Clarence chewed his lip. He didn't know where he was or exactly how he got there. He fell as if the floor lost its solidity and collapsed in an open linen heap in the level below. It smelled like the dogs make the blankets stink back home. Servants in worn, threadbare garments darted around the dim room like busy bees collecting pollen without noticing him at all. They carried baskets of linens, piles of pots, and cutlery clanked around. A pile of dirty ones lay in an empty washbasin in the corner. He had slid down inside the pile of linens to refrain from gaining their attention. Smoke slithered into the room as a fire started in the hearth in the adjoining chamber. A giant kettle hovered over it and a dead and skinned creature was on the spit. Some of the servants caught sight of him, but quickly disregarded him. Each time it frayed his nerves.
They knew he didn't belong there. They had to.
His teeth pinched his lip the more he chewed, a trail of blood dribbled down his chin. He didn't care by then. He was covered in who-knows-what from who-knows-where. Dust and blood, mostly. It made his skin crawl, but he had no choice but to get used to it. He doubted there was a bath anywhere he was allowed access. A washbasin, perhaps. Yes. He'd find a washbasin somewhere in the servants' quarters.
He shook it off, along with some of the dust, and came to his senses. Forget washing. He had to find new clothes to better fit in. . .wherever they ended up. He remembered reading it in a children's book when he was little about the magical artifacts that, when presented with the right conditions, bring the holder to alternate worlds to their own. That was the only thing that made sense, since they weren't kidnapped by murderers. Obviously. They were in a castle. There were no castles in their town.
"You!" A woman's hoarse voice cried out.
Clarence jumped, nearly out of the linen pile.
An older woman approached, wicker basket in tow full with soiled linens. "Doin' some sorting in there, boy?" A skeptical observation. She poured the contents of her basket on him, a fluff of new stinks brushed against his senses.
"Ah, yes. . ." Clarence said, emerging from the pile. "I just—"
"Started today? I couldn't tell." She handed him the basket, and pushed him toward the door. "Get busy or get dead, we like to say." She gave him an odd look, looking him up and down.
"Where am I going?"
"Well, that depends on who you serve. No one here by the looks of you." She waved him off. "The guest quarters are up the stairs."
Hurrying out the door, he rushed through the hallway but had no clue where to go but up. Where he came from. He resolved to find servants clothing somewhere on the level. If he blended into the rest of the servant staff, he'd walk around freely and then find Derryl. His brother probably already got into trouble. He never takes anything seriously.
He found an a door unlocked and slipped inside. It looked like a lavatory, but there were clothes hanging from the ceilings. A small blessing. A musk of old sweaty shoes and mildew embraced him as the tunic and trousers slipped on. He was sure the tunic used to be white but now presented a light brown. He itched his arm through the sleeve and left behind his clothes dropped through the toilets.
Going up a level, avoiding the guards attention with his new garments. There was the room he last saw Derryl down the hall. The door creaked open. The sun dimmed its glow to a deep orange as it met the horizon, meekly streaming into the room. It got late so quickly. There was no one there. He knelt next to the curtains. Blood had spattered on the wooden floors. Clarence slid down against the wall. His brother did do something stupid and got himself captured or killed. However, there's not enough blood to suggest they killed him in that room, but attacked him, perhaps. It had to be the knight. He must find Derryl before he does get killed. Not only find his brother, but the sphere. It's what brought them there in the first place, he was sure of it. He was sure he saw it light up like a light bulb back home.
He didn't know how he'd find Derryl, but the sphere must be in the cellar. As soon as he burst out of the chamber with a new sense of purpose, an old man with long, flowing robes turned around the corner. A long, grey beard fell down his chest. He spotted Clarence instantly. A curiously raised brow was the last thing he saw of the old man before he covered his face with the basket. He pretended to pick something up off the floor, and hovered there until the old man went on his way. He did not go on his way. Instead, he stopped in front of him, his fingers casually interlaced.
"Boy," he said.
Clarence aggressively chewed his lip. The old man knew. He knew he didn't belong there. He had to. What other reason was there to acknowledge him? "M'lord."
The old man watched him a while longer. "It seems there is naught there, yet there you remain."
Clarence peered over his protective basket. "I'm regaining composure after a fall."
"I did not see you fall, just now."
"Perhaps you should get your eyes checked." His heart leapt and bore down on him.
"You may be right, boy. I have been seeing double, it seems. One here, one there."
"Some spectacles may be in order."
The old man hummed, seemingly not convinced. "You have interesting eyes."
Clarence swallowed hard and dry.
"From your father's side?"
"How did you---" Clarence shot up, his heart leaping higher. "I mean, it could be. I don't know."
He cracked a crooked smile.
Clarence felt bare in the face of the strange old man's gaze, as if he peered straight into his soul under a low grey brow. "Who are you?"
"Therin, court wizard and advisor to the king," he said casually. "The better question here is who might you be?"
"No one of note, m'lord. A lowly servant." His voice cracked under the intense pressure of the wizard's watchful eyes. They darted all across his face as he spoke looking for any tell that he lied. "My name is Petre."
Therin nodded slowly, a knowing glint in his eye. He pointed down the hallway behind him. "The king does not keep idle servants, Petre."
Clarence clenched his basket and started past the wizard. He got past that, at least. He has to avoid others better in the future. The old man placed a hand on his chest, preventing him from passing. A warmness permeated into his flesh, into his bones, and rattled him to his core. It brought up images of home. Of dad and mom and grandma, all huddled together for a family photo before she died. Of Derryl and him cuddling in their crib together because they cried fiercely when they were separated. He saw Derryl and Clarence playing in a sandbox at the local park when they were toddlers. He saw Derryl and Clarence facing their first day of high school together, that vicious, corrupt hellscape. They were always together, Derryl and Clarence. He saw dad smiling next to a campfire, stoking it with a long stick. He saw grandma pulling weeds in her garden and giving him a glance with mint green eyes glistening in the sunlight.
"There be tricksters among us," the wizard whispered, and let him run off with tears welling in his eyes.