Clear the way, she thought. This time the wand’s strength bloomed in her hand, and a spark flew from it, scattering the others. Holly darted into the breach to find Grandor and Ranulf locked together. Someone had given the knight another sword. Holly brandished the wand in his face.
“I said, stop.”
Sweat dripped down one side of Grandor’s face, catching in the long scar that extended to his jawline. His chest heaved as he pushed against Ranulf, who, though taller, was weakening. The knight turned a dark eye on her. “So you did.”
“Walk away,” Holly said. “We won’t follow you.”
She could tell from Ranulf’s expression that he wouldn’t have promised any such thing. But Grandor, instead of letting go and skulking off, held her gaze and smiled. “It seems that I’ve the upper hand here, lass. You’re not full skilled with that weapon.”
Holly blushed but said, “Do you want to test that theory?”
Her legs were shaking beneath her, and it was all she could do to keep the wand steady in her hand. He was right; the wand wasn’t working well, or she wasn’t working well with it. But now that she stood opposite him, her focus was on one place only—his chin, where her wand pointed. The thought of concentrating all the wand’s power on the knight’s face turned her stomach. She could kill him.
“This beast,” said Grandor, shoving a fist into Ranulf’s chest, “is my prisoner.”
Holly remembered the sticky feet clinging to her shoulder. “All right, Áedán,” she whispered, and a bolt of fire shot from the little Salamander’s foot.
He could not harm, but only protect; and Holly knew he would enclose Grandor in his protection as well. But as the curtain of fire rose around them—Holly, Grandor, and Ranulf—the others skipped back, the Dvergar uttering creative curses. The knight’s head darted around frantically, looking for a way out.
“Leave me go, sorcerer,” he gasped.
“Without the prisoner,” Holly insisted.
“Leave me go!”
Holly whispered to the Salamander, and the fire curtain vanished, leaving her eyes dazzled with the afterimage.
Grandor backed away, the tail of his tunic singed. The other knights had already fled back to the castle. “You cannot escape, Adept. A greater power awaits you. This time you shall meet him. Mark me: You shall not bide long in this world.”
Chapter 22
* * *
His Majesty
Although there was no way for him to know this, Everett’s thoughts were echoing Grandor’s at that very moment: He would not bide long in this world. In fact, he reasoned, none of them would, except perhaps for Avery.
Before Bittenbender knew what had happened, King Reynard rose behind him and reached a riding crop over his head and braced it against the Dvergar’s neck, holding him fast. Bittenbender gurgled, his arms pinwheeling as the king pulled the crossbow off the Dvergar’s back and tossed it aside. He regarded Everett with a dead stare that flickered toward his scabbard. Understanding, Everett drew his own sword carefully and laid it on the writing desk, and motioned to Ben, who copied him. The king found Bittenbender’s dagger and added it to the pile.
The king flicked his dark eyes at the prince. Avery dropped at once to one knee, and Everett did the same, pulling Ben down with him. Reynard shoved the Dvergar away and onto the floor, where he fell, coughing. The king stood in front of them and spoke in a graveled but dangerously soft voice.
“Your Highness. Pray make thy companions known to us.”
The prince raised his chin briefly. “Your Majesty . . . We were . . .” He trailed off, his voice hitching. The boys were very close together, and Everett could feel Avery trembling next to him, nearly as much as Ben, who had started to wheeze. He needed his asthma inhaler.
Bittenbender raised his eyes and spoke more bravely, Everett guessed, than he felt. “His Highness is our prisoner.”
“Is this true?” asked the king, still addressing Avery.
“Y-yes, Your Majesty,” Avery managed to say.
“It is true that my son, His Royal Highness Prince Avery, Lord of the Midland Peaks, Duke of Crow’s Wing Moor, heir to the throne of Anglielle, has fallen prisoner to two children and a beast of the Earth?”
The prince’s cheeks bloomed bright red and his chest heaved. He bit down on his trembling lip. “Yes, my lord. It is true.”
“And these lads are the same who betrayed Your Highness at the Battle of Midsummer?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Yet again their kinswoman, the Adept, is absent,” mused the king softly. “Curious.” He walked a semicircle around the four of them. His boots, smelling of fresh polish, made no noise on the woven rug. He passed once in front of them, then twice; and then with a sudden movement he cracked the riding crop across Bittenbender’s face, and the Dvergar collapsed, moaning. The king planted one boot on the Dvergar’s neck and jerked his chin at the prince. Avery handed Bittenbender’s dagger to Reynard, who cut the prince’s bonds. He handed it back, and Avery turned and brandished it at Everett. It shook in his fingers.
“The prince,” said Reynard, “is no longer thy prisoner.”
Ben’s breathing grew more ragged, and the king’s attention turned to him. “Stand,” he ordered.
Ben obeyed with some difficulty. His legs were shaking badly, and he had started to cough, but still he didn’t reach into his pocket for the inhaler. The king walked slowly behind him and then, just as suddenly as he had struck Bittenbender, he tore the jacket off Ben’s back. In a moment he had the inhaler in his hands. He threw the jacket to the floor.
“This device”—he leaned down into Ben’s white face—“it can aid thee, nay?”
Ben could barely draw air, but he nodded. Everett stole a glance at Avery, who looked like he might be sick; he was breathing hard, staring at Ben.
The king pumped the inhaler once into the air, watching the mist dissolve. Then he held his hand out toward the fireplace. “If I were to destroy it, thou wouldst die. I have seen this ailment before, though younglings in my world do not reach such an advanced age as thee.”
Tears sprang to Ben’s eyes, and he struggled to speak.
“Please, Your Majesty,” Everett blurted out. “Just let him have it.”
Reynard ignored him. “But thou art of another world, nay?”
“Father . . .” Avery said in a shaking voice.
“Silence.” With a backhanded toss, the king threw the inhaler into the hearth.
“No!” Everett darted forward before he could stop himself. He grabbed a fancy brass shovel standing next to the fireplace and scooped the inhaler out of the coals. Luckily, it had fallen short of the flames. The inhaler looked all right, but would it still work? He blew on it, trying to cool it, then turned back as the king bellowed.
It was Bittenbender. The Dvergar, playing at being abject, had grabbed the king around his ankles and tackled him to the floor, knocking Avery over too. The dagger fell out of his hand. Everett heard the crack as Reynard’s elbow hit the flagstone hearth. At the same moment, Swikehard burst through the door and jumped on the king’s chest. Bittenbender joined him and wrested the whip from the king’s hands; he turned it sideways and braced the wooden shaft against Reynard’s neck.
A horrible, raspy sound came from Ben’s throat.
Everett darted forward and shoved the inhaler into Ben’s mouth. Ben winced—the plastic was probably hot—but he pumped it once, then twice. Everett stood twisting his shirttail, his lips dry, his heart almost stopped. Please, just work. Let him be okay. . . .
Ben heaved a gasping breath. Relief flooded his face as the color started to come back.
“Quick!” Bittenbender shouted. “The dagger!” He pressed the whip harder into the king’s neck.
“Nay, Dvergar.” Avery snatched it up and brandished it at Bittenbender. “Leave the king.”
Everett glanced desperately from one to the other. Bittenbender was struggling to hold the king in place; Swikehard had his
arms pinioned. Reynard might still throw them off, or he might choke. Everett didn’t like the idea of killing the king, but what choice did they have?
Then he remembered his own sword. He snatched it off the desk, grabbed Avery by his tunic, and pressed the blade to his neck. “Drop it,” he said.
“Nay,” the prince said in a low voice. “I have a plan.”
“Your only plan is to drop that knife,” Everett said tightly.
The dagger clattered to the floor.
Bittenbender lunged for it.
“Stop!” Everett kicked the dagger aside, stepping on the Dvergar’s fingers. “Your Majesty, turn over. Avery, tell him.”
“Father . . . please . . . do as he says.” The prince sounded close to tears.
Casting a sidelong look at Everett, the king relaxed. The Dvergar rolled him over, and Everett kicked the dagger out of Bittenbender’s reach. “Tie him up.”
Bittenbender scowled at him. He pulled a length of rope from his belt, but then suddenly he seized the brass shovel Everett had tossed aside. He raised it.
“No!” Avery shouted, but the shovel came down on the king’s head.
Reynard slumped on the floor, senseless. Avery struggled in Everett’s arms, but Everett held him off with the sword. “It’s okay. He’s not dead, is he?”
“This ruddy thing couldn’t kill a rabbit,” Bittenbender said with disgust, throwing it into the hearth. “He probably won’t be out long, neither.” He nodded to the other Dvergar. “Best make sure we’re not disturbed,” he said, and Swikehard took up his post outside the room again.
“The maps,” Everett said, struggling to keep his voice from shaking. He shoved Avery toward the writing desk, where the open satchel still sat. “Put the rest of them in that bag. Be quick.”
He couldn’t fault Avery’s speed. The prince bunched the parchment into the satchel, not pausing to fold them carefully. His hands trembled and he sniffled, biting back tears. Ben was still collapsed on the floor, his chest heaving, but he was breathing all right. Bittenbender stuffed a handkerchief into the king’s mouth and tied his hands, pulling the ropes brutally. When he was done, he climbed off the king’s back and picked up the riding crop. He slashed it across Reynard’s face. “There’s partial payment fer all ye’ve done to my kind,” he snarled, then scampered off to find his dagger.
“Everett, His Majesty must not be harmed,” Avery said, handing over the satchel.
“Shut it, you. Ben, can you walk?”
Ben nodded, getting shakily to his feet. He twisted the rope around Avery’s wrists.
“Right, then. We’ll be getting on.”
“Oh, we’re gettin’ on, all right,” said Bittenbender from the corner of the room. He had found his dagger, and he ran across the room to where the king lay sprawled in front of the fireplace.
“Bittenbender, no!” Everett cried. It was stupid, perhaps, but he couldn’t bear to watch the king die in cold blood, even as hateful as he was.
“This ain’t yer fecht, lad,” growled the Dvergar, and leaped onto the king’s back, the dagger held high above his head. But before he could bring it down, a broad orange spark cut across Bittenbender’s hand, knocking the knife away. It skittered across the stone hearth.
“What the—” came Ben’s croaky voice, returned at last.
Avery had twisted away from him and pulled a thin wooden stick from his cloak, which he now grasped in his shaking hand. He slashed the air with it, and another spark cut low across his father’s body, missing the Dvergar by inches. Bittenbender, his eyes round, sat astride the king as if on a prone horse. He couldn’t speak.
“My wand,” Everett said at last.
It was the wand Avery had taken from him last year. It was still wrapped in red silk, the lady’s favor that had granted the wand power. And it still worked—for the prince, no less.
The king moaned.
“Off him, Earth man,” said Avery. He brandished the wand, and Bittenbender obeyed him. “Leave the king alive, Sir Everett, and I will go with you as promised. But leave the king alive. I am your prisoner. You have what you desire. Now leave us go.”
In a coughing hiccup, Everett’s voice returned to him. “Uh . . . yeah. Right. Come on, let’s go. The king isn’t to be harmed. You’ve got our word, Avery. Ben, tie him up again.”
“But how did he—”
“Just tie him,” said the Dvergar, pushing past Ben and snatching up his dagger. “He’s got our word now, dunnee?”
Everett took the wand from Avery and pocketed it. How could it still work? Surely the power the little Elemental had given it would have worn off by now. Or was she working with Avery, too? He searched the room for the fiery creature, but he saw nothing but the dying firelight and the prone king, trussed on the flagstones, conscious now and kicking as if he could break the bonds the Dvergar had tightened so mercilessly. Their swords drawn again, the four of them left the Chamber of Maps.
Chapter 23
* * *
The Murder Hole
Everett and Ben and Prince Avery and the Dvergar were able to sneak down the corridors silently for some time. Everett fancied he could hear the king crying out, but Reynard was well gagged, and it was only Everett’s imagination that made it seem otherwise. He wished the maps room wasn’t located in the keep; they had a horrible number of passageways and staircases to cover before they were anywhere near the castle entrance. Still, they passed through the fortress undisturbed.
Until.
They had finally entered the wide corridor leading to the gatehouse when a loud boom told them that someone had burst into the castle from some other entrance. “The north gatehouse,” Avery whispered. “It must be one of the garrison.”
“It seems ye’ve called up yer lackeys after all, Yer Highness,” said Bittenbender, who had been letting Avery take the lead and now jerked him back close.
“Don’t be daft, how could he?” Everett said. “We’ve been together the whole time.”
A thunder of footsteps told them the knights were nearly upon them.
“Quick! In here.” Avery threw open a low door near the inner portcullis, and the five of them crowded into a tiny room that Everett soon recognized from the smell.
“Is this a bathroom?” Ben whispered. “Gross!”
“Shut it,” Everett hissed back.
They all fell quiet, though they would likely have never been heard over the shouting and trampling of heavy boots that echoed past their hiding place. Everett recognized Grandor’s voice. “ ’Tis the Adept, I say!” Grandor hollered to one of the other knights. “Not a moment gone, in the wood just the other side of the moat. She’s broken out the Mounted, and the two Earth men.”
“Very well, Sir Grandor,” said a calmer voice, who Everett recognized as Tullian, the leader of the castle garrison. He seemed to be addressing a group. “Bryce, check the dungeons. See what Loverian can tell you. Gregory and Anselm, secure the east wing. Grandor, follow me to the main gatehouse.”
Everett nudged Avery. “Can we get out by the north gatehouse?”
“We should never gain it afore the knights find us, and it will be well guarded by now.”
“If Holly’s spell is still working, we can slip through the main gatehouse,” said Ben.
Everett felt sick to his stomach. It would be all too easy for Avery to break away from them and call Grandor and his men straight to them. In fact, he reasoned, this must be exactly what Avery was planning to do.
Ben opened the door a crack.
“What’re you doing?” Everett snatched at his sleeve.
“Someone’s got to see what’s going on, and I’m the smallest.” Ben slipped into the shadows just off the portcullis. He crept forward, peering through the passage.
“Well?” Everett whispered.
“Ummm . . .”
“What?”
Ben slipped back into the water closet. “We’ve got a problem. The spell’s broken, and there’s knights all over the pla
ce.”
“Crikey,” said Everett.
“We have to leg it,” said Bittenbender. “The shortest way out.”
“Through the main gatehouse, then,” said the prince. “All be chaos and disorder there.”
“We’ll be takin’ His Highness,” said Bittenbender.
No one argued that point. Everett darted out and cleared the first portcullis, holding short of the second. Glancing up at the catwalk, he remembered what this passage was called: the murder hole.
The Dvergar scuttled out next as one awkward, lopsided figure, Bittenbender holding the prince’s ropes while Swikehard jabbed his spine with the dagger. Beyond the outer portcullis, Everett could see Grandor searching around the moat while Tullian gave Gervase and Pagett a tongue-lashing for being tricked.
“We must have been enchanted, my lord,” Gervase kept saying. Everett watched as Bittenbender prodded Avery ahead of him, staying in the shadows. They would have to dive into the moat and swim for it. Everett wondered how they’d manage to hold Avery’s head above water.
Unless, Everett thought suddenly, Bittenbender shoved him under.
The Dvergar’s wily little eyes shifted from one knight to the other as he crept along the gatehouse wall. Everett saw what would happen: The Dvergar would drop Avery in the water, and when the knights scrambled to save him, Bittenbender and Swikehard would clear the far bank. Everett’s and Ben’s chances were slim at best.
“Cut the winch! Lower the portcullis!” someone hollered from inside the castle.
“Ben, come on!” Everett shouted. There was little point in being stealthy now. Where was he?
“Do not be a fool, lad,” he heard then. “Step away from the winch.”
Everett slid against the wall of the murder hole closer to the inner gate. Oh no. Ben was frozen midstep, standing in front of the winch that raised and lowered the portcullises. He was guarding it.
“You don’t want to mess with me,” came Ben’s small voice. “The Adept’s my sister.” With a trembly rasp, Ben drew his sword and held it in front of him. Ben backed up as the knight approached. Everett recognized him—Bryce. He was only nineteen.
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