by Jaime Castle
“No, not at all,” Whitney said, sincerely sorry. “It’s just that I was waiting to make sure it really was you.”
The man stopped mid-chew and looked up at Whitney.
“What’chu tryin’a say, boy?”
“That door,” he pointed toward the kitchens. “The stables are through there too. Your son is waiting for you with two steeds, prepared to whisk you away from here. Said to look for a man named Reese when he paid me to get myself thrown in here.”
The man’s face went pale.
“My son?” he asked in a breathless tone. He recovered quickly. “My son dun’t even know where’n I be. Ain’t never visited me at least.” Reese waved. “Bah!”
“Yes, that’s because he has been working hard to move up in the world. He has finally become a stableboy for the castle—I suppose he’d be a stableman at this point.”
“A man...” Reese’s scratchy voice trailed off with the possibilities. Then he crept closer to the bars, a glimmer of hope touching his features for the first time since Whitney met him. “He handsome like his father?”
The man flashed nasty, rotting teeth. Whitney buried the urge to cringe.
“Like a Prince.”
His grubby paws wrapped the bars, drawing as close as he could, but then he sank back. “Dun’t matter none,” he groaned. “There ain’t no way outta these cells.”
“Yig and shog,” Whitney said with a sing-song flourish. “They just haven’t met me yet.”
Whitney strolled over to his cell door and leaned into it, shielding Reese’s view of what he was doing. He made believe he was just examining the door but there was a soft scraping sound, then a click as Whitney pushed the key in and turned it. He shook the bars, careful the door stayed shut.
“I told ye, no way out,” Reese said.
Whitney strode across the cell, opened his hand, and produced a large gold ring containing a long key.
“Had you known who I was,” Whitney began, “you would know the name Whitney Fierstown is synonymous with ‘world’s greatest thief.’ Swiped this from the fat one when they threw me in here.”
The old man fumbled over a response, his bloodshot eyes bulging.
“Your son paid a handsome fortune for me to get myself arrested. Don’t squander this opportunity. You’ve only got a couple of minutes left. Right now, the guards are over there,” he pointed, “and the kitchen is empty.”
Reese shifted his gaze from the key to the bars of his cell, then back. That was all the consideration he needed. “Gimme, gimme, gimme,” Reese begged, nearly coming out of his skin to reach for the key.
“Ah, ah, ah," Whitney said. He pulled the key out of the man's reach. "First promise me you will make sure your son doesn’t skip town without paying me the rest of what he owes me.” He wasn’t out of the woods yet. A master thief knows that you never give up the grift until the grift is through.
“Anything!” Reese shouted.
“Keep it down in there!” came the distant voice of one of the guards.
“Anything,” the old man said in a desperate whisper.
Whitney handed the old man the key and Reese wasted no time rushing to the door of the cage he’d called home for Iam knows how long. The door unlocked with a soft click. Reese looked back at Whitney. Whitney saw a new sense of life on the man’s face and almost regretted what he was about to do until the old man cackled.
“Thanks, Mr. Thief, but ain’t no way you’ll be collecting anything from in there.”
Reese threw open the cell door and scurried up the stairs toward the kitchen. He was so excited he panted like a dog in heat. Whitney waited until the old wretch reached the exit.
“Guards!” he shouted. “Guards! The prisoner escaped!”
The guards peeked into the cells, expecting it was a lie. When they saw the sprung cell door, they scrambled for their gear.
“He went up those stairs, just there!” Whitney said.
All four guards rushed past him. When the sounds of their footfalls faded, Whitney casually walked to his cell door, threw it open, and released a satisfied sigh.
He only had a few minutes before the guards caught Reese and tossed him back into the dungeon for the rest of his miserable life. It was hard to pity a man so swift to ignore his debts. Whitney imagined the old guard captain had a good reason for locking him up in the first place.
Closing his eyes, he conjured up the blueprints he’d memorized. He was in the castle’s upper dungeons, but still on the first floor—the only floor with windows. He’d been dragged in from the left staircase and the right staircase led to the kitchens.
He went left, away from where the guards chased Reese, pausing for just a moment in their station. Their desk was empty except a bit of parchment and a cup of what smelled like mead. Whitney threw back the remainder of the amber substance and swallowed hard. He coughed.
Not mead…something harder. Much harder.
He shook out his head and took the stairs. They were obviously not the only guards on duty in the royal castle of the largest kingdom this side of the Torrential Sea, so he had to be careful. The floor leveled out to a gracious hallway lined with crystal candelabras which led into the keep’s public domain.
He skulked down the hall at a brisk trot, careful to avoid any windows or openings. A tall arched door framed the far end of the passage, and beyond it, the exit from the keep and entrance to the East Tower.
He spotted two guards talking with a dwarf near a doorway. Whitney thought there’d be more of the King’s Shield around. It was all a bit too easy. The soldiers spoke harshly to the little man, shoving him out of the way before taking several steps outside to make sure he didn’t try anything.
Whitney took off running. He slid for the far doorway just before the guards turned again. He let the door quietly close and leaned flat against it, breathing heavily.
Once his heart settled, he regarded his clothing, dry now, but still stained with crusting mud. The neckline of his shirt sagged, and the bottoms of his pants were torn. There was no way he would fit in at a royal masquerade. He needed a new plan.
He trotted down the long loggia skirting a courtyard overgrown with weeds. He stayed close to the wall and kept his eyes peeled for guards that never came. He shut his eyes again. According to the map, he should’ve been just a short distance from the lower bailey.
The shouldered arch was unguarded. As Whitney crossed the threshold, he could smell blooming flowers just ahead. Music played—a fiddle. Of all the countless instruments he’d heard in his travels across the world, he hated the fiddle most of all. Above the distant music, he heard the gentle cascading of water.
He canvased the area for guards. Again, not a soul was in sight. From his new position, the soft sound of water now sounded more like the steady gurgling of a fountain. He crossed the greenway, and there he saw it—a gorgeous fountain and fresh water. It was carved in the form of a dragon, wings spread wide, eyes of brilliant crystal. From its mouth water spouted into a shallow pool. He dipped down low and splashed his face, sucking in mouthfuls. After the food he’d endured in the dungeon, it provided a needed boost in energy.
For a brief moment, the music grew louder. He glanced up and saw none other than the Glass Queen herself, bursting through a door and running toward him.
VIII
The Knight
TORSTEN BECAME concerned when the Queen had not yet returned to the party. He found himself standing between two flowerbeds on a dirt pathway in the castle’s main courtyard, searching for her. Deep gouges dappled the dirt where long, thin stilettos had punctured the still-moist earth. It had been the first night in as long as Torsten could remember where the rain accompanied sunset.
The spire above, a long spindle of twisting glass, reflected and refracted the moonlight and spread a false light over the whole city of Yarrington. Torsten looked beyond it at Mount Lister. Its glassy upper plain also reflecting the light of the moons to create a tawny aura. In his mind, he cou
ld almost imagine the God Feud long ago atop that cloven peak—gods and goddesses throwing spears and bolts of lightning and the crackling of exile’s fire. He tried to imagine this land before the Glass Castle was erected, when what were now the foothills still crested the mountain.
He flicked his gaze back to the garden bailey before him. At his feet were the Queen’s heels and her mask, sticking up from the soil like unnaturally shaped flowers blooming in the night. She must have become tired of pulling them free of the mud and removed them.
Torsten peered up from the pile of the Queen’s effects and saw her seated at the large fountain in the middle of the bailey—a stone-carved dragon, each of its ten-thousand scales chiseled expertly. The smell of fresh jasmine wafted through the crisp night air.
The Queen looked at peace, watching as the water dribbled from the dragon’s mouth. Torsten cautiously took a few steps, the soft sound of the fiddle playing in the Grand Hall became even softer. He saw her hand snaking through the cascading waters, breaking like the Torrential Sea against the rocky coast.
Then, suddenly she rose and hurried toward the West Tower. Her long dress dragged through the puddles and she didn’t even bother to lift it, which wasn’t like her. Rain trickled again from the sky that was quickly going from dour gray to midnight blue. Torsten expected thunder and lightning, but instead, the rain broke into a downpour. Torsten picked up his gait, now in a run, the cold droplets pounding against his skin and armor.
A shrill scream erupted in the distance, carried on the wind across the courtyard, rising over the gale of the storm. The cry of the Queen, too far for any guard to hear. He hated how the sound of her anguished voice caused him such pain. She was a Queen only because she bore Liam a son, not because her people loved her. And she was neither kind or loving—she was the opposite of all Torsten had ever wanted on the throne… yet he cared.
His boots pounded the gravel walk as he ran in the direction of her cry. All he could think of were the many nobles who’d entered that evening; the many possible assassins with their sights set on ending the Nothhelm reign. Masked faces spun like a carousel through his mind.
His anger grew as he began to hear her sobs. It was so dark, and the rain fell in such thick sheets, he could have been right on top of her and wouldn’t know until it was too late. He slowed for just a moment, trying to find his bearings.
The West Tower wasn’t far.
“My Queen!” he shouted. He knew if enemies stalked nearby he’d reveal himself, but he didn’t care. If Queen Oleander was in trouble, it was his fault.
He drew his blade—a fine claymore with an ivory pommel. Nothing overly fancy, just a sword that brought death when swung or stabbed. And Torsten was prepared to bring death.
“Torsten!” Oleander shouted in response. Even that single word broke into several syllables as she struggled to speak through sobs.
Torsten followed her voice and saw the source of her grief.
He sheathed his weapon and dropped to his knees beside Prince Pi, splayed out on the wet grass. Torsten remembered seeing him swaying in the window on the night he'd felt a drawing to the boy's room, and this time he must have stepped out.
What have I done? he thought. I should have told her.
Torsten placed his ear against the boy's chest. ”He's still breathing, but barely."
He grabbed the boy, intent on delivering him to the infirmary. A current shot through him like he’d been struck by lightning. His vision blurred, and he felt suddenly as if he was flying. The world whirled past him. He could feel the wind pulling at his face, and then it all came to a halt as if time itself had slowed. When the world came back into focus, Torsten stood at the edge of darkness. Tall trees rose before him bathed in shadow. Tiny, glowing orbs pulsed within the darkness—white spheres hanging, defying the laws of nature itself.
He reached toward one when a sense of vertigo stole over him. His eyes lost focus again and all he could see was dark red—crimson. He closed them to blot out the color, and when they reopened, he stood again at the base of the West Tower, holding the Prince as the Queen sobbed at his feet.
A flash of lightning split the sky. The thunderous crack that followed couldn’t mask the sound Torsten had never heard and hoped he never would. A bell chimed three times from the castle’s tallest spire.
The very air seemed to be sucked from the Queen as her cries turned to low wails. She shook violently, struggling to even breathe.
A bell tolled three times meant the King was dead. Her husband gone, and her son found dying within moments of each other. Torsten’s heart burst with sadness for his Queen, but more than that, for his kingdom. For years now, even before Uriah disappeared, he’d been ruing this moment. Now that it’d come he wasn’t sure what he was feeling.
If an ill King brought circling wolves, Torsten hated to imagine what a dead one would summon.
He looked down at the poor boy meant to be the next great King of Glass. If the vision Torsten had seen was something the boy lived with, it was clear he wasn't simply mad. Something dark and terrible afflicted him. Dark magic, unlike anything Torsten had ever felt. Magic only a Drav Cra warlock like Redstar was capable of.
IX
The Thief
WHITNEY WATCHED as the Queen bolted across the courtyard. He heard her scream and saw a King’s Shieldsman sprinting after her. With the rain picking up again, he knew this was the perfect cover. He bent down, spread a bit of mud on his face, and tore off through the downpour. Now he invited the mud to further splash up and conceal his outfit’s many tears.
He spotted a pair of glittering heels and a mask outside the Grand Hall. He thanked some good fortune most people would call god and snagged up the mask, smearing mud on it as well to diminish its opulence. Frosted glass with a gold trim was a good way to make him stand out, and a thief always fared better blending with the crowd.
He opened the door to the Grand Hall and the sound of joyful music played. Fiddles and drums, lutes and lyres. The nobles danced and wine flowed freely. No one was the slightest bit aware that the Queen was outside in distress. Maybe they wouldn’t care. Men who frequented the kind of places Whitney did knew how people spoke about their ‘Savage, Whore Queen,’ when they thought they weren’t heard.
One look around the room and Whitney finally understood why the Kingdom bore its name. Everything sparkled. Small flames flickered in a dozen glass chandeliers, prisms of light dithering across the walls, ceiling, and floor. Twisting crystal columns reached up and met the glass spire above.
Few men without old names or old money had seen the great spire from this angle, although it could be seen from nearly anywhere in the city, reflecting the light of the sun or moons, casting its glow over the city of Yarrington. So close to the bay and there wasn’t even a need for a lighthouse. From this angle, however, its immensity made Whitney speechless—which was a rare occurrence.
Stained glass painted beautiful pictures onto the walls like tapestries telling the stories of great kings and their dedication to Iam. In the center of the room, the current king sat in a glistening glass throne. Its legs sprawled out like translucent hands clutching the dais below. Atop his thinly-haired head was the prize—the Glass Crown.
For the first time in his life, Whitney wondered if he'd gone too far, had accepted a challenge even he couldn’t pull off. The King was an invalid, the rumors were true, but there were King’s Shieldsmen everywhere, including directly behind the King. Whitney held the mask up to his face just in time to see a guard approach.
"My Lord," he said. "You are quite disheveled."
"Quite observant of you," Whitney feigned a ridiculous eastern accent. "I was resting in the peace of the bailey when a quick and sudden downpour threatened to drown me where I lay. I miss the drought already.”
“You smell rather…ripe. We can get you some new clothing if you'd follow me, my Lord."
"Thank you," Whitney said, smelling himself. His face scrunched up.
He didn't squander the chance to further survey the hall as he followed the guard into an adjoining chamber.
The guard spoke in a hushed voice to a young maid inside. The girl blushed as he stroked her arm.
"Stay here," the guard said, returning his attention to Whitney. "This lovely lady will bring you fresh clothes."
"Tell her to make it quick."
Impatience was a stable of nobility, so he had to play the part. He waited, tapping his foot as if to appear anxious though it was really just in time to the music.
"My Lord, your clothes?" the maid said after a short while. It sounded like a question.
Whitney turned around to see the maid place a pile of clothing, more exquisite than anything Whitney had ever worn, on a chair in the corner of the room. She curtseyed before leaving him in privacy.
He peeled the wet, mud and shog-crusted clothes off his body. From the castle stables to the dungeon, and now the very castle itself, they’d seen more than most noble’s clothing did in a lifetime. The maid had brought him a towel as well, which he was thankful for. He dried off before slipping on the silk clothes. The young lady had thought of everything, even bringing him a new mask.
He now wore the white and pale blue colors of Iam and the Glass Kingdom. He regarded himself in the large looking glass and found himself simultaneously impressed and disgusted. He looked exactly the part, of all those wretched gold-mongers he’d dedicated a lifetime toward robbing.
Just then, screams erupted from the Grand Hall. He threw open the door and found himself in the midst of chaos. Men of the King’s Shield shoved their way through flocks of nobles, knocking over servers and their trays. It took Whitney a moment to realize what was going on but when his gaze fell upon the dais where the King slumped, he knew.
He fought through the frantic crowd. His plan to get close and distract the guards was no longer needed. Everyone was more than distracted.
He pushed forward lightly, but with enough force to make a path. As he neared the stage, he watched the whole of the King's Shield surrounding the King.
