The king tapped on the ornate cherrywood of his throne’s armrest. The echo of it bounced around the chamber, taunting him like the jester doll lying in the center of the room.

  Not a single soul knew how it arrived. No knight, courtier, or servant. It was like some careless child had left it without a second thought. If it were only that innocent, the doll would've been scooped up, tossed aside, and the day allowed to continue.

  But it wasn’t.

  Everyone who passed through the king’s court skirted it like a river stone. Stares and whispers shaped the mystery around it, but none dared move it from where it lay.

  A wooden box, gray, nearly white. Its deep grains weathered by time. Half the length of an average man’s height. The faded frame a blaring void against the cerulean sea of mosaics, their radiant sun set at the heart of the floor in warm hues of saffron and citrus.

  “About bloody damned time, Osric,” the king boomed.

  An old wizard bowed before the chamber’s towing iron doors as they squealed shut behind him. “My apologies, your grace. I—”

  The king waved a hand flippantly. “Yeah, yeah. I need you to look at that. . .thing, in the box there. It’s got everyone wound up more than a princess on her wedding night.”

  Osric nodded and hobbled toward the box. He nearly keeled over at the sight of the doll inside.

  No, not a doll.

  A puppet.

  A marionette, its thick steel wires cut. The fact they still clung to its limbs only confounded him further. Osric reeled back, afraid he might catch something simply looking too long.

  “Oh, come on. Look at it,” the king roared. “If I can’t get my bloody wizard to look at a simple plaything, then what use are they? Look, look.”

  The tension in the chamber thickened. Courtiers shuffled like worried hens, and the king’s patience thinned by the second.

  “Of course, your grace” Osric paled, then stepped closer, holding his breath.

  It was undeniably a marionette, dressed as a jester. A rooster crown, stitched from some unfortunate creature’s red hide, sat atop its head. Bone-white bells dangled from each of the three points, shaped like human skulls no larger than crab apples.

  The head was not carved, but formed from a knotted mess of gnarled wood. Just enough to resemble a face. More an interpretation of one. A single knot over the left cheek served as an eye.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  The body beneath the floof and swirl of its outfit was difficult to discern. One arm tomato red. The other, the yellow of rotting teeth. White puffs, matching bells, bloomed at the shoulders and ran down its violet top. All held together by buttons of swirling dark stone.

  Osric turned away, then quickly back, choosing to fear the jester less than the glare from his king.

  A pair of ragged white tights, bloodied and torn, poked out from beneath billowy gold pants. Crimson pinstripes ran through their folds like unanswered questions.

  The worst and most confounding detail was what had Osric shaken.

  The feet.

  Scorched, sliced, punctured, and bludgeoned.

  They were the most realistic feet he had seen on a puppet. If not for the splintered wood and frayed toes, he might’ve sworn they’d been swapped for a human’s. The cursed things looked as though they had walked through the darkest reaches of war and treachery, then dragged them back in their wake.

  “Well?” The king pressed. “What have you?”

  Osric struggled to make sense from the enigma before him, his gaze trapped within the box. He knelt as close as he dared, restraining a trembling hand from brushing the curious scratchings etched into one corner.

  Letters from an old language. One he’d seen fewer times than he had fingers.

  A half-litany of silent magic and prayer slipped from his lips as his eyes drifted somewhere beyond the chamber.

  “Osric!”

  The wizard snapped back into the room. His mumblings faltered into a stutter, then smoothed into the practiced cadence of court. As if the abominable creation had never existed.

  “It is a cruel joke, your grace,” he said evenly. “A theatre puppet, twisted to elicit a reaction. A statement. Of what, I cannot say. Perhaps one of our courtiers could enlighten us? Anyone?”

  The clustered courtiers murmured with blame and suspicion, but none found the courage to speak.

  Osric nodded, unsurprised. He wafted a hand through the air as if dispersing a foul smell.

  “Best we toss it to the refuse piles and clear the chamber of this unpleasant jest. Move on from this sorry attempt of. . . whatever it was.”

  The king snapped his fingers. “Good enough. You, boy. You heard him. Take it away.”

  Osric choked on a breath as he caught the fear in the servant’s eyes. He knew the boy well. His one and only apprentice. A natural talent for magic.

  “Ah, perhaps one of the knights,” Osric added quickly. “Someone more astute in reflex and resilient armor. The limbs of this jester-puppet are tangled in its marionette’s wires. I doubt it’s anything, but I wouldn’t be such an old wizard without a touch of caution. . . your grace.”

  The king sighed audibly. He’d half a mind to rid the damned thing himself.

  “Fine, fine. Sir Dennemon, see to it. Now, before one of the courtiers hatches an egg.”

  Sir Dennemon bowed, “Your grace.” Then, with all haste and clamour of his armor, he seized the box and stormed through the great doors.

  “Finally,” the king muttered, waving for proceedings to begin.

  Osric wove through the loosening crowd and took his seat among the king’s counsel, motioning his apprentice over.

  The boy finished pouring wine and hurried over to him.

  Osric leaned close, careful that no wandering eyes could not read his lips.

  “We will be canceling your lessons this week. As soon as you can slip away, go to the kitchens. Fetch a loaf of bread and some sticks of salted elk. Then wait for me in the study. Do not dally. Speak to no one. Time is of the essence, boy. Understood?”

  Confusion crossed the boy’s face, but he nodded all the same.