The glow intensified. Now she saw blurred shapes floating all around her, dark clouds moving against a sullen gray sky. Her vision sharpened, and she saw that they weren’t clouds after all but slabs of rock. They drifted, weightless, as if the flagstones from Castle Vicerin’s courtyard had been torn free and given permission to fly.
Only each slab was as big as the castle itself.
Elodie saw she was sitting near the edge of her own floating slab. It was much smaller than the rest—about the size of the Vicerin banqueting table. Her wedding dress was gone. In its place was the same green tunic she’d worn when she’d ridden at the head of Trident’s army. Her hand crept to her throat and closed around the precious green gem that Lord Vicerin had stolen from her shortly after that hateful wedding.
She shivered, thinking she was cold, then realized she wasn’t cold at all. She wasn’t warm, either. There was no temperature here at all, no breath of wind . . . just an empty nothingness.
The stone lurched beneath her. Her stomach lurched in sympathy. The view changed as the platform circled slowly round to face a neighboring slab. At the same time, Elodie heard the scream again; this time she saw who had made it.
On the nearby slab stood a woman wearing crude leather wraps. She was tearing at her hair and wailing at the blank gray sky. Her face was twisted in anguish. Behind her on the slab were hundreds more people, some crying out, some wandering aimlessly. Many simply crouched with their heads down. Their bodies moved like mist, not exactly transparent but hardly solid.
Elodie’s eyes continued to adjust to the peculiar flat light of this unearthly place. All the slabs were occupied except hers. On some, the people wore fine clothes like those she’d been used to seeing around Castle Vicerin. Other slabs bore people in garments Elodie knew dated from earlier ages—even from before the Thousand Year War. They crowded the floating slabs, the helpless passengers of a fleet of bizarre stone ships, adrift in an ocean of colorless air.
They all looked like ghosts.
But they’re not ghosts, Elodie realized. Ghosts haunt the real world.
Her heart clenched in her chest. Her own slab bumped against its neighbor, and her stomach lurched again.
She knew where she was.
This is the Realm of the Dead!
Suddenly she understood why so many people were screaming. She could feel her own scream bubbling up inside her throat. If she released it, the sound would tear her apart.
I can’t be dead! I can’t be!
The edges of the two slabs ground against each other. The noise they made was thin and lifeless, like the memory of sound.
All these people were dead. This was their resting place for eternity . . . except they weren’t at rest. Elodie’s guts were crawling.
I’m not dead! I don’t belong here!
A tall man moved slowly through the crowd. He wore armor and carried a lance. For a moment, Elodie was convinced it was Sir Jaken, leader of the ghost army she’d raised.
Then the man turned his face toward her, and she saw that it wasn’t Sir Jaken at all. It was just another dead soul.
Nevertheless, there would be people she knew here.
Fessan. Poor Palenie. My mother . . .
Panic seized her. Was this dreadful place really where the dead spent eternity? It was too much to take in, too much to bear.
The woman nearby uttered a low, desperate moan. It was an awful sound, the cry an animal might make when caught in a trap.
Horrified, Elodie clamped her hands to her mouth. The woman was only a stone’s throw away on the great slab, just starting to drift away from Elodie. Her face was pleading. Many of the wraithlike people looked downcast, or even distraught. But a few were staring at Elodie with open curiosity.
There must be thousands in this place, she thought. No, millions. All miserable, all trapped.
Elodie lowered her hands. The panic ebbed a little.
This isn’t right. These people are supposed to be at peace.
She was certain that something had gone terribly wrong here.
“I’m going to help you,” she said.
The ranks of the dead stared at her. She got to her feet, took several paces back, then gathered all her strength and sprinted forward. At the slab’s edge she jumped into the clear gray air, her arms flailing. She felt oddly weightless, almost as if she could fly. Clearing the gap with ease, she landed with a gentle thump on the bigger slab nearby.
When she stood, she saw that the little crowd of dead people was gathering around her.
“The light has returned,” said a young man with a thin, transparent beard.
“The other brought the darkness,” said an old woman, addressing Elodie directly. The furs she wore would have been thick and heavy in the living world; here they looked like wrappings of mist. “Now you bring the light.”
Elodie was aware of a faint golden radiance in the air. Looking down, she saw that her whole body had begun to glow. Pale fire pulsed from her arms, her legs, her hands. When she moved, the fire left thin trails of light filled with firefly-like sparkles.
“What do you mean?” she said. “What ‘other’?”
“He came,” said the young man. He spread his translucent arms. “He did this.”
“Who came?”
“King Brutan!” cried the woman whose screams had first attracted Elodie’s attention. She tore at her hair. “Brutan! Brutan! Brutan!”
The man settled his arm around her shoulders and whispered in her ear. Slowly she calmed down.
Meanwhile, Elodie was reeling.
My father? He’s here?
The last time she’d seen King Brutan had been during the Battle of the Bridge, when she’d led the Trident army in their doomed attempt to storm Idilliam. With a shudder, she remembered the dreadful sight of his living corpse striding through the ranks of his undead army, the rotting flesh hanging from his bones, the awful red light burning from the empty eye sockets of his skull . . . .
“He was here before,” the old woman went on. “Just for a short time. Then a strange wind carried him away.”
Elodie’s brow creased as she tried to puzzle it out. “He was killed,” she told them. “But then he rose from the grave.”
The dead moaned.
“Someone must have killed him again,” said the old woman. “Now he has come back and turned all to darkness.”
Elodie clenched her fists. The gold fire flashed around them. Gulph killed Father before, she thought. Now I will finish him for good.
“Where is he?” she demanded.
“At the Shadow Cage,” said the old woman at once.
“The Shadow Cage? What’s that?”
“Brutan conjured it from the darkness he brought. The Shadow Cage is his domain, and it is growing all the time.”
“He holds prisoners there,” added the young man. “Those who stood against him in the living world.”
Like Fessan, Elodie thought. And my mother.
“He tortures them,” the young man went on. “Their screams are . . .” His voice broke.
Elodie could feel her pulse throbbing at her temple. A red mist wavered in the corners of her vision. She knew the sensation only too well—it was the rage she’d once experienced during battle. The anger felt clean and good, but she fought against it all the same. It would be useful—perhaps very soon. But not quite yet.
“I’m going to set them free!” she announced. “Who will show me the way?”
The watching people exchanged uncertain glances, but said nothing.
“Surely one of you knows where this Shadow Cage is?”
“We know,” said the man. “And you are brave. But your quest is doomed. The Shadow Cage is guarded by a terrible monster. Nobody can get near it.”
“I’m not afraid of monsters.”
The old woman took a step forward. At the same time, the rest of the crowd seemed to melt back into the grayness. For the briefest of moments, it seemed to Elodie that only the two of
them were present.
“You remind me of another I knew,” said the old woman. “I will take you.”
Elodie became aware of the crowd of the dead again, and of the faint gasps rippling among them. Ignoring the shocked expressions on the faces of her companions, the old woman beckoned. “Come.”
She led Elodie to the opposite side of the gigantic slab. Another island of stone was floating nearby.
The woman leaped into space. Her misty furs billowed around her like wings, and she flew to a soft landing on the other slab. Remembering the curious weightlessness she’d felt earlier, Elodie steeled herself and leaped after her. She soared onto the slab with ease.
“You have magic, child,” said the old woman as they hurried across the cracked surface of the stone. “That’s good. You will need it.”
Elodie looked at her glowing skin. “You mean this light?”
“You have that and more, I can tell. You see, I had magic myself once, when I was living. But not here. No frost, you see?”
Elodie frowned. There was something about the old woman’s voice that sounded familiar—an accent she’d heard before.
“So, my dear, tell me about Tarlan,” her new companion went on. “Is he safe? How is he coping with all those humans?”
Elodie halted. She stared at the woman dumbfounded.
“How do you . . . ?” she began, then closed her mouth. She didn’t have to ask; she’d worked it out. “Mirith! You’re Mirith!”
The old woman smiled. “Well done. But you have me at a disadvantage. You know my name, but I do not know yours.”
“Elodie. I’m—”
“Tarlan’s sister. I know. You carry his same strength, and you carry it with beauty and grace. Now, please, tell me how he is.”
Elodie couldn’t help smiling. Even in the Realm of the Dead, there were friends to be found.
“He’s all right,” she said as they continued along the slab. “At least, he was when I last saw him. He has, well, a pack. Of animals. There’s Theeta, she’s a thorrod. And a tigron called Filos, and Greythorn the wolf . . .”
Mirith’s ghostly face was bright with pride. “Did he ever find Melchior?”
“Yes! Yes, he did! Melchior helped us. Tarlan went away with him on a mission—that’s the last time I saw him. But I think”—she pressed her hand to her heart—“I’m sure he must still be all right. I think I’d know if he wasn’t.”
“My boy,” Mirith said. Her voice was choked. “My lost-and-found boy.”
“How did you know I was his sister?”
“He is one of the three who will rule over the three realms of Toronia—including the Realm of the Dead.” Mirith pointed to Elodie’s hands. “The light shows that this realm is yours, Elodie. You illuminate it like no other.”
Elodie frowned. “The Realm of the Dead? I always thought . . . well, the prophecy talks about the crown of three, and there are really only three realms, aren’t there? I always thought I’d rule over Ritherlee, and my brothers would take Idilliam and Isur.”
“Oh, my dear. What makes a realm? Is it fields and trees? Castles and cities? Or is it something more?”
“I don’t know. I suppose I’ve never really thought about it.”
Mirith smiled. “You sound so like your brother—and look like him too, with those dark eyes and hair of red and gold. As soon as I saw you, I knew exactly who you were.”
Picking up the pace, Mirith led Elodie to the edge of the slab they were on, and across the gap to the next. Sparks streamed out behind Elodie like the tail of a comet.
“Now,” Mirith said as they ran toward the next jumping point, “tell me how you come to be here.”
Elodie frowned again. “Back home—I mean, in the real world—I can see ghosts. I can summon them. That’s what I was trying to do: summon a whole army of ghosts to fight against Lord Vicerin. He’s trying to take the throne.”
“What happened? Did something stop you from calling your army?”
“Yes. I think so. I could feel them—I was trying to pull them toward me. But something pulled back.”
Mirith was nodding. “It was Brutan, or rather Brutan’s magic. His heart was ever dark. Now it is beyond even darkness. He died, was raised, and died again. His return has poisoned the realm, and trapped the dead in this dreadful emptiness. None can leave to wander the mortal world.”
“Twice dead isn’t enough for that monster,” Elodie said. “I’ll bring him down, I swear it. I’ll bring him down and free you all.” She was trailing flames, but inside she felt only cold determination. “Then there’ll be nothing to stop my ghost army from rising.”
Without warning, Mirith came to a halt. Elodie ran on for a few paces, then stopped herself.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
“We are here.”
Elodie looked around. The slab they were standing on was deserted. The gray air surrounding it was filled with hundreds of smaller slabs, each one turning slowly end over end.
“I don’t see . . . ,” she began.
The swarm of slabs drifted apart, gradually revealing what looked to Elodie like a vast cloud of black smoke hanging in the sky. The cloud wavered in and out of focus, but its shape was unmistakable.
“A castle,” she breathed.
“The Shadow Cage,” said Mirith.
A fat strand of smoke rose from the edge of the slab they were standing on, extending all the way up to the Cage. It looked a little like a staircase, but as they approached, Elodie saw that it was writhing slowly, like a huge, sleepy snake.
“It will hold our weight,” said Mirith, stepping onto the first smoky step. “But we must be quick.”
As fear mounted inside her, Elodie felt a great urge to turn and run.
I won’t stop now. I won’t!
As they neared the yawning entrance to the castle of smoke, tortured sobs shook the air like broken bells. The sounds made Elodie’s spine jangle. She pressed her hands to her ears.
“It’s awful!” she said. “What’s he doing to them?”
“Tormenting them. The dead can feel pain, you know. Hurt them enough and their spirits will dissolve, and be gone forever. Brutan calls it the Shadow Cage, but it is really just one big torture chamber.”
Anger shot through Elodie. “He’ll harm no one again,” she said grimly. “I’ll make sure of it.”
Something moved inside the entrance. There was no gate, just a gaping mouth filled with black shadows. Elodie’s hand dropped instinctively to her side . . . but she carried no sword in this realm.
“What is . . . ?” she began.
A huge green shape burst out of the darkness. For a moment Elodie could make no sense of it: The thing seemed to boil in the air, a shrieking, chaotic whirlwind. Then, with a metallic snapping sound, its movements settled enough for her to make out its form.
The creature looked a little like a serpent, a little like a bird. Powerful wings kept its scaly green coils clear of the smoke. Cruel claws slashed the sooty air. Red eyes glared malevolently down at them. Like all the inhabitants of the Realm of the Dead, its body was translucent.
Elodie’s hand went to her throat.
Green. Like my jewel.
“The wyvern!” cried Mirith. “It guards the Shadow Cage. Stay back.”
The wyvern lunged, jaws gaping. Ruby-colored teeth snapped shut directly in front of Elodie’s face. Screaming, she leaped backward, teetering on the edge of the smoky stairs and almost toppling into the emptiness beyond.
“Let me distract it!” Mirith called from the other side of the staircase. “You run past!”
The frost witch raised her arms and waved.
“Here!” she shouted. “Over here!”
The wyvern’s head swung round. As it did so, Elodie spotted something clamped around its scaly neck.
A collar?
Flapping its mighty wings with ominous slowness, the wyvern advanced on Mirith. Something trailed behind it, something attached to the collar.
A chain. This thing isn’t a guardian. It’s a prisoner!
“Stop!” Elodie shouted to the creature. “Forget about her! Come to me!”
“Elodie! What are you doing?”
“It’s all right!”
Elodie’s heart pounded as the wyvern approached. Her mouth was dry. She could see everything with such clarity that it was almost painful to look.
You’re no different from the others. You died, and now you’re trapped here. Just one more ghost in a realm of ghosts.
As the monster bore down on her, its ruby fangs dripping some unspeakable poison, she found herself thinking of her brother.
Do you feel this terrified, Tarlan, when you’re facing some new beast, hoping to tame it into your pack?
Now the wyvern was hovering directly above her. Its claws flexed toward her body. Its red eyes glared down. She saw that they were flecked with gold.
Green scales. Just like my jewel. Red-gold eyes, like my hair.
She’d never met a creature like the wyvern before, yet it seemed so familiar.
“Don’t be scared,” she said. “I’m here to help.”
She was vaguely aware of Mirith throwing up her arms in horror. But Elodie kept her gaze fixed on the wyvern as it lowered its head slowly toward her. She could feel the pulse of its breath on her face, neither hot nor cold but simply there. She could see every crack on every scale. Even though she could see partially through the wyvern, it seemed more solid than anything she’d ever encountered before.
It’s like crystal.
“Elodie!” Mirith screamed.
Elodie closed her eyes.
Something touched her forehead. She stifled a scream. There was a gentle thud. The air stilled.
She opened her eyes. The wyvern stood before her with its wings folded. The tip of its muzzle was pressed against her head.
“I can help you,” Elodie murmured. “We want the same thing.”
A noise came from deep in the creature’s throat: a booming rumble that sounded like tiny bursts of thunder.
It’s purring.
The pressure left Elodie’s forehead as the wyvern lowered its muzzle to the stairs. This brought the collar within easy reach. The message was clear, but no matter how hard Elodie tugged at the welded seams of the neck-ring, it refused to budge.
A Kingdom Rises Page 8
