by Bo Burnette
They finally approached the thrones, which looked more like a mound of shadows in the darkness. Arliss paced back and forth, scanning the marble pedestal with its gilded edges, but Eamon had already found what they were looking for. No doubt he had guessed for some time, every time he stood before this throne. At last he could explore it.
He stepped up to the thrones and drew his sword. It glinted as he raised it up above his head, his eyes boring holes in the marble.
He stabbed the sword down between the two thrones.
Arliss gasped, certain that the sword would bend or even break. Instead, it whizzed through a near-invisible crevice in the stone. Eamon knelt down until the sword imbedded all the way to the curved hilt.
“Why—” Arliss started to speak, but a sharp crack resounded in the hall, cutting her off. The thrones started to slide mechanically away from each other, revealing a shallow cleft between them. Arliss and Philip mounted the pedestal to peer inside.
Eamon reached out towards the compartment, then stopped. He closed his eyes. “You are the princess of Reinhold. You may take what is rightfully yours.”
Kneeling beside him, she dug into the dim little cavity. Her fingers closed around something cold, smooth, but spaced with sharp little objects. She pulled the item out from its hole.
They had found it. The crown of Reinhold lay in her hands. Silver, gold, and sapphire dazzled her eyes even in the shadows. A golden vine with sapphire gems as flowers wrapped around the thick circlet of silver.
“We found it.” Philip reached out to stroke the circlet. “We can open the vaults now—the one on the Isle and the one beneath the waterfall. It’s ours now.”
“No, it is mine!” Merna’s voice shifted through the darkness, shattering the beauty of the moment and shocking all three of them to their feet. She flashed a torch into the room, lighting the pillar sconces nearest the thrones. “Drop the crown, Arliss, and we can end this fight before it begins.”
“No.” Arliss intertwined her fingers with the circlet. “I will not. I am not afraid of you.” She stuffed the crown into her satchel and realigned an arrow on her bow. “You are outnumbered.”
Merna lit another sconce and whirled her gaze towards the company on the thrones. “I’m afraid that is not so. I regret that you have chosen this path. Anmór and Reinhold could have been friends.”
Arliss stepped off the pedestal, hoping the other two would follow her. “Such a friendship would only be slavery.”
Merna inclined her chin, green eyes flashing in the torchlight. “Perhaps so. Now, it is only death.”
A dozen warriors, all nearly as brawny as Eamon, crept from behind the thrones and surrounded Arliss, Philip, and Eamon.
“What do we do?” Arliss whispered to Philip.
“You’re asking me for advice now?” he hissed.
“Yes.”
Eamon murmured to both of them, “I will give you some advice. Run. Weave around the pillars, but whatever you do—run.” He drew a small knife from his belt. “Run!”
Arliss dashed for the doors, Philip pounding at her heels. Behind her, she caught a glimpse of Eamon curling the knife towards Merna. It whizzed through the air, slicing the torch clean from her hands. The flaming stick dropped to the ground at her feet.
Instantly Merna’s dress went up in flames. She shrieked in terror and dropped to the ground, rolling and screaming for help.
Arliss reached the doors as the first spear hurtled across the room and imbedded in the wall a foot from her head.
Chapter Thirty-three: Wrath and Fury
ARLISS NEARLY STUMBLED AS SHE BURST OUT OF the back entrance and into the palace garden. She was running faster than she had ever run in her life, and she couldn’t stop. The crown-bearing satchel flapped against her thigh as she ran, so she clutched it to her side. Merna’s guards would be after them in an instant. Hopefully Ríon had wrangled a carriage in time.
Eamon and Philip sprinted a few paces behind her. All three of them shoved through trees, flowers, and bushes, heedlessly trampling the gardens of Anmór as they ran. Arliss cast a glance back. Would she ever see the lush garden or the towering castle again? She half-hoped not. But there was a mysterious beauty hidden beneath the layers of deception.
She reached the tall stone fence they had leapt to enter. Philip and Eamon screeched to a halt. Philip had to slam his palms against the smooth rock to stop himself.
Arliss’s burning lungs raged in her breast. “The ring—we have to look for it.”
Eamon shook his head, already gripping the wall. “Didn’t you hear what Ríon said? Thane has the ring. The crown will have to be enough. We have two of the gifts. Perhaps the others will be in the vaults.”
“Did you know of these vaults before Philip mentioned them?” Arliss demanded.
“I suspected about the one on the Isle,” Eamon snapped. “Now climb!”
She climbed. A wide iron gate centered the wall a few feet away, but it was locked securely. She dug her fingers into the divots between stones and hauled herself up. After a few moments, the three jumped over the other side.
Pain speared up Arliss’s injured leg as she thudded into the layer of cobblestones which lined the road to the harbor. She groaned through clenched teeth, leaning on Philip for support.
He reached out to steady her. “Can you walk?”
She limped forward, closing her eyes as she managed a nod. “I can.”
A carriage careened around the corner, nearly toppling over as it pivoted around the edge of the river market and onto the cobblestone street. Ríon jumped out, urgently motioning to them. His yellow hair gleamed with sweat, and the two horses wore hides flecked with foam.
Arliss winced her way towards the carriage, holding Philip’s hand as she went. Eamon stayed behind, peering through the iron gate.
Ríon waved. “Perfect timing! It’s right about time to—”
“Get in!” Eamon bellowed, pounding across the stones. “Get back in the carriage!”
Ríon leapt up into the cracked leather driver’s seat.
Philip pulled Arliss along. Pain continued to spike her right ankle. Eamon reached the carriage and practically threw both of them into the back of the vehicle before hurling himself on the seat beside Ríon. The gypsy prince grasped the reins and snapped them, and the horses bolted forward.
No sooner had their carriage launched than the iron gates swept open behind them, clanging into the stone wall. Leathery curtains flapped at the back of the carriage, but Arliss managed to keep them open long enough to see.
A massive chariot, its wheels blooming with curved steel spokes, tore between the gates. Three white horses whinnied, racing each other in an effort to catch up with Ríon’s coach. Commanding the reins, half-sitting and half-standing, loomed Queen Merna of Anmór herself. The charred fringes of her yellow silk dress streamed out in the coursing wind, looking almost as if they were still aflame. Her eyes certainly still flamed. Behind her, a posse of armed warriors crowded the chariot’s rear platform.
The carriage jolted over an uneven cobble, and Arliss fell backwards into the compartment. She yelled forward to Eamon through the sliding window. “It’s Merna—she’s after us!”
Eamon turned and shouted, “I know! Shut up and stay down!”
Philip threw himself down beside her, the sound of his breath mingling with the clatter of the wheels beneath them. No sooner had he dropped than a projectile zoomed through the curtains and stuck in the wall behind them.
Eamon started, then slid the front window shut.
Arliss blinked for a moment in near darkness. A second spear pierced the left curtain, this time tearing it completely off. She threw herself in the far corner of the coach. “We have to stop it up with something!”
Philip crouched as low as he could. “This smooth wood floor—it’s a facade. There’s thicker wood beams underneath.”
Arliss drew Orlando’s knives from her jerkin and tossed one to Philip. “Let’s pry it up.”
Another javelin slit through the missing curtain space and stuck well above their heads.
Arliss shoved the knife blade at the right edge of the slick facade, levering the blade between it and the true floor beneath. Philip forced his as well, and Arliss heard a crack.
“Use your fingers!” Philip shouted.
She stuck her fingers into the splintered glue and jacked the thin facade up.
“Against the back,” Philip instructed.
They pressed the wooden sheet over the opening as another spear jarred into it.
Philip kept his hands pressed against the wooden sheet, hoping it would hold out long enough to keep them alive. If they could make it to the harbor…
The wooden cover to the front seat slid open, and Eamon peeked in. “Both of you, get up here!”
“Now?” Philip couldn’t restrain his incredulity.
“Now!” Eamon slid the portal all the way open. “Get on the horses!”
Arliss’s expression matched Philip’s in confusion. “Are you mad?”
“Yes, I am,” Eamon retorted. “Now do as I say!”
Philip nodded to Arliss. She dropped her hold on the barricade and squeezed through the opening and onto the seat beside Eamon and Ríon. Philip tilted the edge of the wood against the back of the carriage, then crawled up behind Arliss.
The princess had already mounted one of the dappled gray horses. Her gold hair streamed out behind her.
Eamon tugged Philip onto the driver’s seat and slammed the doorway shut. One of those spears hammered into the wood behind Philip’s head. His skull rattled with the impact.
Eamon leaned over the horses’ harnesses, his every muscle tense and ready to explode. “The ship is just ahead. If Clare and my sons saw Ríon’s signal, they should bring the ship right alongside the cliff here.”
“Cliff?” Philip demanded an explanation as he looked out at the changing landscape. They were coursing away from the city. Already the market-lined river lay in the distance. Now they galloped parallel to the harbor itself, where the road sloped up to follow the gentle rise of the hill where it overlooked the ocean.
Eamon pulled his gloves tighter on his hands. “Get on the horse behind Arliss. Ríon will mount the other, and I’ll cut you both loose.”
Philip gaped. “Loose to go where?”
“To the ship.” Eamon took the reins from Ríon. “Trust me, simply trust me.”
Philip made it onto the horse behind Arliss. The terrain grew rocky and jostling beneath the horse’s hooves. Suddenly the road seemed to disappear only a hundred paces ahead. It sloped off into sky and waves.
This was madness. This was suicide. They were going to go leaping off the cliffs and into the depths below.
Ríon leaned over his mount, his clear eyes focused. Philip saw the ship approaching from the left, but everything had become a blur. The wind blinded half his vision, and Arliss’s flying hair blocked most of the other half.
The ship sped closer, then slowed down to come alongside the overhanging cliff. It wouldn’t come fast enough. It couldn’t.
Arliss was holding onto the reins so tight her hands where whiter than the clouds above.
Philip clamped his knees into the horse’s sides.
From behind them, Eamon shouted something indistinct. Then the horses jerked backward a moment before flying forward with a freeing speed. The edge of the cliff spread out before them.
“Pull up!” Ríon shouted.
Philip added his hands to the reins and pulled up. They reached the end of the cliff. The horses jumped, haunches flaring. Philip heard Arliss screaming, but maybe it was himself. They flew through the air for a horrible moment.
Then the horses clattered onto the deck of the ship. Philip nearly fell off, but Arliss kept the reins and jerked them around to avoid smashing into the mast. The deck pitched. The horses nearly collapsed.
The ship came so close it almost scraped the cliff’s edge.
Right behind them, Eamon threw himself over the gap between the ship and the cliff as the remains of the carriage fell into the ocean below them. His hands barely gripped the deck railing.
Finín didn’t wait to make sure his father was all the way on board. He hoisted all the sails as Fiach twisted the helm away from the cliff.
Philip tottered off the horse and to the railing, where he and Ríon strained to pull Eamon onto the deck.
Atop the cliffs behind them, Merna’s singed dress still flamed in the midday light. “This battle is not over, I tell you! It is not over!”
Arliss accepted Clare’s hand down from the horse. Worry clouded Clare’s blue eyes. Her highlighted hair lay in nearly as much a mess as Arliss’s.
She placed a hand on Arliss’s shoulder. “Did you find them?”
Realization crept over Arliss like the chill of death. Ilayda, Brallaghan, and Erik had all been left behind. She shrugged off Clare’s hand and hurried towards Eamon as he steadied himself against the side of the deck.
“What have you done?” Anger burned in her chest. “You’ve left them all behind! Erik—we told him to come to the ship with Ilayda and Brallaghan. You didn’t even look for them!”
Eamon pushed away from the railing. “Do you think I had a choice? Merna would have killed us all if I delayed a moment later.”
“But…” Arliss stuttered. “This is all my fault. I sent Erik to get them when I should have gone myself.”
“And gotten yourself killed?” Philip intruded.
She closed her eyes to block out the wave of pain that swept her emotions. “If that is what it took.”
Eamon started for the helm. “You have to get to Reinhold and warn your people what is coming. If we were to return to find the others, there would be no messengers to alert your parents in time.”
“What do you care about my people?” She narrowed her eyes. “Or my parents?”
Eamon stiffened. “I care very much indeed. And I would not have them die.” He fingered the hilt of his sword. “We will not argue about this any more. I will accompany you as far as the isle.”
He turned his back on her—just as he was turning his back on her three friends. How could this happen? How could she have let this happen?
Philip stood behind her. “Eamon’s right. We have to warn your parents. Perhaps Thane will offer them as a ransom. And who knows? Erik is a capable fellow. I trust him with all my heart.”
Arliss turned to stare at him. “Right now, as we speak, my best friend is in prison.”
Philip’s eyes flashed. “I’m glad to know who your best friend is.”
Guilt pricked the back of Arliss’s neck as she exhaled. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
Philip smiled. “It’s all right.”
Arliss pulled herself to her full height. “Ilayda has been my companion since I was small. It’s hard to explain how much I worry for her now.”
“You don’t need to apologize. Ilayda is not my best friend, but I know how you feel about her. I feel that way about my best friend as well. I fear for her—especially when we’re apart. I’m incomplete without her.”
Arliss bit her lip. “Hopefully your friend is a complete person herself, even in your absence.”
Philip turned to face the cloudy sea. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Chapter Thirty-four: Falling Apart
THE TWO DAYS’ JOURNEY BACK TO THE ISLE passed in near silence. Arliss spent the better part of both days atop the mast in the what Eamon called the crow’s nest. From there, she could see many things: Anmór as it melted away in the distance, the sea that shoved past the ship on its way to foreign shores, Eamon as he manned the helm, Philip as he paced the deck—his arms always behind his back, like they were when he was worried or thinking. Arliss suspected he was both.
Even when she climbed down the mast and ate with the crew, she found Eamon had closed himself to her. Whatever kindness or softening she thought she had seen had vanished. Now, he shut the doors to his soul
and locked them, not even teasing her with the key.
Thus, as the ship plowed through fog in the wee hours of the morning on their third day at sea, she was surprised to find him singing softly as he stood at the prow.
She struggled to hear the words. The fog seemed to dull all her senses—she couldn’t even see ten feet in front of the ship—so she tiptoed closer to pick up snatches of his song. It stung her heart the moment she heard it.
His cool eyes scoured the fog as he sang. “And all I’ve done for want of wit, to memory now I can’t recall. So fill to me the parting glass. Goodnight, and joy be to you all.”
Arliss took a cold breath and joined in on the chorus. “So fill to me the parting glass, and drink a health whate’er befall; then gently rise and softly call, ‘Goodnight, and joy be to you all!’”
Eamon’s arms hung awkwardly a moment before he crossed them. “I did not know you were awake.”
“Most all the crew is up by now.” She came to stand beside him, still searching the fog, though her mind searched his words. No matter how she tried, she could not chisel this man down to who he really was. He evaded every attempt at explanation.
Eamon rolled his thick neck, making it crackle. “We ought to be upon the isle in a few hours. This fog’s thicker than any I have seen.”
“That song you were singing—how do you know it?”
He chuckled. “It’s a well-known song throughout the realms. Do you still sing it in Reinhold?”
She suddenly missed her parents very much. “Yes. Yes, we do.”
He unfolded his arms. “Arliss, there’s something you should know—”
“A ship!” Finín shouted from the crow’s nest. High above their heads, he pointed sternward. “A ship! They’re almost upon us!”
Eamon dashed towards the helm, shouting up at Finín as he ran, “What flag do they fly?”
Finín stole one last look before he scurried down the rope ladder. He was a precise image of his father, only half a foot shorter and with a clean-shaven face. “The flag of the dragon. They’re as big as we are, maybe bigger.”
