MALLOS
“Spain was asleep,” Mallos replies in a serious tone, although the corner of his lip twitches. “Mañana. They did enjoy the celebrations, though.”
He picks up one of the lead pencils on the desk and twirls it between his fingers, watching Arthur’s eyes linger on the piece of paper he’d moved. Of course he’s right; he’s always right. Mallos has never really had much of a sense of duty beyond opening doors for women and things like that. Technically he is loyal to the Council of Originals and the cause it stands for, but he sees that more of a choice than a call of duty – the reality of whether that choice exists is contestable, but he would rather believe that he’s in control of his own fate. Then again, if the world were like him then nothing would be done at all. Men like Arthur are needed in order to keep society running smoothly and advancing forward into a brighter, better future for everyone. It’s just Sod’s law that the worst jobs are the most necessary ones.
The Spaniard raises his eyebrows slightly when the king invites him to explore alone, but he bites back the sarcastic retort. As an original fairy, Mallos isn’t used to asking permission to do what he wants from anyone; only one person in the world – the Chairman of the Council of Originals – can tell him what to do, and he normally only obeys that person when their wishes happen to coincide with his. He sums this feeling up in a single, fleeting expression, but neglects to comment, sensing that Arthur probably doesn’t need a challenge to his authority right now. He also doesn’t push the issue of Arthur taking time out, but makes a mental note to return to the issue at a later date. As the king stands up Mallos follows suit, taking the hint that he should be leaving soon, and twirls the pencil a final time before putting it back in exactly the correct position – just to prove he can when he wants to.
He eyes the shield in askance when it’s presented to him and raises one of his eyebrows a fraction. Judging by Arthur’s body language, either he’s not particularly taken with his own ren or there’s an interesting story behind its acquisition. Mallos reaches out a hand to run his thumb along the edge of the shield, but jerks it back almost immediately when a fierce burning sensation shoots up his digit.
“I was not your caller,” he says, inspecting his burnt thumb. The skin has turned an angry shade of red. “Evidently it was Aura or Gwythr, but it is obvious why you cannot go to them. Ren enchantments,” he pulls a face at Arthur, “are the bane of my life.” He eyes the shield for a moment as if it had burned him on purpose, absently shaking the injured hand to try and cool the skin with an artificial breeze, before sighing and raising his eyes to meet Arthur’s gain. “I am convinced that ordinary fairies could interpret rens if they learned to look properly. You focus on the wrong things. Look,” he draws a circle in the air over the shield with his finger, “student of the Orbis: the otherworlds. A rare branch of magic, and a powerful one.”
He moves to the door, opens it and pauses in the doorway. An inclination of the head is about as close to a bow as Mallos is likely to get, which is all he offers before leaving without a goodbye. Mallos hates saying goodbye.
Getting out of the castle maze is a lot harder than getting in. The Spaniard wanders around for a good twenty minutes or so before he finds a stretch of corridor which looks familiar and manages to work his way back down to the front entrance. From here it’s easier: all he has to do is follow the clattering sound. A few more guards than usual are stationed around the castle grounds (obviously Arthur is taking no chances with his remaining son) but none of them seem concerned by him. Around the final corner, two training courts – one with a triangular kingball court, the other with various stuffed mannequins – loom into view. A young boy of about nine in full armour is hacking at one of the mannequins which, judging by the surrounding carnage, looks to be about the fifth one he’s gone through today. Mallos leans against the fence separating the court from the rest of the grounds and watches for a few minutes.
“Sword’s too short,” he tells Tristan after a moment. “Longer sword, better flourish. Looks more impressive to the girls.”
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