by M. A. Larson
“Kind of you to say, Rodrick,” said another voice. Evie locked eyes with Remington as the night guards got closer.
“I mean it. You’ve a rare gift with an ax.”
Basil suddenly began flailing again as his feet slipped out from beneath him. Remington grabbed him and held on until he managed to regain his balance. Evie glared, her eyes spitting fire.
“Leather soles and snow do not mix,” he whispered angrily.
“You hear something?” said one of the men.
“Aye,” said the other. “My turn, is it? I hope it’s not a badger. I hate bloody badgers.”
In a panic, Evie shoved Remington and Basil down the hill. The three of them tumbled through the snow, then scrambled up a steep embankment. Their feet slipped out from beneath them with each step, but they somehow managed to get to the top and hide behind a tree.
“Nothing here—”
“Badger!”
“AAAAH!”
One of the guards howled with laughter.
“That is not funny! Someday we’ll really see one and then you’ll know . . .”
The voices began to recede as the men walked down the road. Evie, Remington, and Basil looked around and found themselves at the edge of a flower garden. Evie checked the map, then motioned for them to cut across to the other side. The flower stems were dead and brittle. It felt more like they were in a graveyard than a garden. Finally they reached the far end, where they found the Queen’s Tower rising high into the snowy sky.
“Nearly there,” said Evie. “This way.”
With the exception of a pair of wandering geese, who may or may not have been part of the night guard, the three found themselves at the entrance to the Archives without any further interruptions. It was a grand structure, with square towers at each corner and a gentle arch across its face. A short staircase stretched from tower to tower, leading up to the doors. It was completely dark.
“A library?” said Remington flatly. “I’m risking my neck to break into a library?”
“It’s not a library, it’s the Archives,” said Evie. “And it’s important.”
“It couldn’t possibly be unlocked, could it?” said Basil.
“The front doors are almost certainly locked, but tower doors never are,” said Evie. Basil looked at her like she had three heads. “Just be ready when I open the doors.” And with that, she raced across the road and disappeared into the shadows at the edge of the Archives. She could feel the blackness around her like a comforting shawl. She ran to the bottom of the tower at the right end of the building’s face and looked up. It was around forty feet high. A giant horned beast leered down from the battlements with an open mouth. She put a hand on the wall. It was made up of small bricks composed mostly of mortar, with chunks of various stones mixed in. A rough surface, and good for climbing. She started up the side. Though it was a sheer face and it was snowing, she made it to the top in under a minute. She knew Basil and Remington were almost certainly watching from across the road in amazement, but to her it was nothing. Dragons spent much of their days climbing.
She used the stone beast’s neck to swing herself into one of the crenels. There was a small outpost on top with a banner flying above. It had a single door. As she’d predicted, it was not locked.
A hot, musty burst of air hit her. The smell was actually somewhat pleasant. It was leather and vanilla and wood. It was the smell of pages and ink. I can see why Maggie likes it here, she thought.
She placed her hands on the wall and entered the stairway. It wound around into total darkness. She stepped carefully, bracing herself against the walls, until finally she emerged into the main chamber of the Archives. A faint light entered through the huge stained-glass windows along the walls. She made her way to the front door and unlocked it. It groaned as she pulled it wide. A moment later, Remington and Basil ran across the road and darted inside. Evie closed the door. The silence was nearly as overpowering as the darkness.
“A bloody library,” said Remington, shaking his head.
“Go on, Evie, make some courage or something,” said Basil. “Light it up.”
“Me? You’re as much a princess as I am. You do it.”
“I don’t know how,” he said, almost proudly.
“Well, neither do I . . .”
Flames sparked and they turned to see Remington holding a candle. “Didn’t see any courage over here, but perhaps this will do.” He lit two more and handed them to Evie and Basil. “Shall we do a bit of reading, then?”
“We’re looking for the restricted section,” said Evie.
“Well, that sounds promising.”
The three of them stepped into a field of wooden tables surrounded by huge shelves that were covered in leather-bound books. They snaked through the tables and entered the stacks. The shelves were at least twenty feet high, with beautiful wooden ladders leaning against each one. The sheer volume of books and scrolls was breathtaking. Shelf after shelf after shelf, and at the end of each, a glimpse of dozens of others branching off in either direction. Finally they reached the stone wall marking the back of the room.
“It’s so restricted, it doesn’t even exist,” said Remington.
“What happened?” said Basil. “Did we pass it?”
“There,” said Evie. She pointed to her right, where a diamond-headed archway was carved into the wall. There was a heavy iron chain across the doorway with a sign that read Restricted. “I’d like to get out of here as quickly as possible. Two of us can search in there for the Registry of Peerage while one of us looks around for something about the Drudenhaus.” She and Remington both looked at Basil, who rolled his eyes.
“Right. Why don’t you two take that tiny little room and I’ll search the whole rest of the place by myself.” He turned and stalked away, muttering under his breath.
Evie and Remington ducked under the chain, their candles creating shadows everywhere. This room was much smaller, though also filled with tables. The circular walls were ringed with books and scrolls.
“We’re not looking for an ordinary book. The cover is as big as a shield.”
“Right,” said Remington. “I’ll take the right.”
He walked to the shelf and began his search. Evie went to the left and looked up at the massive bookcases. There were ornate tapestries hanging above, interspersed with balconies from the upper floor. The tapestries depicted kings and queens on horseback, peasants hauling grain, dragons with forked tongues, and wolves doing battle with swordsmen.
“Like this?” said Remington, holding up a rather large book.
“Bigger,” said Evie. Her eyes raced across the spines. A Brief History of Godfather Death. Secrets of the Iron Queen. Identities and Locations of the Twelve Huntsmen. Maggie would have loved to see these volumes, if she weren’t so bloody scared of being caught. She worked as quickly as possible, though her mind kept returning to the barracks, and to the image of Lance strutting in and finding her empty bunk, and of Maggie’s eyes wide with fear as Copperpot interrogated her—
“Registry of Peerage, was it?”
“Did you find it?”
“There are loads of them here.”
“Where’s the most recent one?”
She raced over to join him as he pulled a massive volume down and slammed it onto one of the tables, sending up a cloud of dust. She opened the cover and began flipping through the crackling pages. All were covered in ornate script, and many of them contained ink-rendered portraits of the kings and queens and princes and princesses recorded within. Illustrations adorned the margins, depicting all manner of things: strange beasts and monkeys playing lutes and one-legged birds and snails jousting each other. None of the names of the highborn struck Evie, though, nor any of the images either.
“What exactly are we looking for?”
“Princess Javotte.”
> “And who is Princess Javotte?”
Evie stopped flipping and let the page fall open. “Her.” There, amidst a muddle of words written in a script so ornate it was difficult to read, appeared the name Javotte. Half the page was covered in thick, black ink, blocking out whatever information had been there.
“Indeed,” said Remington. “And look at the state of her.”
Evie’s eyes skipped to the bottom of the page where Javotte’s portrait had been painted. The bones of her skull were clearly visible beneath her skin, and her mouth was turned down in a sharp sneer. Her face was riddled with scars, mainly around her right eye, which happened to be the eye most prominent in the portrait. There were deep scratches from her hairline all the way down her face and across her neck. Her eye was closed, and the skin around it was covered in what appeared to be puncture scars.
“What happened to her?” said Remington.
Evie forced herself to look away from the sneering face so she could decipher the words. Princess Javotte, the book said, hailed from a place called Trendelberg, in the vast forests beneath the Eastern Kingdoms. “Some of it’s written in an old language, but there’s still a lot I can make out,” said Evie. “It says she was attacked by a flock of birds at a wedding. That’s where she got all those scars.”
“Birds did that to her?” said Remington. “What in the world did she do to them?”
Evie looked back at the picture. Though she didn’t want to judge someone because of a portrait, she couldn’t help but feel uneasy. Princess Javotte looked angry and cruel, and the scars covering her face did nothing to lessen that impression.
“Listen to this!” said Evie, pointing at the tightly packed scribbles on the page. “It says she was discharged when they caught her torturing another cadet after hours. It was her own sister, Javelle. ‘Cadet Javotte was incredibly unhappy about her discharge. Extra security was required to escort her to the wall.’ And there’s another note here. In someone else’s writing. ‘Patrols doubled at the wall for the remainder of the year. No further sightings of Cadet Javotte after the incident.’”
“She’s a right ugly bird,” said Remington. “But who is she?”
“I think she’s the leader of the secret society coming to kill us all.”
“Naturally.”
“She’s one of them, the Vertreiben,” said Evie, puzzling through things aloud. “She must be their leader. Why else would those others have been looking for her? And why else would Princess Lankester be so worried about her in particular?” She ran a hand over the large patch of black ink. “And why would someone want to cover up half of her story?”
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, and frankly, I’m still back on the bit about the secret society coming to kill us.”
Evie studied Javotte’s snarling, disfigured face. “I’ve got to talk to someone about this. Princess Beatrice may be warning the kingdoms to prepare for the wrong enemy.”
“Evie, I think you’d better tell me what’s going on.”
“I will. I’ll tell you everything. But first there’s one more thing I’ve got to do.” She began flipping ahead through the pages, brittle and yellowed, and covered with blue and gold and black and red ink. Finally a face flashed past, and Evie suddenly felt quite dizzy. She turned back to it and there was her father, King Callahan, looking up at her.
“King Callahan,” said Remington, reading the name at the top of the page. “So that’s your father.”
“That’s my father.” She stared down at him, her eyes full of bittersweet longing.
It was only the second image she’d ever seen of him. In this one, he was dressed in a deep blue robe lined with white fur. A golden crown sat atop his head. Though he looked quite regal, and wasn’t smiling, there was an obvious kindness in his eyes.
“Where’s my mother? My real mother?” The portrait next to King Callahan’s had been torn out. “Who keeps vandalizing this book?”
“Perhaps they should consider better security measures than a chain.”
As wonderful as it was to see her father again, it was equally crushing to be kept from seeing her mother. She had once been on that very page, right next to King Callahan where she belonged, but someone had deliberately removed her from the records.
And there, lurking beneath the image of her father, was the face of her stepmother, Countess Hardcastle. Her thin eyes and cold smile sent chills down Evie’s arms. The last time she’d seen her, she’d looked nothing like this. She’d looked like a witch.
“What’s it say about you?” said Remington, his eyes flicking through the darkness to make sure they were alone.
Evie read. Her father had been the King of Väterlich and all its lands, which included Callahan Manor. There was detailed information about his ancestors, kings and queens dating back hundreds of years. Then his family story ended quite abruptly with Countess Hardcastle. And with his daughter.
“I found it!” said Basil, ducking beneath the chain. “I found the Drudenhaus!”
Neither Evie nor Remington reacted. Both were fixated on the book.
“Well done, Bas! Nice work!” he said to himself. “Bah, never mind.” He went over to join them, looking at the Registry over Evie’s other shoulder.
She, meanwhile, tried to ignore her missing mother, and returned to King Callahan’s portrait instead. This was her father. Her blood.
“Hang on,” said Basil. He leaned over Evie and peered down at the page. “Hang on, hang on. Am I reading this right? Is . . . is your name actually Malora?”
Remington snorted. Evie turned and glared at Basil. “Yes, but think very carefully about that being your last word, because it will be if you ever call me Malora again.”
“Fine,” he said, raising his hands in apology. “Evie it is.”
“Yes, that’s right. Evie it is.” She turned back to the book.
“You do realize what all of this means, don’t you?” said Remington. “You’re Callahan’s only living heir. You are the Queen of Väterlich.”
“Blimey!” said Basil. “You get fancier every year!”
Evie looked back to the page, her head spinning. She found the long list of family names. Indeed, hers was the last.
“Queen Malora of Väterlich,” said Remington with a chortle.
“Shut it,” said Evie.
“Oh sure, me you’ll kill, but he just gets a ‘shut it,’” said Basil.
“Enough of this,” said Evie, and she slammed the book closed. Then she went to put it back on the shelf. Remington, still smirking, gave her a wide berth. “Stay out of my way,” she said, though she couldn’t keep a smile from cracking through. “What did you find out about the Drudenhaus, Bas?”
“Ah, yes. Well, apparently it’s an abandoned witch prison somewhere in the Dortchen Wild.”
“A witch prison?”
“Yes. Before Princess Pennyroyal, people used to torture and burn anyone they suspected of being a witch. They’d lock them in the Drudenhaus and do awful things to get them to confess. Then once they’d secured a confession, they’d burn them alive.”
“And why are we so concerned about this place?” said Remington.
“I’m not entirely sure,” said Evie. “Was there anything else?”
“The final days of the prison came when the witches killed sixteen princesses in one go.”
“What?”
“They staged an uprising and killed everyone there, but they deliberately let one person go. When a team of princesses came back to try to stop them, the witches were ready with an ambush. Sixteen princesses died that day.”
“The Brave Sixteen,” said Evie. “I’ve seen that before in one of Volf’s books, but I never knew what it meant.”
“Since that day, the Drudenhaus has been abandoned in the forest. The book I was looking at says it’s been largely forgott
en, though some mothers still use it in fairy stories to keep their children in line.”
“Ancient hatred,” said Remington with chagrin.
“Ancient indeed,” said Basil. “Sounds like it began before Princess Pennyroyal even dreamed up this place. Or maybe it never began at all. Maybe it always just was.”
Evie paced, puzzling through it all. “Princess Lankester said that Javotte was at the Drudenhaus. Why would the Vertreiben want to go to an abandoned witch prison?”
“According to that book, the Vertreiben used to use it as their headquarters because it was close enough to launch attacks on the Academy. But it also says that the last confirmed sighting of the group at the Drudenhaus was nearly a hundred years ago. Since then, it’s just been left to rot.”
“Until now,” said Evie gravely.
“Until now.”
Princess Ziegenbart had just come back from relieving herself outside in the yard. Her bell clanged as she walked back to the front of the class and stood before them. Her hooves left round puddles on the ground. The snow had all melted under a late-winter drizzle, and now the sun was fighting valiantly to break through the clouds.
“Did any of you realize we’d passed half term?” said the goat. She butted a bale of straw aside to give herself more room. “That’s right. And do any of you know what that means?” The cadets looked at one another, but no one answered. “You’ve finished more than half of your total training. You are on the downward slope toward your crowns and castles . . .”
Excited chatter crossed the room.
“. . . though only a third of you will actually make it.”
The chatter died like an ember tossed into a lake.
“Half term of my second year is where my life was decided,” continued the goat. “That was where I committed myself to the Cauldron Tippers. I consider it the single most important decision of my life. You should all be starting to make some decisions of your own. Come springtime, you’ll need to complete an application to whichever branch of service you’ve chosen.” She put a hoof on one of the bales, striking the nearest thing to a heroic pose as she could. “Ah, I miss those heady days in the second class. The whole world stretched out before you, every direction open. You should count yourselves lucky, cadets.”
