes before stopping to salute his father. They kneel and he bids them rise. Húrin presents him with the head of a monster. It is slimy and fishlike with tentacles that have wrapped themselves around his arm reflexively, as if they were both trying to get a good grip on each other. Húrin has slain the beast but he has not traveled far to deliver it to his king, and that is a problem. Cynlas the doomed prince stands in the throne’s long shadow. “In Tellen Lake?” his papa is saying. “My king.” His papa frowns. Tellen Lake can be seen from the battlements of Mithelrond, on the far side of the wall which is supposed to protect them from such obscenities. Tellen Lake is close. The wards are failing. There are grindylow appearing in the Marshes of Alendur and reports of orc raids passing over the Spearway. Things are changing. He is young but he knows the world has become a troubling place. “Are there any more?” his papa asks Húrin. “My king, we do not know. We have only the reports, and this head I bear you now.” “Thank you, Húrin. Thank you for your service. You and all your men.” He recites the Rangers’ names aloud for everyone to hear because there is no bounty for killing monsters, it is simply the Boréans’ duty. What they hope to achieve is fame, but as for Cynlas, his fame is of another kind entirely. Afterwards, he is told that he must be sent away again. “Papa, no. I don’t want to go.” “I’m sorry, son. I know. I don’t want you to go either.” “I want to stay here.” “I know you do. I wish you could, but you can’t. Please.” Cynlas is crying. “I don’t want you to leave me again.” Now his papa is crying too. His papa the king and the prince who bears a dreadful Doom. He holds his son, he strokes his hair. He kisses the top of his head tenderly. “Papa, please.” “There’s nothing I can do.” “You can kill the Wyrds.” “I don’t know how to.” “You are brave, papa. I know you can do it somehow.” “Cynlas, I can’t. You know that. Please.” “Make Húrin do it.” “These men are from Issenia, Cynlas. That’s where you’re going next. I think you’ll like it.” “I won’t like it.” “Cynlas, please. I don’t have a choice.” “Because of the bad thing.” “Because of the bad thing.” Cynlas wipes his eyes. He tells his papa that he wants to stay but as soon as he leaves to meet with his councilors, Cynlas prepares to leave as well. He’s known this moment was coming. Issenia. He does not like that place. He’s never been there, but he can tell he will not like it. He is running away. He has a bag hidden in the library…all he needs now is some blankets. It will be hard surviving alone in the Rimewood where the monsters dwell, but he thinks he can do it. The sun sets. Mithelrond is quiet. The Rimewood is restless where terror flies riot in the night. Cynlas imagines himself to be a mouse as he moves through the midnight palace – the way they move so swift and silent and always along the walls and always from one hiding place to another. He imagines that a huge hungry cat is hunting for him. He creeps outside and heads toward the library. He has hidden a bag there with some food and clothes and a flint and some rope and a knife that Adrahil uses to thin his quill when he’s writing. He doesn’t have the blankets because he could not bring himself to steal them. They were too bulky anyway, someone might see him. He enters the library and for the first time he wishes he’d brought a light. It is dark between the bookcases and there is a scary feeling he does not like. Sometimes that would happen during the day. He would realize that he was all alone and then the scary feeling would come. He would walk away as fast as he could and sometimes he would run and then when he found his escort, he would pretend like he hadn’t been running at all. But at night it is different. At night, the library is scary all of the time. He goes to where he has hidden the bag. He knows no one will find it because no one will look for it there. His hiding place scares them. It scares him, but he knows he’s brave enough to do it anyway. He moves slowly down the aisles with every sense open to his surroundings like how the Rangers have taught him to move in the forest. He hears bumps in the dark that frighten him. He wants to run away but he doesn’t. There is no escort waiting for him. He makes himself keep going. He comes to the alcove in the back of the library. There is a desk set in the back and a bench facing a faded map on the other two walls. He pauses and listens again. His heart is pounding. This is the spot where his grandfather was murdered. His papa doesn’t like to talk about it and if he asks anyone, his papa just gives them a look and then they don’t talk about it either. But he knows. He knows that they took his head away along with his crown so that his papa has to wear a different one. He says it is shameful that the old crown hasn’t been found. Cynlas reaches underneath the bench and grabs his bag which he has stowed away in the corner. Now he wants to run. The scary feeling is back and he wants to run away just as fast as he can and keep on running. Maybe forever. The bad thing is always chasing him, so he’ll have to go to where the bad thing can’t hurt his papa or anyone else. The Rangers have been teaching him how to live alone in the wilderness. “Hello, child.” He looks up. There is a visitor moving behind a bookcase. He can see his white skin and white hair in the space between the bookshelves. The sound of his footsteps comes soft and he seems to glide over the floor like he is floating. The visitor stops and looks through the gap between two bookshelves. Then he walks to the end and stops to look at him again. A book is slanted in front of his face. He flips it to slant the other way so he can see the prince even better. “Should you be awake at this hour?” “I can be if I want to. I’m the prince.” The visitor chuckles, though he doesn’t seem very happy. He moves around the end of the bookcase and stands where Cynlas cannot get around him. He is old with brittle-looking hair and someone might say that he looks like he has cancer. He wears a black robe and a simple belt to which is bound a rosary. It is made from threaded teeth that look to be from people. “Are you sick, mister?” “Yes. Yes, I suppose I am. But I have been sick for a very long time. Do you know what it is like to think you are not good enough? Do you know what it feels like to be all alone?” “Yes.” The visitor takes a step closer, Cynlas takes one back. “What are you doing here, child? No one comes to the library at night.” “I’m running away.” “I prefer to walk, sometimes. At night. Do you know who I am?” Cynlas shakes his head. The visitor smiles. He takes a step toward Cynlas who is a clever child. He looks to the last finger on the visitor’s left hand, to see if he is wearing a signet ring that might identify him. He has long, tapering fingers that remind him of candles. He doesn’t like what he sees. It frightens him. The visitor’s left hand has an extra finger at the end. He takes a step back. The visitor steps forward but then he stops again. There is shouting outside and he knows that they must have found his bed empty again. They are searching for him. He doesn’t want papa to be angry. “I have to go.” He holds the bag against his chest. The visitor listens to the shouting. He looks at something in his hand and then he turns it over to show him what it is. There is a large eye gazing out from his palm like a sore that has burst open. It looks at the prince the way a normal eye would, like there is a mind behind it. Knowing all sorts of things. Deciding. It looks like a giant has put his eye to the peephole of the visitor’s hand. “Do you know what happened in this library?” “No,” says Cynlas, though he does know. He reaches into the bag and feels for the penknife. “Someone died.” “I know that. He was my grandfather.” “I know that too,” says the visitor. The shouts are getting louder. “You’re running away.” He looks in the direction of the shouting. He tries to move but the visitor is blocking his way. “Why are you running away, child?” “Because of my bad thing.” “Ah, yes, I see. Because it hurts people?” Cynlas bites his lip. He nods. Now the shouts are right outside the door. They are calling his name, they must have known that he would come to the library. The visitor moves quickly. One moment he is standing there and the next his robes are swishing in front of the prince’s face. He reaches down with his long, white hand and pats him on the head. “You are a good boy. Don’t let the bad thing get you.” The door bursts open but the visitor is gone. His father’s men find him standing alone in the back of the library holding a linen bag and a penknife. An hour later and he is back in bed. His papa is sitting beside him. “You can’t keep doing this, Cynlas.” “Yes, I can.” “Son. Son.” His papa holds him. He looks away so that Cynlas won’t see the tears in his eyes. “Oh, son. My precious son.” “Dalerac said that you will be the last king of the Boréans.” “Dalerac said that?” “He said that if I ever became king, I would bring my Doom down on the kingdom.” His papa frowns. “Cassian called me a monster. I just heard him say it though. He didn’t say it at me.” “Cynlas. Oh, gods above, I’m sorry! I’m sorry it has to be this way. I’m so, so sorry.” “I don’t want to leave you again, papa.” “I know. But we don’t have a choice.” Cynlas dreams of going away. When he finally woke, he was in a cold and desolate place.
James Conrad's Evening Lands Cycle 