They tramped on in silence.
“Your Majesty,” Sir Maxwell said. “Have a look, please, Sire. Perhaps my eyes deceive me and this is merely a flaw in the wall.”
They crowded close to Sir Maxwell.
“The mortar here is of a slightly different hue,” he said. With a fingertip, he traced a pattern from the ground up. “Wait a minute.” He dug at the mortar with the tip of his knife. “This isn't mortar at all. It's packed sand.” He stepped back, regarded the wall for a moment, then returned to his original position and traced a line to the right for a couple of feet, then drew his finger down, stopped, and chipped at it with his knife.
“What is it?”
The young knight turned to face the king, a look of astonishment on his face. “I found a hinge, concealed under dried mud.” He spun back toward the wall and continued to drag his finger down. “Here's another, Sire. This is a gate, a covert gate!” He turned to the king. “Once you know to look for it, you can see the outline clearly. The bricks alternate in a dovetail pattern.”
“Do you think this opens to the conduit of which they spoke in There? If it's so easy to find, why has no one used it?”
“Maybe with their vision problems they couldn't see it,” Dame Deidre suggested.
“Or they were so busy arguing that they couldn’t be bothered to search for it,” Robin grumbled.
Sir Maxwell ran his hand along the seam. “By the corrosion on the hinges, I would say it has been some time since this was opened.”
Dame Deidre snorted. “That Nenoo. He kept talking about secret knowledge. The secret knowledge was this gate. I'm sure he knew all about it and simply didn't want to tell us.”
“The hinges are on this side and there are no handles. It opens from the other side.”
“Then there must be people on the other side who want access to There.”
“But it would open. Certainly, we can find a way.”
“Hold,” said Robin. “Don't all talk at once.” He waved them aside and studied Sir Maxwell's discovery. “Wedge a blade here and here. We might be able to pry it ajar.”
The knights hastened to comply and drove knives into the spaces between the bricks on the side opposite the hinges.
“Right. On our count, press the knife handles to the left. One, two, three.”
The force of the blades crumbled the packed sand by a degree but the door by no means swung open.
“Try also at the top and bottom.”
On his knees, Sir Maxwell cleared grass and sand from along the bottom edge to smooth a path for the gate. Meeyoo, too, pawed at the ground.
Rising to his feet, Sir Maxwell got his knife into position. Robin pressed his palms near the seam at the hinged side. “We'll press in while you pry out. Again,” he said.
The corroded metal squealed.
“Yes,” cried Dame Deidre. “We've budged it a fraction. If only we had longer blades or hooks. Our swords are the right length but the wrong thickness.”
“Try different spots. Loosen the sand all around.”
The knights took up their new positions.
“Ready?” the king said. “One, two, three.”
The hinges didn't so much squeak as groan and brick scraped against brick with a grinding noise.
“I see a dark line,” Dame Deidre said. “We're making progress.”
“Let's break off some brick. Maybe we can get a grip on the edge.”
The knights set to hammering with the hilts of their swords, dodging flying chips of masonry.
“Now, let's see if we can pull this open.” The knights wrapped their hands around the door and pulled. The door inched open.
Dame Deidre peered around the side. “It's dark. It shouldn't be dark, should it? If this is a gate through the wall it should be as light on the other side as it is here.”
“Maybe the gate leads to a tunnel or a passageway,” said Sir Maxwell. “A conduit, as the man in There suggested. Sire, should we proceed?”
Robin took a step back. He had agreed to take a detour if it produced easy access and here was a gateway. With any luck, on the other side would be worldly people who could put them back on course for Hewnstone. “We will,” he said.
Determined to deliver his cargo of life-saving food to his starving people, King Bewilliam must get his ship back on course. Will the conduit that looms before him lead to people who can guide him to the port of Hewnstone or will he confront the dragon guarding the treasure of Perooc? Find out in Wayward Magic.
About the Author
“What if?” Those two words all too easily send Devorah Fox spinning into flights of fancy. A multi-genre author, she has written a best-selling epic fantasy series, an acclaimed mystery, a popular thriller, and co-authored a contemporary thriller with Jed Donellie. She’s contributed short stories to a variety of anthologies and has several Mystery and Fantasy Short Reads to her name. Born in Brooklyn, New York, she now lives on the Texas Gulf Coast with her writer familiars: two rescued tabby cats and a dragon named Inky.
For more information about the author, please visit: http://devorahfox.com. Don't forget to grab your copy of next anthology, Wayward Magic, now!
Aamira
The Littlest Angel
Barbara Letson
After suffering through way too many fruitless medical tests as a child, Aamira promised herself she would never enter a hospital again. Now a teenager, where does she spend her time? Entertaining seriously ill children as a hospital volunteer, her Wayward Magic greatly improving their chances of ever going home again. What she doesn’t expect is the mysterious entity who comes to take them: and you should never argue with someone possessing that much power.
Barbara Letson
Eleven-year-old Aamira has been in and out of hospitals for months, but her doctors can’t find the problem, let alone the cure. How could they? Physicians are men and women of science; they would never consider magic as the cause of her many strange and dissimilar maladies. Is Aamira blessed? Cursed? Or simply unaware of the Hidden Magic she possesses? She’d better figure it out before it kills her.
“It hurts. It hurts. It HURTS!”
“I know, I know. Almost done, Aamira. Just a little bit longer.” The voice was feminine. Comforting. Useless.
The second voice was male. “You can do it, just hold on. A few more breaths and we’re done.” This voice was practical. Uncaring. The pain continued.
At eleven years old, Aamira was familiar with this particular lie, having spent more time in the hospital than out since moving to London. Lumbar punctures hurt. And they were scary. Curled up on her side, nose between her knees, Aamira felt the nurse's strong hands holding her still, almost crushing her, leaving no room for her lungs to expand. She smelled of antiseptic and baby powder from the rubber gloves she was wearing, and in such close quarters it was turning Aamira’s stomach sour on top of everything else.
“Forget that ‘hold on’ crap! I can’t breathe! STOP.”
Aamira heard her mother gasp and the nurse blurt out a giggle then cleared her throat to cover. She felt satisfied that at least the nurse was aligning with her and therefore against the doctor who was hurting her.
Mama, sweating bullets already and now unwilling to look the doctor in the eye, covered with a flurry of words in a curious dialect called Juba Arabic, a pidgin mix of Arabic influenced by Egyptian culture and several African languages. “It is done, my Moonstar, my Life. All done. We thank the gods that your life continues.” Aamira understood Mama was going into Wishful Thinking mode again, praising one or the other of her gods for what she wanted, not for what she had. And what she had was a really sick kid.
Aamira took a deep breath, shaking with the pain and shock pulsing through her body as she slowly uncurled. Why did everything they do have to hurt?
The doctor took his samples and his stinking antiseptic and his horrible needles and left, hardly bothering to disguise the disapproval on his face. Aamira was at a difficult age: too youn
g to contain her emotions and too old to be bullied into submission. And she had a too smart mouth.
“I’m sorry I laughed,” said the nurse. “I wasn’t laughing at you hurting, you understand? I just didn’t expect such strong words from such a nice little girl.” She straightened Aamira’s bedclothes, trying to make sense of the wrecked blankets. “You really had him rattled,” she whispered.
Good! Aamira smirked. “I remember him. He did that other thing with the needles last week, and it hurt then too.”
“It’s not easy, I know. Let’s hope the doctors can figure out what’s wrong now, then you can get better, right?”
“They can’t,” Aamira huffed, burrowing into her sheets. “Couldn’t last time either. I need better doctors!
Aamira Rayan was sick. Again. It seemed Aamira was always sick, but her doctors couldn’t reach a definitive diagnosis; it was more of a consensus, and it often changed, as did her symptoms. They had originally suspected appendicitis, but no sooner had the physician on call declared this and sent her for surgery –resulting in the removal of a healthy, pink appendix– when these symptoms changed, leading to a revised –and very different– diagnosis. Irritable bowel, fibromyalgia, sickle cell anemia, diabetes, Lyme disease, multiple sclerosis, and several types of cancer had been considered, tests and treatments were prescribed and implemented, only to be abandoned when symptoms changed yet again.
“You are a conundrum, my girl, but they’ll get it right this time, you wait and see,” the nurse encouraged while placing the ‘finger clip’, a.k.a. pulse oximeter, on her hand and adjusting her IV drip. “Now, what flavor juice can I bring you?”
All Aamira was sure of was that she hurt. And being hooked up to machines hurt too, whenever they appeared. Now she was stuck in her bed, not even allowed to raise her head for fear of a humongous headache. For once, she behaved and spent the day in bed, even after Mama went back to work in the hospital’s cafeteria. It wasn’t so bad, with the nurse checking on her frequently, always with a popsicle in hand.
To compensate for the boredom of tremendous illness that came in waves, some days with minimal disruption to her life and other days when she was certain she wouldn’t live till lunchtime, Aamira had taken to wandering. Whenever the nurses were busy with another calamity of upchucking kids or emergency chimes that were supposed to sound anything but alarming to patients, she would sneak off to visit the other rooms. Her current favorite was a girl two years older who had been admitted with a diagnosis of glioblastoma, which in plain English was a brain tumor.
Clara wasn’t allowed to leave her room, which both girls objected to since Clara clearly wasn’t ill with anything ‘catching’; it was more a matter of the chemotherapy drugs being toxic to others. If Clara threw up, it was the poisonous drugs coming out in the spew that Aamira had to avoid, not the illness. Aamira couldn’t understand that. If you give poison to a kid to kill the tumor, then what stops the poison from killing the kid too? When vomiting seemed imminent, Aamira would clear out; once the nurses realized the two were spending time together, they would surely put a stop to it, and according to Clara, that would be ‘borrrr–innnnnng’. Neither girl realized just how sick Clara really was, and that she didn’t have the strength to go visiting.
“Yesterday they let me have gelatin and half a banana, and I was okay,” said the older girl, adjusting the soft turban covering her baldness where her hair had once been. “But today I can’t keep anything down, so they stopped bothering to feed me. Go figure.”
“Go figure,” Aamira concurred. She had been in England for almost half her life but was still learning the lingo, her parents having immigrated from South Sudan when she was six. Africa, Aamira told people, since nobody she talked to knew where South Sudan was anyway. She took Clara’s hand and marveled at her pale, translucent skin next to her own charcoal features. Aamira often felt unsettled when they held hands, kind of headachy and sick to her stomach, but she did it anyway, for her friend.
“I’m sorry you’re having such a bad day. A crappy day,” Aamira proclaimed. This made both girls giggle. After endless days of aches and pains, hospital beds, treatments and restrictions, it felt powerful to use such grown-up profanity.
All they could really do was commiserate with each other, and then only until someone noticed they were together again. They ignored all warnings, holding hands and quietly singing the silly little nonsense song that Clara had taught Aamira a lifetime ago. (At least three weeks, which is very much a lifetime when you’re eleven years old.) It made them feel connected and not so alone.
“Sing me a song, it won’t take very long. Welcome sun and the rain, no more sorrow or pain…” Clara was looking into Aamira’s dark, almond-shaped eyes, thinking they were strange and beautiful. Aamira was looking back, wishing Clara’s pretty, light blue eyes weren’t encircled by harsh purple bruising that spoke of constant illness. And with these thoughts, they connected.
In only seconds Aamira started feeling tummy-sick, as if all her energy was draining away. She likened it to running and playing with friends until they were beyond exhausted and ended up lying on the grass, giggling and gasping for breath. This feeling definitely didn’t leave her giggling, nor was it fun. Next came a terrific headache that had Aamira seeing double, and for a few moments it looked as if Clara was surrounded by a thick black fog and all the light had been stolen from the room.
“I’m feeling icky, I’d better go,” Aamira complained.
“I hope you’re not getting sick again. Be well, Aamira!”
“You too, Clara. I’ll visit again soon,” she promised, and they hugged goodbye.
Aamira slipped back to her own room just in time to land on the floor in a dead faint, causing concern in the nurses, but at least her little visit hadn’t been discovered. That faint was accompanied by new symptoms, which meant new tests of course. Go figure. No one seemed to notice the scorch marks on the tile floor, but Aamira was almost certain they hadn’t been there before.
Two days later, Aamira was in a good mood. Nothing had come of her faint and the new symptoms had faded quickly, no one was poking or prodding her today, and lunch had been tasty, normal food, not the usual crap that was low sodium, low fat, low everything. Her mother sometimes snuck food into her room when that happened (Aamira knew just how to gain her mother’s sympathy when she was ‘staaaaarving’ but that little ploy wasn’t necessary today).
Even with the extra attention, Aamira worried she was disappointing her parents by being sick so often. She could see it in the way they avoided looking at her sometimes and in the way they paused before answering her questions, as if they knew something she didn’t. She easily sensed this guilt and shame every time they hugged her goodbye, leading to Aamira’s refusal to hug them at all, which, of course, upset her parents even more. Being eleven years old, of course she knew this unknown shame belonged to her even if she didn’t understand it, and she wondered if Mama was right to believe in curses. Why else was Aamira in the hospital so often and nobody knew what was wrong? Maybe Aamira was the curse and her parents were just waiting for her to die.
At present, the only thing saving Aamira’s family from poverty-by-medical-bills was that her father worked for the hospital in janitorial services and her mother in the cafeteria; her medical needs were being covered. However, her deeply religious parents were convinced that some ill-tempered god had noticed their beautiful daughter, which either meant he was teasing a favorite toy or had been offended by moving her away from her homeland. In their minds, their daughter was either very blessed or cursed. The result was the same, either way.
Aamira was in the solarium with the other kids who needed a bit of sun or just plain needed playtime. The room always smelled a little like pee no matter how often her dad cleaned, but at least she was out of bed. Sometimes she got to see her dad there, or he snuck up to her room when he should have been working.
If she kept her face turned to the huge solarium windows, eyes close
d, she could forget where she was, could forget everything but the warmth on her face, could pretend it was a normal day and she was playing outside her own home.
“Hey, girl,” said a quiet voice beside her.
“Hey, girl,” Aamira knew who it was even before she opened her eyes. “What are you doing out of bed? You escaped your room?”
“Yeah,” Clara giggled, taking her hand. “Something like that.”
It felt cold, but Aamira didn’t mind. She glanced at Clara but couldn’t see her clearly; everything looked funny, all purple and distorted from looking into the sun too long. “That’s fab! Hey, I looked for you yesterday, but they moved you again. What room are you in?”
“I’m not. I’m sprung! And I feel so much better now.” Clara’s tone changed. “Aamira, I came to say goodbye.”
“But you’re so sick. Are they sending you to another hospital? This place stinks.”
“Naw, I’m done with that. I bailed! I’m really going home.”
“Oh, Clara, I’m so happy for you. But… I’m sad, too. Will you come back and visit me? I’ll be so lonely.” Aamira’s vision was clearing now, mostly, but it almost seemed like Clara wasn’t really there, the edges of her body almost transparent, her long blonde hair glowing in the sun.
“You betcha, girlfriend. But maybe not right away; I have some other things I need to do first. You know how it is.”
“Yeah, I know.” Aamira sighed, resigned. She hoped Clara meant it when she said they’d see each other again.
They sat in silence, just sharing the moment. With Clara’s hand in hers, she felt Clara was radiating love and joy. For the first time ever, Aamira felt no pain coming from Clara. At all. That was so nice after all the heaviness and pain that had connected them whenever they held hands.
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