There was no use dwelling on it any further. Nor was there any point in wondering about the future. This was now, and that was all Tarlan cared about. The twilight air was cold, and the shadowy trees were filled with life. The darkness rumbled.
Battle lay ahead.
CHAPTER 25
In the courtyard, Lord Vicerin’s loyal guards were dragging away the bodies of the murdered Ritherlee nobles. Others escorted the Helkrags to some deep part of the castle, perhaps to be rewarded for their performance, perhaps to be turned on and slaughtered themselves. Once the courtyard had been cleared, a large crowd was ushered out.
“He’s sent men to get you,” Cedric pleaded. “Elodie, they’re coming!”
But Elodie needed to hear what the murderer had to say.
“Toronia is changing,” Lord Vicerin said to the crowd. They listened intently, and Elodie wondered how long they had to live. “King Brutan has fallen. The fate of our glorious realm hangs in the balance. A new power is needed, if that balance is ever to be restored.”
“What is he talking about?” sobbed Sylva.
“Please, Elodie,” urged Cedric, tugging at her sleeve.
“Hush, both of you. I want to hear this.”
She didn’t want to hear it, of course, but she had no choice. Lord Vicerin might have gathered an audience, but his speech was addressed to one person alone.
Her.
“Here, today, this new power has arisen,” Lord Vicerin went on. “Even as Castle Tor collapses into the darkness, so Castle Vicerin rises into the light. Even as the prophecy stars fail us, a new light illuminates our spirits. For I tell you that today a new king has come.”
A tall man appeared behind Lord Vicerin: the chief chamberlain, resplendent in his blue-and-black robes. In his hands he carried a silver crown. He held it over his lord and master’s head.
The watching people stood in utter silence.
The crown came down.
“Kneel before him,” the chamberlain intoned. “Kneel before King Quentus of the House of Vicerin!”
One by one the members of the crowd dropped to their knees. Vicerin waved decorously, then his eyes fixed on Elodie’s.
“Now that I am king of Ritherlee,” he cried, “I will take my queen!”
Pressing her hands over her eyes, Elodie screamed . . .
. . . and awoke in her chambers, bathed in perspiration. The nightmare fell away. Outside the window, the fog was gone too, replaced by blue sky laced with delicate clouds. Somewhere, a lark was singing.
She climbed sleepily out of bed, clutching at the collar of her night robe. Her hand slipped down to the green jewel she wore at her neck. As always, she felt comforted by its presence.
Her eyes fell on the dress hanging in the doorway to the adjacent dressing room. The dress was gold, with a long, full skirt that split into dozens of shimmering ribbons. Each of these split again, and again, so that the bottom of the gown was a mass of delicate fronds designed to swirl and froth as the person wearing it walked along.
Not just any person, Elodie thought, recognizing at once the traditional Ritherlee design. The bride.
It was a wedding dress.
With dawning horror Elodie realized that everything she’d just dreamed really had happened the day before.
It wasn’t a nightmare at all. I was remembering.
“Elodie? Are you all right?”
With a start she saw Samial standing in the corner of the room. His expression was grim.
“I watched you sleep,” he said. “You had a bad dream, I think.”
Elodie sat down on the end of the bed. She no longer felt sleepy. Now she felt sick.
“I wish it had been a dream,” she replied. “How long have you been there, Samial? Were you watching me all night?”
Samial shook his head. “I spent most of the night trying to kill the new king.”
“Vicerin is no king!” Elodie spat. Then she realized what Samial had just said. “What do you mean, you tried to kill him?”
“Just that. But I failed. I could not carry a weapon through the wall into his chamber, and when I tried to take a sword from one of the guards inside, they grew suspicious. I tried and tried—” He broke off, his expression miserable. “But I will not stop trying.”
Elodie crossed the room to where he stood and hugged him. “Thank you, Samial. You’re brave and true. But don’t you see? You’re all I have left.”
“I want to help.”
“I know. But, Samial, what if they found out about you, what if they took the arrowhead from me? I can’t bear the thought of losing you, not now that I’m . . .”
She pulled away, biting back the words. Speaking them out loud might make everything worse. Might make everything . . .
. . . real.
“Not now that I’m trapped here forever,” she finished.
The door opened and three maids bustled in. One carried a green sash, while the others held velvet-lined trays arrayed with green jewelry and flowers.
Green to match my necklace, Elodie thought. Like it’s some stupid trinket.
A wave of revulsion swept over her. She ran to where the golden wedding dress was hanging, ripped it down, and hurled it across the room.
“Can’t you see how wrong this is?” she screamed at the maids. “Can’t you see that he murdered his own wife so he could marry me—his stepdaughter? If you want to help me, help me get out of here!”
They exchanged terrified glances, but before any of them could speak, a guard marched in.
“Is there a problem, Your Highness?” he said coldly.
Without thinking, Elodie made a grab for his sword. The guard reacted instantly, shoving her backward. She tripped over the trailing ribbons of the wedding dress and fell hard.
None of the maids moved.
The guard glared down at her.
And Elodie finally understood what the word “prisoner” really meant.
“I asked if you had a problem,” the guard repeated.
“No.” Elodie climbed shakily to her feet. She remembered something Fessan had once said to her.
A brave soldier knows when to raise his sword. A clever one knows when to lower it.
“Everything’s fine,” she went on. “I’m just nervous.” She swallowed. It was like trying to choke down a stone. “It’s a very big day.”
“Well, if you’re sure.”
“You are dismissed,” Elodie went on, trying to adopt the imperious air that had once come so naturally to her. The air of a queen.
But not the queen I imagined I would be.
The guard left. Elodie resigned herself to being dressed in the enormous wedding gown. As one maid fussed over her hair (and tutted over its shortness), another arranged her ribbons and jewels. Elodie endured it all.
They’ll take me to the council chamber, she thought, frantically trying to imagine how she might escape. They’ll take me the long way around. They’ll want to show off Ritherlee’s new queen-to-be.
She could think of half a dozen places where she might be able to give her escort the slip—her years as a child playing hide-and-chase with Sylva and Cedric meant she knew every corner of this castle.
But it will be crowded. They’ll be lining the corridors, eager to see the bride.
No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t come up with a plan.
Castle Vicerin truly had become her prison.
At last she was ready. The maids stood back, admiring their handiwork.
“You look beautiful, Your Highness,” said the first.
“That you do,” said the second.
The third brought a mirror, but Elodie couldn’t bear to look at her reflection. Instead she made her way into the small sitting room tucked behind the main bedroom. When one of the maids tried to follow her, Elodie waved her back.
“Please,” she said, “I want to be by myself for a moment.” The maids exchanged nervous glances. “It’s all right. I just need a moment to . . . to compo
se myself.”
As soon as she was alone, Elodie rummaged in the drawer of the little bureau beneath the window. Hidden at the back was a small bundle of cloth. She checked its contents: Samial’s arrowhead and the thorrod feather.
I thought I could escape like you, Tarlan. She stroked her fingers over the feather. Instead I’m trapped. And I’ll never see you again.
Elodie rewrapped the bundle and tucked it into the waistband of her undergarments, beneath the flowing folds of the wedding gown.
Once this was done, she returned to find the main door open. Four castle guards stood on the landing outside, dressed in their smart blue dress uniforms.
Elodie took a deep breath, let it out.
And now the nightmare really begins.
“All right,” she said. “I’m ready.”
As she’d known they would, the guards escorted her through the castle, taking a long, complicated route toward the council chamber. It seemed to Elodie that the whole of Ritherlee had indeed lined the corridors to watch. Their faces passed in a blur—in fact, the whole castle was blurred—and more than once she stumbled on the ribbons of her ornate gold dress.
“I am here. You’re not alone.” Samial’s hand touched hers. “You’ve been strong before, Elodie. You can do it again.”
“That’s the trouble,” she whispered. “I don’t think I can.”
Her foot tangled in the dress once more. This time she stopped herself from falling.
It will be all right! she told herself firmly, fighting back dizziness. It has to be!
But she didn’t really believe it.
At last they reached the council chamber. The entire room was decked with flowers, artfully arranged in crisscrossing bands of color that, Elodie realized, represented all the noble families of Ritherlee. Before each display stood a small gathering of people in matching robes—representatives of those same families, she supposed.
He murdered your people! she thought, wishing she could say it aloud.
Then she saw the armed Vicerin guards stationed behind each of the groups, and decided that they probably already knew.
The giant banqueting table had been moved from the center of the room, and a wooden archway erected in its place. The archway was covered in flowers: white, blue, and green. Under other circumstances, it would have taken Elodie’s breath away. Instead, her gaze only glanced off it, coming to rest on the blue-clad figure of the man she’d once called Father, and who now called himself king of Ritherlee.
As Elodie approached, Vicerin smiled, exposing his enormous teeth. The silver crown sat on his head, a delicate and strangely feminine accessory. Beside Vicerin stood the chamberlain, now wearing the gold robe of a marriage scribe.
Suddenly terrified, Elodie recoiled, only to feel the hand of one of the guards pressed into her back. She stumbled forward the last few steps and found herself beneath the archway, with Vicerin’s fingers clamped around her wrist.
“Welcome, my dear,” Vicerin crooned. “Are you ready for your big day?”
All at once Elodie’s vision cleared. She stared straight into Vicerin’s eager eyes.
“I would rather die than marry you!” she snapped.
Then she spat in his face.
Now it was Vicerin’s turn to recoil. He drew back his hand and Elodie bared her cheek, waiting with a perverse kind of satisfaction for the slap. But it didn’t come. Instead Vicerin dabbed the spittle from his face with a perfumed handkerchief and smiled.
“That may be so, my dear,” he said. “But if you refuse, others will die.”
Elodie’s blood ran cold. “What do you mean?”
Vicerin snapped his fingers. More guards came forward, ushering between them a pair of figures Elodie knew all too well: Sylva and Cedric.
“It is so disappointing,” Vicerin went on, “to discover that one’s own children are traitors. So disappointing.”
Elodie saw with horror that they were both in chains. Sylva’s face was red and splotched with tears, while Cedric was sporting a black eye. Both looked as if they hadn’t slept for days.
“I understand.” Elodie glared at Vicerin. “Let’s get on with it!”
Vicerin nodded to the chamberlain, who said in a penetrating voice:
“Welcome one, welcome all, to this marriage ceremony. Today we celebrate the joining of Quentus, of the House of Vicerin, to Elodie, also of the House of Vicerin . . .”
I’m not a Vicerin! I’m not!
As the chamberlain droned on, Elodie tried to close her ears against the words. She’d almost succeeded, when she heard Lord Vicerin speak her name in loud, ringing tones:
“. . . Elodie, to be my true and only wife.”
“Now it is your turn,” said the chamberlain, turning to her. “Repeat these words: ‘I take you, Quentus, to be my true and only husband.’ ”
For a moment she thought of simply turning and running out of the council chamber. The ribbons of her wedding gown would spray out behind her like a shower of gold.
Or like feathers. If I had feathers, I could fly far away from here, and never come back.
“Be brave,” Samial murmured in her ear. “Be strong.”
There was another stone in her throat. She swallowed it down. There were times when you had to lower your sword. This was one of them.
She straightened her back and stared at the far wall.
“I take you, Quentus,” she said hoarsely, fighting back tears, “to be my true husband.”
A sigh went through the crowd.
“And now you may exchange the rings of devotion,” said the chamberlain.
“Give me your hand, my dear,” said Vicerin, spreading Elodie’s fingers wide and jamming a diamond-studded ring onto the third finger of her left hand. She recognized it immediately: it was the same ring that had once been worn by Lady Vicerin.
“I swear it’s still warm,” she murmured. “Couldn’t wait to get it off her, could you?”
“Shut up, my dear,” Vicerin growled through his tombstone smile.
“It’s a shame I don’t have a ring for you. Shall I just spit in your face again?”
Still smiling, Vicerin plucked a gaudy, gem-covered ring from his pocket and slipped it onto his own finger.
“No need. But thank you for the offer.”
“You may now pass beneath the arch and enter the land of matrimony,” the chamberlain said, closing the book from which he’d been reading.
Before Elodie could think, Vicerin had shoved her through the archway. Following her, he snatched up another silver crown—smaller and even more delicate than the one he wore himself—and placed it on Elodie’s head. She closed her eyes . . . and again felt Samial’s hand squeeze hers.
Don’t leave me, Samial. Not here. Not now.
“Three cheers for the king and queen of Ritherlee!” someone cried from the back of the room. The room erupted with cheers; to Elodie it sounded like a badly tuned orchestra, and it was clear to her that most of the people applauding were doing so only because they feared what might happen if they refused.
I think I’m going to be sick.
Vicerin led her through the big double doors at the end of the council chamber and into the formal garden beyond. The sun shone down through a gap in a mass of gathering clouds, turning Elodie’s dress into a dazzling gold beacon. The crowds gathered in the garden gasped when they saw her, and more applause broke out.
As Vicerin guided her through the throng, he waved and smiled.
“You must wave too, now that you are queen.”
“I cannot be queen, because you are no king. I will be queen only when I and my brothers take the crown of Toronia as the prophecy foretold.”
“And how will you do that, precisely?”
“I’ll escape. You can’t watch me every moment of every day.”
“Mmm. And when you have escaped? What then?”
“I’ll come back with my brothers and destroy you!”
“Ah yes, just like your pr
ecious Trident destroyed me?”
By now they’d reached the fountain in the middle of the garden. At Vicerin’s command, it burst into life, sending water spraying high into the sunlit air. At a second signal, the water turned brilliant blue. Vicerin blue.
The crowd roared.
“Oh, my dear, I almost forgot.” Vicerin beamed, reaching inside his ceremonial tunic. “I have a special wedding gift for you.”
“I don’t want it!”
“Really? But you accepted it readily enough the first time I presented you with it.”
Elodie looked down. He was holding the jeweled dagger he’d given to her . . . and which she’d then given to Fessan.
“This was never really a dagger,” Vicerin was saying. His voice sounded as if it were underwater. Elodie fought back the urge to scream. “It was a test. I was curious to see what you might do with such a thing. And now I know.”
“Fessan,” she mumbled through lips that had turned numb.
“Yes,” Vicerin replied. “Fessan.”
“What have you done with him?”
Vicerin’s grin widened into a hideous leer.
“Now that, my dear, is the wedding present I really want to share with you.”
He led her past the fountain to a wide expanse of lawn. By now the clouds had closed over the sun, and the day was turning rapidly cold. As Elodie stood shivering in her wedding dress, rain began to fall.
In the middle of the lawn was a wooden platform on which stood a sturdy wooden tower. Set into the sides of the tower was a system of ropes and pulleys, while at the top hung something shiny, mirror flat, and as sharp as a finely honed sword.
The blade of a guillotine.
“Bring him out!” cried Vicerin.
A squad of six guards climbed onto the platform, carrying between them a bedraggled figure Elodie recognized at once.
“No!” she cried. She surged forward, only to be held back by her own band of guards.
The guards forced their prisoner to kneel before the crowd. He was a sorry sight, with his torn green tunic and his head hanging low. The rain had already soaked his mud-splashed clothes and was dripping from his long hair.
One of the guards grabbed his head and pulled it back, and Elodie found herself staring straight into Fessan’s anguished eyes.
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